Jess and I ate very little before heading to Friday night volleyball at the church. As a result, an hour on the court burned up all my energy, turned me into a mindless zombie behind the net. Jess felt it, too, except whereas mine targeted mainly my central nervous system, her condition hit a little lower, rounding out into monster hunger pains.

With one more game left to be played, Jess and I couldn’t do it. Somehow it seemed an impossible task. So we decided to ditch out a little early, dragging our pathetic selves to the car. Instead of driving directly to urgent care, we stopped at the nearest restaurant.

“Panera closes at nine,” informed the man in the parking lot, who seemed to have materialized out of the thin air. A Panera employee? He lugged an invisible colored garbage bag stuffed with a variety of Panera bread, like he’d just looted the place and was now making his get away. Ruled by our stomachs, we didn’t make much of it and took the man’s word for it. So we turned around and ran through our other options.

We ended up at Max and Erma’s across the way because it was close and they have the best Mexican chicken tortilla soup. Or so we thought.

That night, the service was painfully slow. Our waitress was overwhelmed and apologized  a lot to her tables. (In her defense, I’d say she’d been triple sat - you servers can relate.) An adjacent couple in a booth received their Diet Pepsis but not until after they’d finished their meal. The couple was not happy. Earlier, the woman had ordered the Mexican chicken tortilla soup and promptly sent it back. This should have been our first sign that the chefs in back were having an equally hard time as our server. On its late return, the soup still apparently was short on chicken. Giving up, she managed to digest it as it was.

 Finally, just as we started to get frightened that we’d never see the food we ordered, a never-seen-before server came flying around the corner with our soup and half turkey sandwich. The sandwich looked shirveled and bite-sized. The bottom was soggy and the lettuce purple and wilted. But…it tasted good. The soup, not so much. It had roughly the same color I’d expect pepper spray to have if it came in liquid form - mustard yellow. The tiny bail of tortilla stips on top was just a dot in the middle of the Olympic-size bowl of soup. 

I took a bite. Its temperature was lukewarm, but the spice invaded my throat like I’d just devoured a fistful of nettles. It tasted like…like…formaldehyde, maybe? My throat instantly raw and my insides burning like an active volcano, I grabbed my glass of water and sucked on the straw like there was no tomorrow. Then, I took a frantic mental inventory of our neighboring table’s waters as well as all other potential water sources - the tap at the bar, the Max & Erma’s toliet (the tank water, not the bowl, of course - gosh), the tears streaming down my face - in case our server failed to return in time and I was about to human combust. Thankfully she arrived with a pitcher of water. “Yes, please.”    

“O man!” Jess exclaimed, misty eyed, “this is a spicy batch!”

Suddenly it became clear to us that it wasn’t that the chicken had been left out of the soup, as the woman who’d choked it down before us had suspected, rather it had simply melted to oblivion before it hit the table.

Sweating, Jess managed through more of her soup. When she came back up, her lips were swollen and chapped, like she’d just eaten a very messy tube of red lipstick. My lips and tongue stung dearly, worse than if I’d kissed a colony of red ants. We traded sounds of agony until finally our soups were gone. Oh man did that hurt.

Afterward, my stomach was very upset at me. Once home, I had half a mind to swallow a tray of ice cubes, just for any kind of relief. My tongue and lips stung right up until it was time for bed. And as I lay down to sleep, I wondered, face burning, if all this could have been avoided if only we’d played that last game of volleyball.

Categories: Food, Sports
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Today is the start of my vacation!  And since today’s schedule holds no particular shape or form, I decided it only necessary that my writing should follow suit. I just want to free write, and maybe in the end something I wrote will maybe make sense to someone somewhere. That’s the cool thing about writing, so much of it is subjective. So take from it what you will.

Yes, that’s right, no work for me today. But poor Jess had to still go in. Something about a potluck, a secret angel (same thing as a secret santa, I guess) gift for a co-worker, and one last Christmas shin-dig for her preschool class before handing the rowdy buggers over to their parents till next year, all wound up on sugar overdoses and ideas of presents.

This morning I slept in just a bit. Instead of my usual 5:45am early rise, I allowed myself an extra hour or so to make it a solid eight hour night. Jess, running late, barked instructions from the shower how to make the fruit smoothies. This, I knew, was serious business. In the past few months, She had grown highly disciplined in the art of morning smoothies. Being my first attempt at it, I could tell in her voice that she didn’t trust me all the way. Neither one of us did.

“One kiwi, one banana, one canned fruit, one cup of yogurt, six frozen strawberries, six ice cubes, and then press ‘mix’. Run it until the noise stops,” she said. “And make sure the lid is on tight or it will blow all over the place.”

I entertained the image of the purple smoothie dripping from the counter tops.

“Six ice cubes?” I asked

“Six ice cubes.”

In the kitchen I gathered all the necessary ingredients, as directed, and tossed them in one by one into the blender. One banana - check - that was easy. Six ice cubes and six frozen strawberries - check - easy. But when it came time to add the kiwi, unfamilar with the fuzzy walnut looking thing (are there kiwi trees?), I was forced to go back for further instruction.

“Do I just throw the kiwi in with its skin?” I asked.

“No, peel it first.”

My confidence shaky, I approached it as I would an orange: gouged out the navel, then tore at the opening in hopes the skin would detach as one easy sheet. But the kiwi’s skin is thin and frail and pulled off only in tiny bits and pieces. Five minutes later, I found myself still picking at the stupid thing, the same method I’d probably employ for plucking a very small chicken. Kiwi stuck under my fingernails and my hands were sticky and useless. But finally, after extreme persistance, the green, fleshy fruit stared back at me, naked and defeated. This was one fruit I’d be happy to blend. Later, I’d learn that a knife works better to slice the skin off, a little insider information sure to cut the terrible task down to thirty seconds.

The canned pineapples were last to go, but not without a fight. Is the fruit in rebellion? The tab broke off when I tried to open it, and Jess, with towel on head and rolled eyes, shoved the unruly can in the electric can opener, which I still can’t get to work.

“Haven’t you ever opened canned fruit before?” she asked.

“Yeah. Twenty years ago,” was my only line of defense.

Freed from their imprisonment, I dumped the pineapples into the blender and hit “mix”. Jess disappeared down the hall to what sounded like rocks in a garbage disposal.

In the end, it all turned out. And, I don’t mean to brag, but let’s just say I make a pretty darn good smoothie. Jess soon relieved me of my work and poured a glass for her and one for me, then outfitted both with straws. We prayed first, still unsure if smoothies count as food to be blessed. After two slurps, Jess shot up with her cup, indicating it was time to go.    

I waved good-bye as Jess smiled brightly back. Jess’s smile and her car shrunk into the gray distance. With her gone, all that was left to watch was the quiet sky, thick and lonely, like a colorless smoothie. Then, studying the rich purple contents of my glass, I realized Jess was my bright-colored smoothie in an otherwise gray morning. I took another sip from my straw. It tasted great. And the kiwi was definitely worth all the effort.                

Categories: Food, Life, Marriage
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I’d managed to dodge all the 4:30 a.m. invitations run in the newspapers and commercials by the various local stores, promising me either a free or heavily discounted something or other, if only I show up, wallet in hand, before everything in the store runs out. Still shaking off a Tryptophan hang over, I was in no mood to toy with ”Black Friday” - the hallowed shopping day after Thanksgiving. Instead, I sent my wife out into the swarm of bargain shoppers and loaded parking lots by herself. Her little sister did go with her, though, which made up for the bad feelings I had had for staying home.

Out the door, her only instructions to me were this: I needed to be showered and fed by the time she returned at 2p.m., and, oh yeah, don’t forget the batch of clothes that need to be folded in the dryer. On this note, I nodded, yes, yes, absolutely, yes. I had my whole day planned out in my mind, which included mainly doing whatever I pleased with the utmost productivity. I gave her a quick peck on the lips and before her car even left the driveway, I had a jumbo sized pot of coffee going. It was a boiling cauldron of energy - Starbucks Latin American Super Blend, equivalent to a mule kick to the chops. I gladly wake up with it every morning. And the rumors kicking around about it having been known to kill moderate-sized animals is exactly that - just rumors. The main thing is that the rich coffee blend boosts my productivity at least 110%, and I had a ton of unimportant things to tend to.

But something in this batch was lacking - no - draining. It made my brain heavy and my thoughts groggy. Briefly, I questioned Hugo Chavez’s hand in all of this. After launching out a few badly composed emails, trying to make sense of a book I’m reading, and thinking hard about raking the leaves still covering our yard, it was almost noon and I had nothing to show for it. My pajamas pants were still on and practically becoming a second skin, and the effects of not showering began taking its toll.

But first, I needed to take care of my stomach. I found a can of condensed bean and bacon soup hidden in the shadowy back of the kitchen cupboard. I  hoped this might snap me out of the never ending brain-fog. I pealed back the lid, turned the can over and emptied the skin-colored contents into the pot on the stove.  Except it wasn’t that easy. The soup stayed put, clinging to the tin can walls with all its stubborn might. After a series of unsuccessful shakes and taps, I got a spoon to help speed things along. I stabbed the heaving mass to loosen it up, and eventually it worked, but not without first unleashing the kind of grotesque slurping sounds only a soft, fat, furless, pink, thirsty animal could emit.

When the clumps of bacon/beans finally dropped into the pot, to tell you the truth, I wasn’t hungry. But, so much work went into it. As stated in the directions, a soup can of water followed and was stirred in with the same poor spoon I’d used earlier. After all the hard work, an overflowing bowl of it joined me at the table.  Upon closer inspection of the thick, misty soup, it made me think that this looks identical to how my brain has felt all day. 

By the time Jess got home, I was spent - showered, fed and the clothes were folded, but spent. I’d somehow managed to complete my assigned jobs fifteen minutes before Jess came through the door (which, now that I’m thinking about it, makes me wonder if I ever used soap in the shower). She lined up her shopping bags of good buys along the living room wall and asked, “What have you been doing all day?”

I kind of smiled, slightly embarrassed. I couldn’t think of one thing I did. I sort of wanted to have my day back to do all over again. But if forced to list at least one accomplishment to show for the day, I’d go with I learned some lessons about myself. One, being grossly unproductive can be quite tiring. And, two, with Twighlight Zone strangeness, I get more things done with less time to do them in than if I have all the time in the world.      

Categories: Food, Life, Shopping
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Jess’ Italiano Kitchen is getting rave reviews. That’s the word on the streets, anyway. Last night I felt was as good of a night as any to try it out. Once through the door of the quaint establishment, complete with yellow painted walls, reminding one of the sunshine hue of the lush beaches of Sicily, and a brunette Italian bombshell of a chef with hair as brown and rich as a cup of premium coffee, my nostrils were hit with the bewitching aroma of herbs and tomato sauce.

Lured to the table by the heavenly scent, I found a breath-taking arrangement of pasta shells stuffed with spinach, ricotta cheese and ground turkey, bathed in a blush alfredo sauce, set before me. I took a bite. Packed with Italian goodness and flavor, my taste buds screamed for more, as they notified my brain of the exquisite variety of ethnic delight swimming inside my mouth.

It was the best thing I had ever tasted. Afterwards, I kissed my wife and thanked her for cooking such an excellent dinner. Oh yeah, and the price was reasonable too. 5 stars!

Categories: Food
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It was a cool Saturday morning in Indianapolis, and Jess and I were waiting in line for free (or rather prepaid) coffee during the break between speakers. The Renevare Conference, headlining Richard Foster, was held in a spacious First Church of the Nazarene building, tucked a few hundred feet away from the roaring highway.

Up til then, the speakers were great, the music was nice, and for the most part, the coffee was good (good creamer too), but then there was the coffeeman. Our first glimpse of the coffeeman was through the steam of the espresso machine. A name tag dangled from his white polo. I forget what it said, but if forced to guess, I’d say his name was Burt, or something of the like, something punchy.

Burt was hard at work, mixing up this drink and that, performing coffee miracles behind the makeshift coffee bar. He acted eager to please, but something stiff remained in his features. His smile could easily be confused for a wince. It looked painful, like it tore tendons. I couldn’t quite put my finger on his hair color, either. His hair looked simply like the blond had been sandblasted out, and with the surfacing gray and poor lighting, it reminded me more of, well, the color of seaweed.

Burt’s age could have landed anywhere between thirty and fifty - in this area I was stumped - and his sharp elbows and dangly frame called up the image of an Oklahoma cotton farmer during the deep depression. Indeed, something about him exuded a beaten down quality, but upon deeper inspection, a noticeable spark played in his eyes. Or was that red irritation due to the steam of the espresso machine? Either way, the spark told a story, a story that said, I’m sick and tired of people’s crap. A story that said, I’m good for a fight. A story that said, that’s Mr. Burt to you, and I’m about to rise up on society and claim my dignity.

Had we only known.

The question came innocent enough. Jess was just making conversation as usual as Burt busied himself with the ritual of creating a Chai Tea, wincing and steaming, wincing and steaming. Jess noticed a business card propped up on top of the espresso machine, and so she asked, “Is that your business card?” With a smile like a rubberband stretched past its breaking point, Burt handed Jess her Chai Tea and the business card. Jess studied the near-white card, and since we happened to be in a church lobby, she thought it safe to ask, “Are you a Christian company?” She thought wrong.

This was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Immediately, Burt worked himself into a froth, punching us with questions. Drilling us wildly with philosophical arguments. Demanding definitions. “Do you mean am I a sinner?” asked Burt. And before Jess could clear up the miscommunication by explaining that, no, what she meant was, is your company a registered Christian company? Burt fired off another round of questions that all began with “Let me ask you this…”

“Let me ask you this…who is a sinner?” This question was directed at me. For a moment, unsure of Burt’s motives, I thought that it all might be for sport. He was so sure, so confident, so quick, but his delivery borderlined the emotion of a professor teaching with his pants on fire.

Up for the challenge, I found a pause in conversation long enough for me to state, “Well, everyone’s a sinner.” Classic textbook answer, right professor?

At this, his eyes went up, searching his mind as if for a script. Then his eyes fell back on us, and Burt restated the question, “No, wait, I mean, what is the definition of a sinner?”

Catching on to his little game now, I shot back, “What’s the definition of a Christian?” I stood fully ready to give him my thoughts on the matter, seeing things had turned theological. But Burt wasn’t having it. He hit us hard, answering questions with questions, and before you knew it, Jess and I were utterly confused. We gave up and fled for shelter behind the doughnut table. We were under verbal attack. In the background Burt’s badgering questions could still be heard over the murmur of the crowd. Then, as quickly as the attacks came, they had died out. Jess and I took a breath. Luckily, no one had been hurt.

After this, Jess and I agreed that we were good on coffee for a while.

Categories: Christianity, Food
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I can’t think of anything exciting to blog about, because, truthfully, nothing very exciting has happened. Wait a minute. Pizza’s exciting! Yesterday, my company announced in a mass email with fallish design an open invitation to a company pizza party at lunchtime today, to be held in one of the various conference rooms on the 2nd floor in the west wing. The catch is, as we chew our Donatos and drain our bottled beverages, a speaker of some sort is scheduled to talk company policy and to drum up morale or something. But who cares, as long as there’s pizza.

Pizza is one of those rare things that crosses all generation and all ages. Small kids get excited about pizza. And although they may not show it as much on the outside, just mention the word pizza, and watch an adult’s eyes light up. Pizza is a party in itself. It’s always acceptable to tack on “party” whenever and wherever pizza is involved - Pizza Party. How’s that for amazing? Try that with any other food, and you will fail.

Now, let me mention something that’s not exciting - my work wardrobe. I think my pants have been through one too many washes. They’re feeling a bit snug. But that’s another issue for another day.

Categories: Food
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