tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6653304929623905102024-03-18T22:53:36.344-06:00Rob from RealityRobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10682612971529201737noreply@blogger.comBlogger42125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-665330492962390510.post-56802794628482390432023-04-21T12:13:00.008-06:002023-04-24T11:30:29.401-06:00You Can Be a BoulangerA couple years ago I started a little side hustle that I called "Rob's Weekend Bakery." Each week I would decide on something to bake, collect orders from Facebook, and then bake it all up for the weekend. Most of my customers were my neighbors, but somehow word got around and complete strangers started ordering my stuff. It was fun to see that people liked my bakes enough to pay for it. <div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV_bibhRqy6QZ79wNPY6aVsAWJbBJOs1f0kEPrmX5T_Pu9yadPzx5DDY2gIW5b5xj4gHDxqSV5cgPSTUOx9OiRdDFjeY-iyqit--D21Knq_0qEdpx2dHD9dHcXjCcWxmDqPnoFst-vnEcNzHKJuI5QGih9O5CVfDIX5CdQ7Q4YxCFDAZwG0E9GtOz_/s674/RfR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="425" data-original-width="674" height="405" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV_bibhRqy6QZ79wNPY6aVsAWJbBJOs1f0kEPrmX5T_Pu9yadPzx5DDY2gIW5b5xj4gHDxqSV5cgPSTUOx9OiRdDFjeY-iyqit--D21Knq_0qEdpx2dHD9dHcXjCcWxmDqPnoFst-vnEcNzHKJuI5QGih9O5CVfDIX5CdQ7Q4YxCFDAZwG0E9GtOz_/w640-h405/RfR.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div><br /><div><br /></div><div>I put the bakery on hiatus, but I still take occasional requests. One of the most popular items I sold was the French Boule, or "boule de pain" (pronounced "bool de pan," which translates to "ball of bread"). I don't know how authentically French it is, but it is delicious and has just the right balance of being easy to make and a bit of a "wow" factor to it. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'm going to teach you how to make the French Boule. If you try it, you'll be amazed at how easy it is. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihz048Xn_0O-M_sdbUAaq0gpEIl2wNkuhVu8_AhKFUlv4LpEM6JMCRjuDKwDixNMnYv0MyKUebQCmsvOuueymPpZ_wMf7NCa2mQoAo59u4u0sufpL9P7pH83HWUoiUS_HfmajI2m8kRPn_t65aGfSpnfb6ilpQrKw14ZTZFY6CgRNt3LpNcc9-79a9/s879/RfR1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="879" data-original-width="864" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihz048Xn_0O-M_sdbUAaq0gpEIl2wNkuhVu8_AhKFUlv4LpEM6JMCRjuDKwDixNMnYv0MyKUebQCmsvOuueymPpZ_wMf7NCa2mQoAo59u4u0sufpL9P7pH83HWUoiUS_HfmajI2m8kRPn_t65aGfSpnfb6ilpQrKw14ZTZFY6CgRNt3LpNcc9-79a9/s320/RfR1.jpg" width="315" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div>This is going to be a typical recipe blog post, with pictures and directions, and then the recipe at the very end. So feel free to scroll down to the bottom if you just want the recipe. </div><div><br /></div></div><div>Let's talk for a minute about each of the ingredients. </div><div><br /></div><div>The ingredients are simple: flour, water, salt, and yeast. That's it. </div><div><br /></div><div><b>Flour:</b> I use Lehi Mills unbleached bread flour. That's all I've ever used, but I imagine that any bread flour would do just fine. </div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgqiUBLgLpwmH385G7KuxikFM-gbXUjt1iwrcKexR8HqK7v04to-JqeorMqvfEBhKGIKH0FYRcK7zTLMuGDdYnnXg1aQkevzCP-7LHw-wk1Bj34BYnFDAuIEUB-n13mYpLm0qDgVV2J2WM3CQ1HVnTIbrS7b3PScxkAqyLRXfinO_t7l_ae_s2J4B4o" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="574" data-original-width="416" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgqiUBLgLpwmH385G7KuxikFM-gbXUjt1iwrcKexR8HqK7v04to-JqeorMqvfEBhKGIKH0FYRcK7zTLMuGDdYnnXg1aQkevzCP-7LHw-wk1Bj34BYnFDAuIEUB-n13mYpLm0qDgVV2J2WM3CQ1HVnTIbrS7b3PScxkAqyLRXfinO_t7l_ae_s2J4B4o" width="174" /></a></div><br /><br /></div><div><b>Water: </b>I just use regular tap water. Some people, including my dad the chemistry professor, will tell you that you should use purified or filtered water because the chlorine in tap water can inhibit the yeast from being able to rise. I used bottled water the first few times I made this bread, then I just decided to make the switch to tap water. I'm here to tell you that there is absolutely no noticeable difference, but you should use whatever kind of water you would like. I once used Mountain Dew in place of the water. It produced a slightly sweet bread, and the crust was darker due to the caramelization of the sugar.</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhIOUF1hkOTv15Lf0opJRIXfTBJ95aY7bQbgkqC77hOS2BZWEWhfNu7slCTV9Ga891rrG4jkais5b4c0Lo2plLTOR6pMKT8Dl7Tas_hvYeFPNNboXe7XrJ4rrduqLHzGUL5me03um1DzkumlnilL_s05YGrxo9ljrTL2qqyIPLifCmOCCosmZxku6tS" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="367" data-original-width="640" height="184" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhIOUF1hkOTv15Lf0opJRIXfTBJ95aY7bQbgkqC77hOS2BZWEWhfNu7slCTV9Ga891rrG4jkais5b4c0Lo2plLTOR6pMKT8Dl7Tas_hvYeFPNNboXe7XrJ4rrduqLHzGUL5me03um1DzkumlnilL_s05YGrxo9ljrTL2qqyIPLifCmOCCosmZxku6tS" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><b>Salt: </b>I use coarse kosher salt, but I am confident you could use regular table salt. My dad would probably say that you should avoid table salt because of the iodine, but I doubt you'd notice a difference. If you weigh your ingredients, just use the same number of grams, but if you measure with teaspoons, you'll need to convert it for table salt. </div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj33m2jJRfJPnf2BxBt6WhxbaKYGEvEH8-dBzrgrJHec-GaiPVRyxexHk2AzKbTOhfYCzEeZLzu7vyiCi9gSeE3VyUA8j4q8Xkul4c4y4aoxtLkjQAJwiAw_xnoi9i6ynAfOq1UpuRNfrl9pVIOhx3YKpiWewn5lH8bw_tJ7sj4jeQjaWndrAo0gxwJ" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj33m2jJRfJPnf2BxBt6WhxbaKYGEvEH8-dBzrgrJHec-GaiPVRyxexHk2AzKbTOhfYCzEeZLzu7vyiCi9gSeE3VyUA8j4q8Xkul4c4y4aoxtLkjQAJwiAw_xnoi9i6ynAfOq1UpuRNfrl9pVIOhx3YKpiWewn5lH8bw_tJ7sj4jeQjaWndrAo0gxwJ" width="240" /></a></div><br /><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><b>Yeast:</b> I use Red Star active dry yeast. I'm sure any brand of active dry yeast will work, but I have not tried it with instant yeast. If you use instant yeast, let me know how that goes. </div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiI6UbqBasPfeIZ64uOcK1yE0UhYReJN_LKwkW47G0vgp4zJPhfRZXSryvJW8Nhsab53VKbK4G4T5k3l6sxXEukkFRC4YlB3hJZnzzpGRovwFXzO1vaMXCqPHAV8poYBB-sqwylwAvYZ0I7khvtM8aPUTXaHoZCA_CmVHmWZG5P-Ao8fm4UvMPipb2R" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="256" data-original-width="197" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiI6UbqBasPfeIZ64uOcK1yE0UhYReJN_LKwkW47G0vgp4zJPhfRZXSryvJW8Nhsab53VKbK4G4T5k3l6sxXEukkFRC4YlB3hJZnzzpGRovwFXzO1vaMXCqPHAV8poYBB-sqwylwAvYZ0I7khvtM8aPUTXaHoZCA_CmVHmWZG5P-Ao8fm4UvMPipb2R" width="185" /></a></div><br /><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Now let's talk about equipment for a minute. </div><div><br /></div><div><div><b>Kitchen scale: </b>First off, I highly recommend a kitchen scale. It's so much easier and accurate, but if you don't have a scale, I'll give you the measurements in cups at the end of this post. But trust me, if you want to do much baking, a kitchen scale is well worth it. </div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgbs6W53p0rOGec31E-MNUgFKO4A0iu9T-AAXBpdUYL2XzU8r-vCkACRWPPVqGvRcY2Z4abwOozgWjZ5TyU5ifW76A1fepgiDEPzSaiWTUK0o0Q5VkSW4jpDDbLaqsiRtB1E-unETG1szF0N_yXMskYHS28shDUq6wFp9ZMQw0fJP9aYp8mHVU3Y8o-" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="531" data-original-width="535" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgbs6W53p0rOGec31E-MNUgFKO4A0iu9T-AAXBpdUYL2XzU8r-vCkACRWPPVqGvRcY2Z4abwOozgWjZ5TyU5ifW76A1fepgiDEPzSaiWTUK0o0Q5VkSW4jpDDbLaqsiRtB1E-unETG1szF0N_yXMskYHS28shDUq6wFp9ZMQw0fJP9aYp8mHVU3Y8o-" width="242" /></a></div><br /><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><b>Mixing bowl: </b>You'll need a large mixing bowl. The dough will rise quite a bit, so make sure your bowl is at least three quarts. I like to double the recipe to make two boules, so I use a six-quart bowl like this. </div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg7L4AO1DUvaHf7olg2JzxMd5FLayHXronh2ThZ3RaQ8u1ZFzNZh8cnWa6Eh_AkSk1-qM8opj9DnIsT1fiyFtFxKc-aysF1_7AifT_pjSzSw9CL-JuwfAVNtNuIvp5a9gVNOE3lpZFoMfT6RhLhjzCZXy3K1vyc-fba-I_jmSd1XW2YmhBHG-mG3LnY" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="448" data-original-width="730" height="196" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg7L4AO1DUvaHf7olg2JzxMd5FLayHXronh2ThZ3RaQ8u1ZFzNZh8cnWa6Eh_AkSk1-qM8opj9DnIsT1fiyFtFxKc-aysF1_7AifT_pjSzSw9CL-JuwfAVNtNuIvp5a9gVNOE3lpZFoMfT6RhLhjzCZXy3K1vyc-fba-I_jmSd1XW2YmhBHG-mG3LnY" width="320" /></a></div></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><b>Silicone spatula: </b>For mixing, you can use a wooden spoon, but I prefer a sturdy silicone or rubber spatula to help get all the dry flour that likes to hide on the bottom of the bowl. When mixing, you want to make sure there are no dry bits left. </div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEja3nL_fNJE7rnQrBlTJ_3sCB1r-mZ2wUb3Yr7sQWAPpx5RyEI-jaCXjIY3x_rF_fBB2LAD4gv6oE96nNuBSsChhyKQawLz0ArPcOMyJaFLiAvCDDXBcTOB7HPcROVWQYKmda23FXTVWZemYrxfJc1zEgzshtoUytLAtoEHjGApsA0WxBKBkm0ZtuXm" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="553" data-original-width="127" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEja3nL_fNJE7rnQrBlTJ_3sCB1r-mZ2wUb3Yr7sQWAPpx5RyEI-jaCXjIY3x_rF_fBB2LAD4gv6oE96nNuBSsChhyKQawLz0ArPcOMyJaFLiAvCDDXBcTOB7HPcROVWQYKmda23FXTVWZemYrxfJc1zEgzshtoUytLAtoEHjGApsA0WxBKBkm0ZtuXm" width="55" /></a></div><br /><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><b>Baking dish: </b>For the baking dish, I use both a three-quart cast iron Dutch oven and a ceramic casserole dish. The ceramic dish makes a rounder loaf. I've also used a glass casserole dish, which works fine. The important thing is to line your dish with parchment paper, otherwise the bread is likely to stick to the bottom. </div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgvH6Ag5pqWAu-i1jqhbzYJSqMM1lrMTDgUruHoNPTNzOVcLMAp9nLPWyNBhE6dVRdPdra3zwM5phgowMMOQprILhDgkts4_CYDJr4KyzOucmn1GseadAwBkHVDdyM4Hqu8oZ8VJdZjt69iGsiUIJ0TO80x92pWtbBKXpW_63lQdMHexMZqXS3mUHMd" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="430" data-original-width="625" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgvH6Ag5pqWAu-i1jqhbzYJSqMM1lrMTDgUruHoNPTNzOVcLMAp9nLPWyNBhE6dVRdPdra3zwM5phgowMMOQprILhDgkts4_CYDJr4KyzOucmn1GseadAwBkHVDdyM4Hqu8oZ8VJdZjt69iGsiUIJ0TO80x92pWtbBKXpW_63lQdMHexMZqXS3mUHMd" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgRrTJfxeJpxtmvWL4LrcSXIugZ8zPH9ZmIIodjYamFRmdPUBETI7gdaCsnv5XIA32z94NdisYyBp1Vz3CDCE9wlV1Zi0X7jydY5tvC_i0xk_lVh1N9cK1CLZU8Y7Y5Hk5AD3r3GZxfetilrzb1gz-wKaV-0QEj4aHjy5HVTxCKckJ1lWeZd6V0QAZH" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="894" height="198" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgRrTJfxeJpxtmvWL4LrcSXIugZ8zPH9ZmIIodjYamFRmdPUBETI7gdaCsnv5XIA32z94NdisYyBp1Vz3CDCE9wlV1Zi0X7jydY5tvC_i0xk_lVh1N9cK1CLZU8Y7Y5Hk5AD3r3GZxfetilrzb1gz-wKaV-0QEj4aHjy5HVTxCKckJ1lWeZd6V0QAZH=w295-h198" width="295" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">That's all the equipment you'll need! Well, I guess you'll need an oven too. Hopefully you have one of those. Okay, let's get started!</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">First, measure your bread flour into your mixing bowl. <br /><br /><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_VlL5WVOJ8Cla2L4hk78ISU1x8GYhRpVgTeHKDd9v1KZ4o0gsTIDlOLnrBwDBU3yryqbd1CZqUWiXr26ha6XfLiPZdqTiMH-AVgrNrZVdQI-0Z9QayZAjigyxrgfStPi0MQbO4TmdQQP_TGlk5SXKUin-btvilSlkKJ2fpaOA3mcZvZfEU2FZZfMS/s1024/RfR11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="954" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_VlL5WVOJ8Cla2L4hk78ISU1x8GYhRpVgTeHKDd9v1KZ4o0gsTIDlOLnrBwDBU3yryqbd1CZqUWiXr26ha6XfLiPZdqTiMH-AVgrNrZVdQI-0Z9QayZAjigyxrgfStPi0MQbO4TmdQQP_TGlk5SXKUin-btvilSlkKJ2fpaOA3mcZvZfEU2FZZfMS/s320/RfR11.jpg" width="298" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Add your salt: </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDc4EDeGPBsdXrzQ1btjQTj6qYMBYdan-riMZiruPVmMuUd6qLbC0vx6rQr5lpX-k4ICkucNuwVy3ahAgysiGapIV7MkWUoe8CWCXQLCMoA8Cza5AzNffRegWSIGh5GT4pe8ULZs35EtCmsYPhq0I7DstT7yPFhVT_Za9a4aIP1sh-YYOleAMES2wu/s1024/RfR12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="887" data-original-width="1024" height="277" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDc4EDeGPBsdXrzQ1btjQTj6qYMBYdan-riMZiruPVmMuUd6qLbC0vx6rQr5lpX-k4ICkucNuwVy3ahAgysiGapIV7MkWUoe8CWCXQLCMoA8Cza5AzNffRegWSIGh5GT4pe8ULZs35EtCmsYPhq0I7DstT7yPFhVT_Za9a4aIP1sh-YYOleAMES2wu/s320/RfR12.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">And then your yeast: </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzumN8WSL1jescN3ZT3hbY5Wrzdj5M2qYoK9uIm4GPYJqVjd725lLvQ6VV8_6pMRbR7xgstoSjTdRF9sbioeJfBYK1Fp1gD8wtCeBqlQxAJ0VfLoolOv10Nz23-48TzTw7HmDyQeg9c7Ot-MhdbFd2Sw14akLxWmWtsJ1Z_df5ZtuLu6wx0xxxl-Dy/s1024/RfR13.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="992" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzumN8WSL1jescN3ZT3hbY5Wrzdj5M2qYoK9uIm4GPYJqVjd725lLvQ6VV8_6pMRbR7xgstoSjTdRF9sbioeJfBYK1Fp1gD8wtCeBqlQxAJ0VfLoolOv10Nz23-48TzTw7HmDyQeg9c7Ot-MhdbFd2Sw14akLxWmWtsJ1Z_df5ZtuLu6wx0xxxl-Dy/s320/RfR13.jpg" width="310" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>Mix up all those dry ingredients:</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUtf-xvuvPzUppPjs-tLakTmS4PjAZaBYr7BKMn01wYyVj2gED4Yv5PZyOsqiWW4B8Ixc6UR9P8vLDjuLfj26MV9SjNaXoG37UhFmqqr0rs_Lshc-Yw7oh-ZsfZaVAaFI2MKu9RqSiaFatrEFzAe4qI3khrtXIfMi5JGLvgdCpRCj6mBsdl__X4weU/s1024/RfR14.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUtf-xvuvPzUppPjs-tLakTmS4PjAZaBYr7BKMn01wYyVj2gED4Yv5PZyOsqiWW4B8Ixc6UR9P8vLDjuLfj26MV9SjNaXoG37UhFmqqr0rs_Lshc-Yw7oh-ZsfZaVAaFI2MKu9RqSiaFatrEFzAe4qI3khrtXIfMi5JGLvgdCpRCj6mBsdl__X4weU/s320/RfR14.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div>Then add your water: </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNEwgc4mvV7REDuxs9PT-2-qyso1O_QnjPEQjs0pgJwb5XrTtU5lOBFuFHWBeMU2-TxUMLXpBJEjaWbnJTaZJ-XQktvUBQNn4Ww2XktOBe5vH_JFtb5QioLQkXPaxCPA8xHBRKcJhNlGuPVYkxF5DSsFSvfFFAIRWU18_SsCfPNRPDXXY_Bt9jSjTY/s1024/RfR15.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="952" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNEwgc4mvV7REDuxs9PT-2-qyso1O_QnjPEQjs0pgJwb5XrTtU5lOBFuFHWBeMU2-TxUMLXpBJEjaWbnJTaZJ-XQktvUBQNn4Ww2XktOBe5vH_JFtb5QioLQkXPaxCPA8xHBRKcJhNlGuPVYkxF5DSsFSvfFFAIRWU18_SsCfPNRPDXXY_Bt9jSjTY/s320/RfR15.jpg" width="298" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Now mix it all up until you have no dry bits. Be sure to scrape the bottom of your bowl really well. At first you'll think you have too much water, then you'll think you don't have enough. Don't worry, just keep mixing and it will all come together. When you're finished, you'll end up with a very sticky dough: <br /><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIoXhCvk7EuW1FttqVxMZ7iJQIACmL0akHgU61JbPmTJ1w99_DoqMY00uQGbXoOaVNA_eN654F8FapwNGt67m9g1UVv84RiIawqwsQjWtOhGQqYEPu48HoELjmkMsmTBy8hNyKJdwTXu7PSlwQoGyN047DESXg75_3e1oMMi2aSPiDfaH0FK7wGJf9/s1024/RfR16.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIoXhCvk7EuW1FttqVxMZ7iJQIACmL0akHgU61JbPmTJ1w99_DoqMY00uQGbXoOaVNA_eN654F8FapwNGt67m9g1UVv84RiIawqwsQjWtOhGQqYEPu48HoELjmkMsmTBy8hNyKJdwTXu7PSlwQoGyN047DESXg75_3e1oMMi2aSPiDfaH0FK7wGJf9/s320/RfR16.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div>Now you can cover your dough to let it rise. You can cover with plastic wrap or something like I have pictured below. Just don't put on an air-tight lid or you might end up with a minor explosion as the gasses from the activated yeast expand. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDBlrN0l-6LB__ioRCIKTYVsKX4Xi7r7zilCOha8bkGOPsHsOTpaPl5Yjv38wRr_oBLIPr9qiPMDQcjCDQcffPWR8-IH2lLLu5nf9-0wWKL64_aaFX9djvd3vRvzE3V-fFhaaMq3i0xUUMvsMIcTpa6wvgYIs4OdR8LBYzprxS7kHCxCOHh7h5hXTk/s1024/RfR17.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDBlrN0l-6LB__ioRCIKTYVsKX4Xi7r7zilCOha8bkGOPsHsOTpaPl5Yjv38wRr_oBLIPr9qiPMDQcjCDQcffPWR8-IH2lLLu5nf9-0wWKL64_aaFX9djvd3vRvzE3V-fFhaaMq3i0xUUMvsMIcTpa6wvgYIs4OdR8LBYzprxS7kHCxCOHh7h5hXTk/s320/RfR17.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div>Let the dough rise at room temperature for at least 18 hours, and up to 24. I like to keep mine on top of the refrigerator. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqFhIYwYKgn916w0BIC8Ga-_aLKeJO8EA2V8tSaH_gsv978J7daL2es1cuh8Jrld3kEcd4gytl_8kKvo1dsfJ_BxZ7xYHlqFi17_ooMSpOwbT9S1AMnklNad0L4n3sE_BK-F-_zzr_F0OiTl7NRjA3xFC_8uyTa_4jDTzvGDrafLe7mvje8Oss-EWg/s1024/RfR18.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqFhIYwYKgn916w0BIC8Ga-_aLKeJO8EA2V8tSaH_gsv978J7daL2es1cuh8Jrld3kEcd4gytl_8kKvo1dsfJ_BxZ7xYHlqFi17_ooMSpOwbT9S1AMnklNad0L4n3sE_BK-F-_zzr_F0OiTl7NRjA3xFC_8uyTa_4jDTzvGDrafLe7mvje8Oss-EWg/s320/RfR18.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div>After 18 hours, your dough should have risen quite a bit and will be all bubbly.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQQ-2cLxXQg3c5dWIkaVn8T7sa2H7wO7tIMZHeUlI1wjXAdmqK2f8GPwMLG8WjvFpdApjfqM6TajnRAPKYjZyjbRifswFgjHUqqO1waod-ZWeebzDl6so_UZZIJK-kWTmkYtLlYKK_TT9vgi2Ktwt0XZ0_Gmztv2v5x_8q-LX-4ZlkwcSD1KJLbt5E/s1024/RfR19.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQQ-2cLxXQg3c5dWIkaVn8T7sa2H7wO7tIMZHeUlI1wjXAdmqK2f8GPwMLG8WjvFpdApjfqM6TajnRAPKYjZyjbRifswFgjHUqqO1waod-ZWeebzDl6so_UZZIJK-kWTmkYtLlYKK_TT9vgi2Ktwt0XZ0_Gmztv2v5x_8q-LX-4ZlkwcSD1KJLbt5E/s320/RfR19.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div>Next, scrape your dough onto a floured surface. You can do it directly onto the counter, but I prefer to use a baking sheet for easier cleanup. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirVrpD-2IED0EGG1jx9P2xXYv33KTyO6lu0GxhZ41Nq6nBId_bnj63C51aZl9qozlg32bOTL4aieQBWg47pYiAR-Ok3LzyE_4hh17Sdy369Jrge0oeFRylgPf0S2QdyNU9EKjl62VjlQxI_GmIKaa7DKcIQBSBxOyRDsvYailVGu65fXXT_b3lYL3L/s1024/RfR20.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="910" data-original-width="1024" height="284" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirVrpD-2IED0EGG1jx9P2xXYv33KTyO6lu0GxhZ41Nq6nBId_bnj63C51aZl9qozlg32bOTL4aieQBWg47pYiAR-Ok3LzyE_4hh17Sdy369Jrge0oeFRylgPf0S2QdyNU9EKjl62VjlQxI_GmIKaa7DKcIQBSBxOyRDsvYailVGu65fXXT_b3lYL3L/s320/RfR20.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Now just roll it around in the flour to get it completely covered. If you doubled the recipe, you'll need to divide your dough in half after this step. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1tVTwn3lAeDQDXUamKLG8YYeqaWX8zwdcF-DYYYZVk6gKzugno6T8mDjFrLSp5SaIYocxKQF6L1KKyVf2uU_sxWifzT50lukckET8jp2WTCSshlFdp7nRIPL6t3NgxY221Do0hKKUBrSdQ_2F2SoXWSMENCRHqDEUbl_feGG5yJ6lVlR-WAg51B31/s1024/RfR21.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="961" data-original-width="1024" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1tVTwn3lAeDQDXUamKLG8YYeqaWX8zwdcF-DYYYZVk6gKzugno6T8mDjFrLSp5SaIYocxKQF6L1KKyVf2uU_sxWifzT50lukckET8jp2WTCSshlFdp7nRIPL6t3NgxY221Do0hKKUBrSdQ_2F2SoXWSMENCRHqDEUbl_feGG5yJ6lVlR-WAg51B31/s320/RfR21.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div>Try to shape your dough into a ball, but don't worry about getting it perfect. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCzd_IAlYCETb0pkyEpmRt4Hhe6QpZnOprf_WyNcSsPDFV7ypRW612Q7HLhycgRHUk-G7B9pG-J2X4-qINZa9zIhU4GNZh7QvhAjUwMkWdqDbuKgtbxa2Yq_gFGeGMBAan1Q4_VgXIXKJH7C-4kYbS4aNqG6QluUS4UN0tHSeFsvMZvRMiE9Hs3H3q/s1024/RfR22.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCzd_IAlYCETb0pkyEpmRt4Hhe6QpZnOprf_WyNcSsPDFV7ypRW612Q7HLhycgRHUk-G7B9pG-J2X4-qINZa9zIhU4GNZh7QvhAjUwMkWdqDbuKgtbxa2Yq_gFGeGMBAan1Q4_VgXIXKJH7C-4kYbS4aNqG6QluUS4UN0tHSeFsvMZvRMiE9Hs3H3q/s320/RfR22.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div>Plop your dough into your parchment-lined baking dish. You can preheat your dish while your oven preheats, but I have been skipping that step and haven't noticed a difference. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSBOTfwSdqSXzDBXdWSvLSPSI9VLjQlBXYoVWaISGc5vW0dvkujmH1GhcTr8nzSfz6jsJRjiRlGISKJCxCSZ0UdWjwauv8MGu92XNpHOcyR2fdmCyHqBm4pI8uVADesb3IBxmYnkCNzqdqVFp2AP0Dttfhc9YPsMD3Ex7xibW82UtqOUWHf77o1-5r/s1024/RfR23.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="903" data-original-width="1024" height="282" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSBOTfwSdqSXzDBXdWSvLSPSI9VLjQlBXYoVWaISGc5vW0dvkujmH1GhcTr8nzSfz6jsJRjiRlGISKJCxCSZ0UdWjwauv8MGu92XNpHOcyR2fdmCyHqBm4pI8uVADesb3IBxmYnkCNzqdqVFp2AP0Dttfhc9YPsMD3Ex7xibW82UtqOUWHf77o1-5r/s320/RfR23.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div>Cover your dish and put it in a 450 degree oven for 30 minutes. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW44WG7n98U-Dgw-_dJ-H0oFW2ZQQeLWtm_4rfSJquWwf9vB9PAHQIZpdWH-lzBstCxrhUgwPIe6BJoC-Ax633O7v7KbEpTKBNrUlMjojmgyV_wcSJ220mVXePAlgbuMY7wSeyGJSkwbWBOvDICGy3aiZZ7iNzAceElFhwL6u8BNnlXPbjx300rBJ3/s1024/RfR24.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="821" data-original-width="1024" height="257" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW44WG7n98U-Dgw-_dJ-H0oFW2ZQQeLWtm_4rfSJquWwf9vB9PAHQIZpdWH-lzBstCxrhUgwPIe6BJoC-Ax633O7v7KbEpTKBNrUlMjojmgyV_wcSJ220mVXePAlgbuMY7wSeyGJSkwbWBOvDICGy3aiZZ7iNzAceElFhwL6u8BNnlXPbjx300rBJ3/s320/RfR24.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div>After 30 minutes, remove the lid and bake for another 10-12 minutes. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyaI2jQc_k1MSYwBms3s3N3Bm_vdUeqWJMj1ikJhu0js3Cw3f073Mrna5ovBZ5rFbt0k80vCsq3vIYBvxSnazbyhpzhryFYO-IFGeRBH-67tUvtTRaL2u1Yn1q5ES2yxxoXazynplCtv2jiGRup3urWNONpKPqacFNx4pjgoIH_2jlcNmS2o4ceJj5/s1024/RfR25.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyaI2jQc_k1MSYwBms3s3N3Bm_vdUeqWJMj1ikJhu0js3Cw3f073Mrna5ovBZ5rFbt0k80vCsq3vIYBvxSnazbyhpzhryFYO-IFGeRBH-67tUvtTRaL2u1Yn1q5ES2yxxoXazynplCtv2jiGRup3urWNONpKPqacFNx4pjgoIH_2jlcNmS2o4ceJj5/s320/RfR25.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div>Look how nice and round and golden those boules are!</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji7mz0Z2WXmsBL2U_7NajQf_dy9pNmJfHSrgOXcXcprZWZrZ2BPmJE3Y50-sQnBp2wq1GW8uYZuCC8Snl9RMlo99DHG2WKhNC-ROg5UlnLSHWNOsaaxC1UpYOIWpjY0XJr6iHj2m1fBGluY3hOiS41bdcOHy2RG9oIAFY_XOgLM_7p-TbrBqOmwlrd/s1024/RfR26.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji7mz0Z2WXmsBL2U_7NajQf_dy9pNmJfHSrgOXcXcprZWZrZ2BPmJE3Y50-sQnBp2wq1GW8uYZuCC8Snl9RMlo99DHG2WKhNC-ROg5UlnLSHWNOsaaxC1UpYOIWpjY0XJr6iHj2m1fBGluY3hOiS41bdcOHy2RG9oIAFY_XOgLM_7p-TbrBqOmwlrd/s320/RfR26.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div>Carefully remove the boule from the dish and let it cool completely on a cooling rack, and then you're ready to slice and eat! </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9NNYj2rHEMz6dYs-omRJrGghbsiTMBttO5uWnXMGOv52AYxxGzCseeFAUHms82zXlUlzk8oyk0uDMdnPplctMBLL6gQjVEo9jBWFGVD7hh7DOfidJ7QT5Z8IkR_2QNWuKjDWqQrGBbR7HSaH2xoCQqCWLfXOSrwcLaPqVTFB7u1IFH9Eopna8ptdJ/s1024/RfR27.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9NNYj2rHEMz6dYs-omRJrGghbsiTMBttO5uWnXMGOv52AYxxGzCseeFAUHms82zXlUlzk8oyk0uDMdnPplctMBLL6gQjVEo9jBWFGVD7hh7DOfidJ7QT5Z8IkR_2QNWuKjDWqQrGBbR7HSaH2xoCQqCWLfXOSrwcLaPqVTFB7u1IFH9Eopna8ptdJ/s320/RfR27.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div><div>Now you're officially a boulanger! I hope you try making this bread and that you love it as much as my family and I do!</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><b>Classic French Boule</b></div><div><br /></div><div>Makes one round boule. You can double the recipe for two boules. </div><div><br /></div><div><b>Ingredients: </b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div>435g bread flour</div><div>9g coarse kosher salt</div><div>1/2 tsp active dry yeast</div><div>356g water</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Directions: </b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div>- Using a sturdy silicone or rubber spatula, mix the dry ingredients in a large bowl.</div><div>- Add the water and mix until there are no dry bits. Be sure to scrape the bottom of the bowl.</div><div>- Cover and let rise at room temperature for 18-24 hours.</div><div>- Preheat oven to 450 degrees Fahrenheit.</div><div>- Scrape the dough onto a floured surface and roll it in the flour. </div><div>- *If you doubled the recipe, divide your dough in half at this point. </div><div>- Place dough in a parchment lined Dutch oven or round casserole dish.</div><div>- Bake covered for 30 minutes.</div><div>- Remove lid and bake uncovered for another 10-12 minutes.</div><div>- Cool completely on a cooling rack. </div><div><br /></div><div><b>Variations: </b></div><div>You can add 2-3 tablespoons of fresh chopped rosemary with your dry ingredients. You could try other herbs and add in some minced garlic and pepper! </div><div><br /></div><div><b>Measurements for those who don't want to use a kitchen scale: </b><br /><br /><div>435g bread flour - just a little more than 3 1/2 cups</div><div>9g coarse kosher salt - a little less than 2 teaspoons. If you use table salt, it will be a little more than one teaspoon. </div><div>1/2 tsp active dry yeast</div><div>356g water - about 1 1/2 cups</div></div></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />Robhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10682612971529201737noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-665330492962390510.post-15331965305963673602021-11-01T11:06:00.001-06:002021-11-01T12:52:42.054-06:00Thanks a Latte<p>It's not a new thing that you can find a Starbucks pretty much everywhere you go these days. Despite its ubiquity, I think I've been inside a Starbucks one time in my life. That's not likely to change any time soon unless they start selling stuff like burgers, pies, or sushi. Or socks! That would be awesome if you could buy socks at Starbucks. You could be driving pretty much anywhere, see a Starbucks, and remember that you're looking for a new pair of Bombas. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmW8WBOdVXWTS-iksvg97kNh5KrKb4-Xmvh8MBJGvIlY5MiXDyxHch9HY-WoqKcRmBXuHD-SECKvwRiDoXemgNEAhr6fFPUxayPWyN2LfZ_KCuvYdiTFQvg_FZ1lAyJPxx-eZqnj4AvXg/s2000/coffee+hipster.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2000" data-original-width="2000" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmW8WBOdVXWTS-iksvg97kNh5KrKb4-Xmvh8MBJGvIlY5MiXDyxHch9HY-WoqKcRmBXuHD-SECKvwRiDoXemgNEAhr6fFPUxayPWyN2LfZ_KCuvYdiTFQvg_FZ1lAyJPxx-eZqnj4AvXg/w200-h200/coffee+hipster.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><p></p><p>There are several reasons why Starbucks doesn't get much of my money. First off, as part of my religion I don't drink coffee or tea. Herbal teas are fine since there's no actual tea in them. People just call it tea because of what it resembles. Kind of like how eggplant looks remarkably like a plant. </p><p>Some of you are probably saying, "Rob, there are a lot of other things you can get at Starbucks that don't have any coffee or tea. There's a whole line of Crème Frappuccinos that don't have coffee." </p><p>Well, I'm glad you mentioned that. Back in 2010, my niece was extolling the virtues of the Caramel Crème Frappuccino. I was curious, so I decided to venture into a Starbucks for the first time in my life to try one. It was okay, but it tasted exactly like what it was: ice blended with milk and caramel with whipped cream on top. For that I probably paid around four dollars, and I'm sure it costs much more today. And that brings me to the second reason I don't go to Starbucks. <br /></p><p>Apparently the chai latte at Starbucks is one of the greatest things ever in the history of overpriced beverages of all time. A "grande" chai latte costs around $6.50. So for 16 ounces, people are paying six dollars and fifty cents (not counting the tip, and don't even get me started on that) multiple times per week. I'm sure it really is delicious, but at that price it means you're drinking about 40 cents with every swallow. For me, those prices are a little hard to...well, swallow. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjikfcn1Wm14T2gkFoxlf24yAXFvf_12b2j9jHG9iaGNjP3ktvzZlU4twPzYYsfr16491bUvQyYdQEC3JSr7u6SuW0I9OREX4sn5-cQZboXCd-Nv-MoeYFAXvxiSijcOD-8IahlJcM7NDk/s2048/Bengal+Spice.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjikfcn1Wm14T2gkFoxlf24yAXFvf_12b2j9jHG9iaGNjP3ktvzZlU4twPzYYsfr16491bUvQyYdQEC3JSr7u6SuW0I9OREX4sn5-cQZboXCd-Nv-MoeYFAXvxiSijcOD-8IahlJcM7NDk/w240-h320/Bengal+Spice.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>I wanted to experience what all the fuss is about, so I decided to make a version that doesn't have any tea in it. Celestial Seasonings makes an herbal tea called Bengal Spice that has the same spices that make up the chai flavor profile. All I did was heat up some milk in the microwave, steeped it with Bengal Spice, sweetened it with turbinado sugar and frothed it up. Then when it was all nice and frothy on top, I sprinkled on a little cinnamon. And I have to say, it's really good and it cost me pennies to make. I call it the WoW chai latte (if you know, you know). I still have no idea how it compares to a Starbucks chai latte, so if there's a Starbucks frequent flyer out there who will try the WoW version, I'd like to hear your opinion. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihv1V_NY81dan_10DMiehzh2SrzvPhwqiDT03ylvJNr0CuxrEFuC6heH42MY7-o5i20VDYE1W7-1IIRy_3u1wsSO6hLRRhqMCm5qvJXhWKTD-DbfJ932BEjl_b2ENnnp_QXrOnkW9pY9o/s2048/WoW+chai+latte.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1539" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihv1V_NY81dan_10DMiehzh2SrzvPhwqiDT03ylvJNr0CuxrEFuC6heH42MY7-o5i20VDYE1W7-1IIRy_3u1wsSO6hLRRhqMCm5qvJXhWKTD-DbfJ932BEjl_b2ENnnp_QXrOnkW9pY9o/s320/WoW+chai+latte.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFDdrEImibqBT7vhg88eFXBvK7qotGX9Zpo2mOawnYXS9H023jU1XB6BZy8ZAICfvfDWDfJQmgT6EGRZ1SH1pH1y28woOxJcvtVAnc2CWagL7rCtiz4-S64sRHIWeWnhvXhxTLauyJRJI/s2048/Caramel+frap.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFDdrEImibqBT7vhg88eFXBvK7qotGX9Zpo2mOawnYXS9H023jU1XB6BZy8ZAICfvfDWDfJQmgT6EGRZ1SH1pH1y28woOxJcvtVAnc2CWagL7rCtiz4-S64sRHIWeWnhvXhxTLauyJRJI/s320/Caramel+frap.jpg" width="240" /></a></div></div><p></p><p></p>I also made a homemade version of the Caramel Creme Frappuccino. It wasn't hard to find a copycat recipe online, and as I suspected it really is nothing more than ice, milk, caramel, and whipped cream (with more caramel drizzled on top). Oh, and you also have to add sugar so that it doesn't just taste like milk that sat next to the candy dish for a minute. There's also a Starbucks version that has coffee in it, so I made another one and added a little cocoa mix as a coffee substitute. <div><br /></div><div>The first one tasted exactly how I remember the one from 2010. In other words, it was just okay. The second one tasted a lot like a chocolate milk shake, but the cocoa completely overpowered the caramel flavor. But again, it only cost me pennies to make both of these. And bonus, I didn't have to stand in line next to any hipsters. But I did have to wash the dishes, so there's that. <br /><p></p><p>I know there are other people who refuse to go to Starbucks because they don't like huge chain companies that drive the local shops out of business. I really don't understand this reasoning. I mean, Starbucks started out as a tiny shop in Seattle. They were laughed at in the 70's when they set their goal to have 2,000 stores by the year 2000. They also aimed, "To turn the Starbucks brand into the most recognized and respected consumer brand in the world." Today, this goal is often cited as a prime example in business classes when they teach about BHAGs (Big Hairy Audacious Goals). Starbucks' success is the American Dream at it's best. And while I personally don't plan to spend my money there, if they start putting out a line of comfy socks, you'll see me there all the time! Well, more like maybe 2-3 times a year, because when you buy good quality socks, you really don't need to replace them that often. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmhK-jJbECsUQubSZVOLXtjM19bKNnzGHGdOCk4we1a2-YNUoljDu-tmD8bKZ6jqL9-wpjEnjL-zN3hbR40VnO50_oECx1OSHU5TFvkchOlKqwAAkk68gbjqcUUGMu_WvihmP__Z7IiaA/s700/Starbucks+first+store.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="420" data-original-width="700" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmhK-jJbECsUQubSZVOLXtjM19bKNnzGHGdOCk4we1a2-YNUoljDu-tmD8bKZ6jqL9-wpjEnjL-zN3hbR40VnO50_oECx1OSHU5TFvkchOlKqwAAkk68gbjqcUUGMu_WvihmP__Z7IiaA/w400-h240/Starbucks+first+store.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div></div><br /><br /><p></p><p><br /></p></div>Robhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10682612971529201737noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-665330492962390510.post-6159451560582996932017-10-21T20:45:00.000-06:002017-10-21T20:45:33.075-06:00Fritter the Time Away<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhapN4YmoIw_g2JPyn1PjMB-0uhMY8_4EqjthGqmo-AzGu-B4kR8Yo2Tk8X-6b2H0nFh0ObFJ9kT7r_tX0N4DYXclPEGg8vKKDR2LRjfRlEadrV6HdvZvfBcb-KLuRmz3_3cpqT2OneIzQ/s1600/Fried_Dough_Stand.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="532" data-original-width="800" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhapN4YmoIw_g2JPyn1PjMB-0uhMY8_4EqjthGqmo-AzGu-B4kR8Yo2Tk8X-6b2H0nFh0ObFJ9kT7r_tX0N4DYXclPEGg8vKKDR2LRjfRlEadrV6HdvZvfBcb-KLuRmz3_3cpqT2OneIzQ/s400/Fried_Dough_Stand.jpg" width="400" /></a>I was working furiously at the stove Saturday morning when Lois came home from the gym. The first thing she said was, "Why does the house smell like a carnival?" Then she saw me with a pot of hot oil on the burner and piles of fried dough all around me. <br />
<br />
"What are you making?" she wanted to know. <br />
"Apple fritters!" I replied brightly, knowing that my vegan, works out every morning, healthy wife would not approve. I thought I'd have been finished and already devouring them with our two sons by the time Lois got home. I still had half a bowl of uncooked batter. <br />
<br />
She looks at the recipe on the counter. "This says it serves eight people!" <br />
"Yeah, about that. See, I thought it meant that it made eight little fritters. So I doubled it."<br />
"You're frying up apple fritters meant to serve sixteen people?"<br />
"Well... yes."<br />
"There are three of you." <br />
"I know."<br />
<br />
About 20 minutes later Lois comes back to the kitchen to find me still frying and the piles around me had grown to mountains. I put Rocky to work drizzling a sugary glaze over about a fourth of the fritters. "Are you planning to feed the boys anything else for breakfast?"<br />
"Um. Yes?" I briefly consider pointing out that there are apples in the fritters, but I know how that conversation would go. <br />
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Around this time Buzz stumbles sleepily into the kitchen. "What's for breakfast?" <br />
Rocky answers, "Look how many fritters Dad is making!"<br />
"Oh man, that is awesome!"<br />
I'm sure Lois is giving me a particular look at this point, but I'm focused on flipping the last batch of fritters and trying not to smile as the boys laugh at the absurdity of so much fried food that they ordinarily would only be permitted to eat as a dessert, certainly not for a meal. <br />
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While I put fritters on three plates, Lois cooks a bowl of oatmeal for herself. I quickly peel three bananas and put one on each plate next to the fried dough to make it a well balanced breakfast. <br />
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By the time we've eaten all we want, the leftovers are still considerable. I carefully stack over half of the surplus on a sturdy paper plate and quickly head out the door to a neighbor's house. When I get back, Lois has kindly done most of the cleanup and put the remaining fritters into tupperware. She gives me a look I can't quite comprehend and then says, "Okay, I tried one while you were gone and it was so good, and I am so mad at you!" This was by far the best compliment I could have received. <br />
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Cooking delicious, unhealthy foods has become something of a hobby for me. I guess it doesn't have to be unhealthy, but vegetables just seem so much more interesting when they're sautéd in butter, deep fried, or smothered in a cheese sauce. <br />
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Ree Drummond, aka <a href="http://thepioneerwoman.com/" target="_blank">The Pioneer Woman</a> whose <a href="http://thepioneerwoman.com/cooking/apple-fritters/" target="_blank">recipe</a> I used for this morning's hijinks, has become one of my culinary heroes. Everything of hers I've cooked such as <a href="http://thepioneerwoman.com/cooking/drop-biscuits-and-sausage-gravy/" target="_blank">biscuits and gravy</a> and <a href="http://thepioneerwoman.com/cooking/pot-pie/" target="_blank">chicken pot pie</a> have become instant favorites of the three non-vegans in the family. <br />
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Fortunately I only cook these kinds of things every once in a while, and Lois is diligent in making sure we all get plenty of foods that will be less likely to cause a heart attack. That's just one of the many reasons we are meant to be together. And it just happens to be one of the many reasons I will not feel the least bit guilty when I try out a recipe I found for fried chicken that has you marinate the meat in buttermilk overnight. This is gonna be good. <br />
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Robhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10682612971529201737noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-665330492962390510.post-143819957248047832016-05-12T13:24:00.001-06:002017-06-26T11:59:32.950-06:00I Like Sushi, SosumiGoing out for sushi has become a popular dining experience. It's fun, it's trendy, and it's photogenic. There are now more pictures of sushi on social media than minions, and almost as many as cats.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Not for eating, just for Instagram</i></span></td></tr>
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So what is the big deal exactly? You take some pieces of fish (often raw), some vegetables, maybe some cream cheese, and wrap them up in seaweed and rice. That's right. Sea. Weed. At most restaurants, a sushi roll will cost at least eight or nine dollars, and each one is cut up into six or eight pieces. So every time you take a bite, there goes a dollar. <br />
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I have a theory. People like to eat sushi because it makes them feel daring. "Hey dude, do you dare me to eat this piece of raw tuna? I'll even eat it with this seaweed. And this green spicy play-doh." It's almost like a game. And it's not enough to just eat it. You have to get it from the plate to your mouth using two sticks. It's like using the tweezers in the Operation game to get the wishbone. If only there was a buzzer for every time you drop unagi into your lap. <br />
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Then you have the people who refuse to even try sushi because the thought of eating raw fish grosses them out (imagine that). It doesn't matter how often you explain that not all sushi has raw fish. They want nothing to do with it. But if you ever start telling them what the ingredients were in the hot dog they ate the other day, they'll cover their ears and yell, "La-la-la-la, I caaaan't heeeear yoooou!"<br />
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I have yet to meet anyone who just kind of likes sushi. People tend to either love it or are afraid of it. I can't get enough of it. Sometimes I'll go to an all-you-can-eat sushi restaurant. They always make a big deal that you have to eat all of the rice, and they'll charge you extra for any sushi that you leave uneaten. It always seems like such a great idea for the first two or three rolls. But by the time I'm trying to choke down the fifth roll, I can't help thinking, "I've made a huuuuge mistake." They'll usually bring me the check before I'm done, so once I've paid I know I can leave those last few pieces on my plate and they'll have no way to charge me for it. Even so, I always make sure to cover it up with my napkin and make a hasty exit before they can catch me. I'm not sure what I'd do if they did stop me. "Excuse me sir, you left three pieces of hosomaki. I am afraid you have to pay now." My reply might be something like, "Oh, I'm still going to eat that. I just need to get something from my car." Then as I drive away with my tires squeeling, "Suckerrrrrrrs!" <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Sushi Burrito is a Thing That Exists</td></tr>
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The sushi burrito is a relatively new take on sushi consumption. This is basically a huge sushi roll with the seaweed on the outside. It's wrapped in paper and cut in half so you can eat it with your hands just like you would with something you order from Taco Bell. Being the investigative journalist I am, I just had to try one. I went to <a href="http://sushiburritoutah.com/" target="_blank">Sushi Burrito Utah</a> in Provo and ordered their Vegas roll. It tasted pretty much exactly like a regular Vegas roll, only bigger. Being the pro I am with chopsticks, I found it a little cumbersome to eat the huge thing with my hands, and it got a little messy at the end. But for the price, I'd say it was worth it. <br />
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So if you're one of those sushi haters, come on, just give it a try. It won't kill you. Unless you're allergic to fish. In that case, maybe you better stick with your hot dogs and chalupas. Just be sure to post a photo of it on Facebook before you eat it. <br />
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<br />Robhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10682612971529201737noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-665330492962390510.post-21613713896055496952016-04-21T09:03:00.000-06:002017-06-26T12:02:16.728-06:00Basic Rules of Life Ignored by Supposedly Smart People<div style="text-align: left;">
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I'm not perfect. Far from it. If anyone wanted to follow me around for a couple hours, they could compile their own list of stupid things that I do. I look forward to reading that on their blog someday. Until then, here are some of my observations that drive me crazy.<br />
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<b>If you're in a public place and spill something, clean it up! </b>Or at least tell someone about it. Yes, it is probably someone's job to take care of those spills, but don't just walk away from it. Someone spilled Cheerios on some stairs that don't get used very often in my office building. They stayed there for days! I know, I know, I could have said something. But I still blame whoever spilled them. <br />
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<b>Pick up after your dog! </b>Even though I'd really prefer that you not let your dog do any business on my grass, I recognize that they have to go somewhere. So if they do end up leaving anything behind on my lawn, you need to pick it up. And if it's your kids who take your dog for a walk, you don't get to blame it on them. You're responsible for your kids too. Scalawag. <br />
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<b>If you see someone with their zipper down, </b>food in their teeth, something hanging from their nose, etc., you have a moral obligation to tell them. You really, really need to do this. I am tired of always having to be the one to tell people. It doesn't matter if it's your boss, an annoying co-worker, or the Pope. If you've ever had someone discreetly let you know that you have a button undone, you're forever grateful to them. If you come home at the end of a long day to find spinach in your teeth that's been there since lunch, you hate everyone you talked to that day. Don't be that hated person. <br />
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<a href="http://i3.cpcache.com/product/1693005670/no_talking_tshirt.jpg?height=350&width=350" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://i3.cpcache.com/product/1693005670/no_talking_tshirt.jpg?height=350&width=350" height="200" style="-webkit-user-select: none;" width="200" /></a><b>Don't strike up a conversation in a public restroom. </b>Okay, so I might have issues, but I really don't want to talk to you or even make eye contact with you in the restroom. It is not a pleasant place to be in, and nothing you have to say will be interesting to me in that environment. I once worked in an office building where the restrooms were open to the public. A man came in while I was at the urinal and asked me where he could turn in his resume. "Well, I'm pretty sure it's not in here." <br />
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<b>If you need something, ask politely. </b>Don't just declare your need. It makes you sound needy. As you may know, I work in Human Resources. I regularly receive requests from employees to fill out forms or prepare letters for various things. It amazes me how often I get emails that say something like, "Rob, I need a letter verifying my employment so I can establish residency." I'm always tempted to just write back and say, "Okay, thanks for letting me know." It's like when my kids say, "I'm hungry." My response is usually a variation of, "Oh, that's interesting. Thanks for telling me." <br />
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<b>When using instant messengers at work, don't just say, "Hi," </b>and wait for the other person to respond. Tell them what you want. The great thing about instant messaging is not having to engage in small talk. Stop doing it wrong!<br />
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<b>When leaving a voicemail message, give some useful information.</b> If all you say is, "Call me back as soon as you get this message," I will most likely ignore you. Also, don't tell me what to do. Also, don't call me when an email or text message will suffice. <br />
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<b>Don't tell someone else to remind you of your commitments.</b> This one really baffles me. If you say you're going to do something but are worried about forgetting, put it on your own calendar or set up your own reminder. Don't try to defer accountability to someone else just because they are more reliable. Organize your life!<br />
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These things literally drive me up the wall. I could go on, but that's probably enough for now. Feel free to add your own observations in the comments. <br />
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<br />Robhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10682612971529201737noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-665330492962390510.post-31629569855937420282016-04-14T14:14:00.000-06:002016-10-27T13:52:49.942-06:00Midlife Crisis? No, I Am Actually This Cool. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG_qbonbDKbxLvV1dDRWWcvphEySMiACECOPbog9eHMxQMKZZMWNBpjVOA7OhQTj5z5NjrNtufjzlznYqzI4-k-1B9M0Nh_FS1QqvVvhqBY67MMyTKNKX9nrsbpLJHfxf07dBDBqPFMN0/s1600/40+cupcake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="259" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG_qbonbDKbxLvV1dDRWWcvphEySMiACECOPbog9eHMxQMKZZMWNBpjVOA7OhQTj5z5NjrNtufjzlznYqzI4-k-1B9M0Nh_FS1QqvVvhqBY67MMyTKNKX9nrsbpLJHfxf07dBDBqPFMN0/s320/40+cupcake.jpg" width="320" /></a>Being the youngest in my family, it was with more than a little amusement that I watched each of my older siblings turn 40 while I remained comfortably in my youth. <br />
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I knew that I would get there someday, but it always seemed a long way off. Even when my sister turned 40 and I was 37, that was no big deal because I was still in my mid-thirties, right?</div>
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Well, I hit 40 a few months ago. It was with little fanfare, although I think Lois would have thrown a big party if not for my utter indifference. </div>
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I was 18 when I noticed my first grey hairs. The greys have slowly multiplied since then, but that doesn't really bother me. But one thing that has become increasingly distressing to me as I've approached 40 is the way my eyebrows are growing. Like most people, I've had eyebrows pretty much since birth and they've always sort of maintained themselves. But now they require trimming. I do not understand this. I ignored it for a while, but one day it just became painfully clear that something had to be done. It occurred to me that an eyebrow is pretty much just a mustache for your forehead. So I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, set my beard trimmer to one, said a quick prayer and trimmed those suckers. That worked like a charm. Well, a charm that you might find in a cheap souvenir shop, but a charm nonetheless.<br />
<a href="http://media1.popsugar-assets.com/files/ons1/192/1922507/26_2009/4ba4e4d998b16291_will-ferrel-john-c-reilly-k/i/Singing-Karaoke-Games-Wii-Playstation-3-Xbox-360-Consoles.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" class="irc_mi i0m71xDw9Vfk-pQOPx8XEepE" height="275" src="https://media1.popsugar-assets.com/files/ons1/192/1922507/26_2009/4ba4e4d998b16291_will-ferrel-john-c-reilly-k/i/Singing-Karaoke-Games-Wii-Playstation-3-Xbox-360-Consoles.jpg" style="margin-top: 75px;" width="320" /></a><br />
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It wasn't until after I turned 40 that I started thinking about what would be a good midlife crisis. When it comes to cars, I really just want something efficient and comfortable to get me from point A to point B, although a Harley would do that nicely. But no, I'm happy with my current transportation. I did indulge myself in what many people might rightly call the lamest midlife crisis ever. I don't know exactly how it happened. I don't even drink. But I inexplicably developed a taste for karaoke. So after some minimal research, I bought a mixer, some mics, and some other miscellaneous hardware to turn my computer into a pretty decent karaoke system. On Thanksgiving we were all rock stars and got jiggy with it. Are you allowed to have more than one midlife crisis? Because I figure I might live to be 90, so that gives me another good five years to settle on a really good one that involves a little less Neil Diamond.<br />
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I don't really feel old, although I do have less energy than I used to. My waist is still pretty much the same size as it has been since high school (never mind that it might be a bit lower now). But there's one thing that helps me know that I'm really not old yet. When I get dressed every morning, instead of sitting down to put on my socks, I balance on my left foot to put my right sock on, then I balance on my right foot to put my left sock on. Can you imagine an old man putting his socks on while standing? No, it just isn't done. There may come a day when I fall over during the attempt and break my hip, but until then I'm still young. Meanwhile, I just need to figure out what to do about this ear and nose hair. </div>
Robhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10682612971529201737noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-665330492962390510.post-79225054532797663292015-09-04T14:41:00.000-06:002015-09-04T14:41:43.227-06:00WiFi, Skipper!I love books, and I love food. It's a good day if I can get away from work for lunch and spend about an hour in a nearby restaurant eating and reading. I used to choose my restaurants based on the quality of their fries and the soda selection, but a new trend with some restaurants has me changing my standards. <br />
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It all started one day when I was at my favorite burger place and as usual had ordered the #5 combo (pastrami cheeseburger with fries and a soda). I filled my cup with Cherry Coke and sat down at my favorite booth (the one next to the soda fountain). I started reading an eBook on my tablet when I noticed the new signs indicating free WiFi. "Hmmm," I thought. "I wonder if anything interesting has happened on Facebook since I left the office 15 minutes ago." After spending 10 minutes on Facebook making sure that nothing interesting was happening, I figured I might as well fire up Netflix and catch some Arrested Development. That's when the frustration started. Netflix would not work. Grrr! Okay, you stupid burger place, I guess I'll get back to reading stupid Treasure Island. I bet stupid Jim Hawkins wishes he had WiFi.<br />
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After that I started going to Zupas more often. They have an excellent WiFi connection and I could get Netflix without any trouble at all. Until the day when I couldn't get Netflix. Grrr again! I suspect Zupas blocked it on purpose to prevent guys like me from taking up table space for too long. But wait, Hulu still works! Ha ha, Zupas, now I'm going to sit here for another - (looking to see how long this episode of Bones is) - 44 minutes and 26 seconds drinking creative soda concoctions and eating oyster crackers. <br />
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A few months ago when Subway put up a sign advertising free WiFi, I realized that I could really use more meatball subs in my life. And there's nothing quite like that feeling when you've racked up 75 Subway points so you can go in for a free twelve-inch sub. It is a little deflating when you realize that also means that you've already spent over $75.<br />
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Ever since I was a kid, there has been a Skippers restaurant in my hometown of Orem, Utah. I think I went there once with my mom when I was about seven years old. I don't remember exactly why I didn't like it, but I think it had something to do with the fact that I was expected to eat fried clams. Over the years there has been some remodeling of the building, and half of it has been re-purposed as a Jamba Juice. I assumed the Skippers half eventually went out of business because, who would eat there? I must not have been the only one making this assumption. I was genuinely surprised when they put up a sign to make sure passers-by knew that they were still making a go of it. Not only that, but I also learned that they now have WiFi.<br />
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After doing a little reconnaissance, I chose a Tuesday to venture back to Skippers because that is the day you can get the all-you-can-eat fish n' chips and clam chowder special (which means it's something like a dollar less than usual). The first thing I noticed was that the restaurant seemed cleaner than I remembered. Even though I knew what I was going to order, I spent a little time looking at the menu. It struck me that with very few exceptions, everything is deep fried. They do have salads on the menu, and I wondered what kind of person would order a salad from Skippers when there's a Zupas just down the street. I bet the kitchen staff freaks out every time someone does order a salad. I imagine a heated argument in the back between the server and the cooks, ending with the server returning to the customer and saying, "I'm sorry, but we're all out of lettuce. Would you like some popcorn shrimp instead?"<br />
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When they brought my food out, there was a little cup of coleslaw on the side. I quickly checked to make sure none of the food had touched it and I immediately moved it to the far edge of my table where it couldn't cause any mischief. The clam chowder was better than I expected, the fish was pretty good when the right ratio of tartar sauce was applied, and the fries - I mean "chips" - were about average. But the WiFi connection was superb and since it was all-you-can eat, I always had food in front of me while I was watching what Agent Coulson was getting up to. But that coleslaw cup kept staring at me, and I kept wondering if it had any purpose other than to unnerve me. I did learn that all-I-<b>*should*</b>-eat was two small fish fillets, one serving of "chips," and one bowl of chowder. All-I-<b>*can*</b>-eat is a little less than twice that much. <br />
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But why do they put the coleslaw on there? Is it some sort of weird FDA requirement? I've been back to Skippers several times, and yesterday I overheard the server at the next booth apologize for forgetting one of the coleslaw cups. To my amazement, I heard one of the group say that he wanted it. What?! I couldn't ignore this. I just had to know what he was going to do with it. After an appropriate interval I got up with the pretense of refilling my soda, making sure to casually glance over to get a look at this strange person and see if I could discover his diabolical plan. To my utter horror, he had a fork and was actually putting the stuff in his mouth! Then, and I am not making this up, his mouth started making chewing motions and I swear I saw his Adam's apple move as if he had swallowed it. And he just sat there, cool as a cucumber, as if he were not doing something unimaginably repulsive. I don't know how the rest of his group could sit in such close proximity to him. They must be his minions. This won't stop me from going back to Skippers because there are still limited restaurants that have good WiFi. But I'm definitely keeping a wary eye out for that coleslaw guy. Someone like that could be capable of just about anything.<br />
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Robhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10682612971529201737noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-665330492962390510.post-27183050107937696952015-06-16T10:44:00.000-06:002015-06-16T10:44:15.004-06:00Dad Can Cook - You can really taste the scratchBeing a dad of young kids is a pretty sweet gig. They are almost always delighted to see me when I get home, and all I have to do to be a hero is make pancakes. <br />
<br />
I grew up in a home with eight kids. Mom did most of the cooking, which couldn't have been easy with that many mouths, many of which belonged to boys who were always hungry. She also worked full-time as a teacher starting when I was five and the oldest was seventeen. <br />
<br />
Mom made the very best comfort foods, the most notable being fried chicken almost every Sunday. Occasionally she would experiment with new things, like the time she made cow tongue. We were all weirded out by it, but we knew better than to say anything other than "thank you" and "please pass the tongue." The oldest sibling, Biff (names have been changed), missed dinner because he was at work, or had some school thing. When he got home, a few of us watched to see what he would do about the tongue. He started right away on making a sandwich, sliced a few generous pieces of tongue and fell to eating his tongue sandwich. After a few bites Fritz said, "You know that's cow tongue, right?" Biff said, "Huh, I thought it was ham." And then he just kept right on eating. <br />
<br />
Dad would occasionally make breakfast where we could choose 1, 2, or 3 strips of bacon, a "Daddy's Best Egg" which was fried with either a "runny" or "broken" yolk, and toast or sometimes pancakes. Dad was also always in charge of making breakfast on Mother's Day. We kids were always in awe because this was the only time during the year that we could have his delicious apple pancakes. Thinking back, I wonder if Mom ever felt slighted how we would rave about these pancakes, but rarely acknowledged her efforts every other day. Sorry, Mom. <br />
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My kids love oatmeal, which is what they have for breakfast most mornings. I like oatmeal as much as the next guy, but it's not particularly exciting. So one Saturday morning about 4 or 5 years ago I made pancakes, sausage, and "Daddy's Best Eggs" for breakfast. My kids thought I was the coolest dad ever. The following Saturday they asked if I was going to make a "Big Daddy Breakfast" again. I said, "No, if I make it every week then it won't be special." So we all had oatmeal, and I felt a little bit sad that I had disappointed them. Soon it did become a weekly thing, and I'm okay with being in charge of breakfast on Saturdays. Now that the boys are vegetarians I no longer make sausage for them, but sometimes I'll fry some up for myself and try to tempt them with it. It never works. <br />
<br />
I used to make pancakes with Krusteaz mix, which for a pancake mix is probably the best one. But when I discovered how ridiculously easy it is to make pancakes from scratch with ingredients that are always in the house, I never bought a mix again. And, I'm going to share with you the best recipe right here.<br />
<br />
<b>Daddy's Best Classic Fluffy Pancakes</b><br />
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<u>Dry Ingredients:</u><br />
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2 cups flour<br />
2 tablespoons sugar<br />
4 teaspoons baking powder<br />
1 teaspoon salt<br />
3/8 cup powdered milk*<br />
*If you don't have powdered milk, you can use milk instead of water in the wet ingredients. Almond or soy milk also works well. <br />
<br />
<u>Wet Ingredients:</u><br />
2 cups water (use milk if you didn't add powdered milk to the dry ingredients)<br />
2 eggs<br />
2 tablespoons canola or vegetable oil*<br />
*I haven't tested this with waffles, but I'd probably use 4 tablespoons oil if you do use it for waffles.<br />
<br />
<u>Directions: </u><br />
Heat a griddle or skillet to about 325 degrees. Combine the dry ingredients in a bowl. In a separate bowl, combine the wet ingredients, whisking the eggs to combine thoroughly. Add the dry ingredients to the wet, mixing thoroughly, but don't overmix. Pour the batter in 4-5 inch rounds (or funny shapes, or whatever size you want). Flip the pancakes when bubbles start to form holes. Let's face it, if you don't know when to flip your pancakes, there's little I can do to help you there. Makes around 20-24 four-five inch pancakes. <br />
<br />
The powdered milk is really the secret to this whole thing. Sometimes I'll pre-make several bags of the dry ingredients to save time when I want to make pancakes. I have also used powdered eggs, and it worked pretty well, but I don't like the flavor as much. The kids didn't seem to notice, though. <br />
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Occasionally I'll make a "Big Daddy Omelette" or "Big Daddy Hash" which are always big hits too. The secret is cheese. Lots and lots of cheese. <br />
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Robhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10682612971529201737noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-665330492962390510.post-70291057609506994022014-07-18T16:02:00.000-06:002016-09-02T12:28:20.945-06:00Still Crazy After All These Years<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3dK8tb76pKbm7rIeAt3PtxnkIbilx-ML_UfiWbCvrncFzm656772l_tlbsyfnYo50jTtN7Gq9z7n3EmpU31VlhnV5oRq5COhq3qVXLiI6pBXCqKljeX84GibT8B4u-rhdBo8PySdekAU/s1600/Reunion.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3dK8tb76pKbm7rIeAt3PtxnkIbilx-ML_UfiWbCvrncFzm656772l_tlbsyfnYo50jTtN7Gq9z7n3EmpU31VlhnV5oRq5COhq3qVXLiI6pBXCqKljeX84GibT8B4u-rhdBo8PySdekAU/s1600/Reunion.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I’m really glad we have dentists. The fact that we all hate going to the
dentist brings us onto common ground.
When we want to express exactly how much we despise the idea of doing
something, all we have to do is say, “I’d rather go to the dentist,” and then everyone
knows to stop trying to get me to go play basketball. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">This is essentially what I said when I was asked about attending
my 20-year high school reunion (although I may have added something about
certain places freezing over, and how many horses it would take to drag me). High school was a time of awkwardness, low
self-esteem, and Arsenio Hall. I’m not
seeing a lot of incentive to go down that particular lane of memories.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjceISxu_cAfwLFgmzJF8vv8LVTWemgYaTAkrsEv0Z0ZnDHeB2JOcufVc1lOnERBf7Yfj-QnDx8hZ1RcWQYb9J6f-gvt7rxhP1G4p8uSRh7Ax0infh6Ms0ICTkYd24Qp2g4RJ9l0aPJJVI/s1600/RobYearbook.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjceISxu_cAfwLFgmzJF8vv8LVTWemgYaTAkrsEv0Z0ZnDHeB2JOcufVc1lOnERBf7Yfj-QnDx8hZ1RcWQYb9J6f-gvt7rxhP1G4p8uSRh7Ax0infh6Ms0ICTkYd24Qp2g4RJ9l0aPJJVI/s1600/RobYearbook.JPG" width="176" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Then I found the Facebook page that the student council (or whoever it is that arranges such things) had created for the 1994 graduates. It was actually fun to see some of the old dance photos and read about what people are up to now. Even though it almost made the need for an actual in-person reunion completely unnecessary, this sparked in me a small interest in attending. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The next thing I know, Lois and I are at the reunion making conversation with my fellow 1994 Bruins and their spouses. There were quite a few graduates I was unacquainted with, which is not completely surprising considering that my graduating class was upwards of 700 people. Then there were also a good number who I had known since elementary school. Luckily for me, I didn't date much in high school and the girls I did date were either a year younger or older, or they went to a different high school altogether. So there was no awkwardness of having to run into any old flames. But I like to think that if there had been, they'd notice how hot my wife is and be adequately jealous. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Even though this was a Utah County reunion,</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> a</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">rrangements had been made to work through some complicated Utah red tape so that those who wanted something a little stronger than Dr. Pepper could bring in their own booze. I took advantage of the available sodas, juice, and flavor syrups and sated my addiction with </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Dirty Dr. Peppers and Mango Mountain Dews.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">If Lois was bored, she didn't show it and seemed to have a good time. But she did make it quite clear that this really didn't count as a date. I was glad to have her there with me, and since she is a vegan I felt justified in taking an extra portion of meat and dessert. Having a vegan wife does have a few advantages. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The program was simple and consisted mainly of mingling which was kind of the whole point, after all. We did have the obligatory slide show with era appropriate music in the background, and the former a capella choir sang. No one asked the band geeks to play anything, which was probably a good call, even though I wouldn't have minded an excuse to dust off my old saxophone. Oh well, maybe at the 30. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The old stereotypes had pretty well dissolved. Instead of cheerleaders, jocks, nerds and stoners, we just had one big group of happy Bruins. And nerds. It was pretty easy to talk to anyone there, whether we had known each other or not. And my Facebook friend count went from like 84 to 100, so that's pretty awesome too. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I asked Lois if she was going to want to attend her 20-year reunion. She didn't even have to think about it before saying no. But she did say that she hoped there would be a Facebook page so that she could find out what everyone is up to without having to actually interact with them. She still has a few years to change her mind, so we'll see. If nothing else, at least she'd be able to post pictures of the two of us together so that her old boyfriends can see what a hot husband she ended up with. </span></div>
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Robhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10682612971529201737noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-665330492962390510.post-89380546239610242952013-12-27T13:42:00.000-07:002013-12-27T14:09:46.422-07:00Getting Tipsy<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj83nabBpormrcmhpfvrmzWMukXlIGktQd3nwzFSWZYx3nlmLbEVtravmL8AiDF92MgyiYt9ohl4TCetQMMoNW34UivupMSIeZ2Lc_BLkbNXEq2JwATfhFRMtWP0sKcDit8JsUIUhyphenhyphenhYEc/s1600/PleezNoTipping.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj83nabBpormrcmhpfvrmzWMukXlIGktQd3nwzFSWZYx3nlmLbEVtravmL8AiDF92MgyiYt9ohl4TCetQMMoNW34UivupMSIeZ2Lc_BLkbNXEq2JwATfhFRMtWP0sKcDit8JsUIUhyphenhyphenhYEc/s320/PleezNoTipping.jpg" width="320" /></a>I have opinions about a lot of things. Some of them are popular, like how I believe everyone should be able to have a good job if they want to and earn a lot of money. Some of my opinions are unpopular, like how I believe in order to keep that job, people should actually come to work on time and perform the tasks they were hired to do. I usually will only share my unpopular opinions if I feel like I have good solid facts to back them up. So I don't often admit that I believe zucchini made a deal with Satan. How else do you explain why people eat it despite its terrible taste and why there is always <i>so much</i> of it? I can't prove it, but it's totally true. <br />
<br />
This brings us to the popular practice of tipping, and why it is stupid. There's a pretty good chance that you worked in the food service industry at some point in your life, which explains the tremor I felt just now as you attempted to reach through your computer to strangle me. That would be consistent with the reactions I get from others when I start to explain my enlightened views on tipping. Almost everyone I know worked for tips at some point, and they don't want to hear me suggest that the one thing they liked about the suckiest job they ever had was undeserved. Of course I never actually suggest any such thing, but once I approach the subject, all they can hear from me is, "Blah blah, derp de derp, tipping is stupid and so is my face." <br />
<br />
So if you're still reading, here is what I really believe. Employers should pay their workers a fair wage, should provide incentives for doing good work and additional rewards for going above and beyond. Workers should not have to rely so much on customers, who only glimpse the tip (so to speak) of the iceberg. Workers also should generally not receive a huge reward simply because their customer can't calculate percentages in their head.<br />
<br />
Now, before you jump to conclusions, I do tip when tipping is expected. I do it grudgingly because I believe the system is broken, but I'm not going to punish my server simply because their employer chooses to use this inefficient method of compensating them. This is also the only way I know how to spend the Canadian coins that I sometimes end up with. <br />
<br />
When I go to a restaurant, I expect two things: 1) Bring me what I ordered, and 2) my Dr. Pepper should never be empty. If I ask for no capers and my pasta has capers, is that the waitress's fault? Maybe, if she neglected to tell the cooking staff, but I have no way of knowing. Also, capers are delicious, so I was foolish to ask to have them left off in the first place. When I suck down my first Dr. Pepper in 30 seconds and have to wait twice that long for a refill, is that the waitress's fault? Yes, probably, but maybe her shortsighted employer has her working too many tables and she can't reasonably keep all the drinks filled. Plus she's trying to get the guy at table 6 drunk so that he'll start to think she's hot and leave her a 2,300% tip. She didn't invent the system. My waitress doesn't know this, but I'm going to tip her the same amount no matter what she does because it's not my job to motivate her. That's her boss's job and he's doing it stupidly. I wish he worked for tips so I could snub him. <br />
<br />
There's a restaurant in Utah called Blue Lemon, and they have the right idea. You order your meal at the register and pay for it right then. You seat yourself, get your own food when it's ready, and you fill your own drinks. It's impossible to be more than about 50 feet away from the soda fountain, and if you don't want to walk that far to get a drink, then you should just take the plunge and get a rascal scooter already. Blue Lemon regularly hires students who are going to culinary school. They pay them what I assume is a reasonable hourly wage. If my clam chowder comes without any clams, I can tell someone and get it fixed and no one has to lose their rent money over it. <br />
<br />
Then you have buffet style restaurants like Chuck-A-Rama. Lois, incidentally, used to hate it when I would drag her to Chuck-A-Rama with the boys. She'd get embarrassed when we'd run into people we knew. I'd have to remind her, "They're eating here too, it's no big deal. Hey, watch me put this whole scone in my mouth." Oh... I think I just understood something. Anyway, that's beside the point. My point was, you have this place where you get your own food, get your own drinks (unless your "server" happens to be going that direction anyway), and they still expect to be tipped. Why should I tip you for pointing out where I can get my own plates and food? Yes, I can see the pile of fried chicken from here, thanks. But once again, I know that their employer is only paying them $2.13 per hour, so I will do my part to make up the difference. But I'm totally sneaking out with my pockets full of rice crispy squares, just so you know. <br />
<br />
In New Zealand, no one tips at restaurants. Maybe I should move there, or at least go on vacation there and eat a lot. They also let you bring your own food into the movie theaters, which is another thing I have an opinion about. I'm not going to tell you what my opinion is about that right now, but trust me, it's the one and only true opinion.<br />
<br />
When you get a haircut, tipping your stylist is so awkward because you can't just secretly leave the tip in the pile of hair (they don't like that). You have to look that Fantastic Sam's employee right in the eye when you hand it over. "That's right, I like you in the amount of exactly three dollars. I hope you didn't think you were better than three dollars, because all I have is three dollars. And this Canadian nickel." What if you get a bad haircut? Withholding the tip is not going to fix it. What does it do? Teach the stylist a valuable lesson? That might help the next guy, but meanwhile your three dollars is not going to make you stop looking like you cut your own hair.<br />
<br />
So, tipping is stupid and now you can blah de derp derp blah blah I have a stupid head. <br />
<br />
You've been a great crowd, I'm here all week. Don't forget to...um...don't forget to tell your waitress that she's hot. Robhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10682612971529201737noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-665330492962390510.post-15384462094032071292013-03-27T08:34:00.000-06:002013-03-27T08:34:49.149-06:00Lunar<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVoVLmDn54EsSw-DQgs3cL9DczyncjjzYvEE8mGi3-OXcbZlXhJ3asnTx-eMpWUgRA8iaPi8OkEeEIyYpsJUnCRjtX4fZfVgjFdfYw6luv-KNXpVNHixz_-F9h6et7UHf7DzNWvglfCVc/s1600/Lunar.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="304" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVoVLmDn54EsSw-DQgs3cL9DczyncjjzYvEE8mGi3-OXcbZlXhJ3asnTx-eMpWUgRA8iaPi8OkEeEIyYpsJUnCRjtX4fZfVgjFdfYw6luv-KNXpVNHixz_-F9h6et7UHf7DzNWvglfCVc/s320/Lunar.jpg" width="320" /></a><b>4:43 AM</b><br />
<br />
Something wakes me and my eyes fly open. The house is completely still, but there's something ominous in the silence. I lay quietly for a few moments, listening to Lois's even breathing. An early robin calls out, warning of something known only to itself. It should be another hour or so before he starts his birdsong in earnest, waking Lois. I decide to get up, trying to fool myself into believing that an early start means I'll get to come home on time. But I know full well that there's always something that will keep me late. <br />
<br />
As I step into the bathroom, the west-facing window gives me a clear view of the full moon shining through some wispy clouds, bringing back a recollection of one of the worst days possible in my line of work. It has been years since The Incident, but when did I stop tracking the lunar cycles? I wonder whether I have been foolish to let my guard down. It's surely not an omen, but I decide to hurry anyway. <br />
<br />
I dress as silently as I can, but Lois is already awake, the robin having decided to belt out his dawn song before the dawn. "That bird!" she calls out sleepily. Her cry startles me away from thoughts of the ill-boding moon. I fix a smile on my face as I grab my jacket and gear from the bedside and lean down to kiss her goodbye. "Good luck at work," she mutters and smiles back. An odd turn of phrase. Lois knows what my job is, but she doesn't really <i>know</i> what I do. As I leave the room, I arm myself mentally for the day's work ahead. <br />
<br />
I pass the boys' room and turn back upon a sudden impulse. I nudge the door open and tiptoe in. I peer through the dark into the top bunk. Empty. My heart lurches and starts pounding. A scream roils in the pit of my stomach and stops short, lodging in my throat. Years of training did not prepare me for this. But then I notice blankets draped down, covering the openings of the lower bunk. I part the blankets to find Buzz sleeping soundly at one end of the bed, and Rocky curled up on the other. I reach for the bedpost to steady myself and take a few deep breaths. They're okay. <br />
<br />
I drive to work on mental autopilot, my mind racing, strategizing, preparing for any eventuality I might face today. I barely notice the traffic around me. As I pull into headquarters, I see the usual few cars parked in the lot. It will be hours before most of the staff arrive. I scan my badge at the side door and take the stairs two at a time to the third floor. The motion sensors light the corridor ahead of me as I make my way to my cubicle. <br />
<br />
All is still. For now. Whatever comes, whatever happens, I will be ready. If I'm home later than I'd like, I'll be home in time for Lois's vegan lasagna. I am...the Human Resources Manager. <br />
<br />
<br />Robhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10682612971529201737noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-665330492962390510.post-65061379347884590872012-09-27T14:19:00.000-06:002012-09-27T14:19:12.799-06:00Thou Shalt Not Dew It To It<br />
So there was a big hoopla recently about BYU students petitioning for caffeinated sodas on campus. You can't buy a caffeinated beverage anywhere on campus currently, much to the dismay of many students, faculty and visitors. When you go to a basketball game and the announcer reads off the sponsors, he won't say Coke, he'll say Caffeine Free Coca-Cola, lest anyone believe that BYU took money from the caffeinated kind of Coke. That would be scandalous. <br />
<br />
It's not against the rules for students to drink caffeinated sodas, or even bring them on campus. They just won't sell the drinks to you, which is perfectly within their rights, shortsighted as it may be. But when BYU spokeswoman Carri Jenkins stated that the school does not sell caffeinated drinks because there has not "been a demand for it," well, that was simply laughable. <br />
<br />
BYU student Skyler Thiot created a Facebook page "BYU for Caffeine" which had over 1700 likes before he removed the page stating that the issue was becoming "too contentious." In a recent radio interview, DJ's suggested to Skyler that BYU officials must have told him to remove the page. He wouldn't confirm that, but he wouldn't deny it either, which leads me to believe that "The Heavy" did put some pressure on him to remove it. <br />
<br />
So what's the big deal exactly? If BYU doesn't want to sell caffeinated drinks, then fine. Students don't have to attend school there if they don't want to, or they can just drive down to the nearest gas station or grocery store to get their caffeine fix. But it's silly for a spokesperson to claim that there hasn't been a demand for caffeinated drinks, which just can't be the real reason. What is the real reason then? Is it because caffeine drinks are bad for you? Well, they can't very well say that or else they'd have to stop selling chocolate covered cinnamon bears and their famous mint brownies. Besides, I'd be willing to bet that the sugar in sodas is way worse for you than the caffeine. The church doesn't prohibit the consumption of caffeinated sodas, so they can't say that either. They don't have to give a reason if they don't want to, but don't go making up silly excuses that no one will believe.<br />
<br />
The Missionary Training Center in Provo has the same dining services as at BYU, which means that missionaries in training can't buy caffeinated sodas. While I was there, one missionary received a package containing a 24 pack of real, fully-loaded Coke. It was amazing how quickly these Cokes became currency, like cigarettes in prison. Suddenly there were missionaries scrambling to buy Coke from him for $1.00 per can, then $2.00 per can. One missionary who was short on cash offered to trade his Afterglow cassettes. <br />
<br />
So while we're taking digs at BYU, let's talk about their policy on socks. They don't have one now, but when I was 11 or 12 years old, my friend and I were kicked out of the Games Center because I was wearing flip flops (with no socks). Some worker came up to us while we were playing video games and made us leave stating that I was not wearing appropriate footwear. Perhaps he was afraid that the brazen way in which I was showing off the skin of my feet would cause some BYU co-eds to have evil thoughts. We'll ignore the fact that there was nary a female to be found playing Spy Hunter or Dig-Dug. Today the policy is simply that shoes should be worn in all public campus areas. How progressive of them. <br />
<br />
And how about BYU's facial hair policy? I've been a goatee wearer for the last 15 years or so. One time I went to a comedy show on BYU campus and the nice girl who sold us the tickets asked me if I was a student. When I said no, she said, "Oh, good thing, or you'd have to go shave." So, that's fine. My main problem with BYU's facial hair policy is not that they don't allow beards. My problem is that they <i>do</i> allow mustaches. I'm sorry, but plain mustaches are just ghastly. They should have changed that policy when they stopped requiring socks. We'll also ignore the fact that Brigham Young himself had a nice bushy beard in his day. <br />
<br />
I don't think we'll see BYU lifting their ban on caffeinated sodas anytime in the near future, nor do I think they should be compelled to. But if you are outraged like I am about how immodest the statue of Chief Massasoit is on BYU campus, then sign the petition by posting a comment here. <br />
<br />
<br />
<img alt="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5060/5462616593_2390fa7065.jpg" class="decoded" height="320" src="http://farm6.static.flickr.com/5060/5462616593_2390fa7065.jpg" width="211" /> <img height="279" id="il_fi" src="http://people.bu.edu/zakbos/img/songs-mountain-dew.jpg" style="padding-bottom: 8px; padding-right: 8px; padding-top: 8px;" width="370" /><br />
<br />Robhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10682612971529201737noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-665330492962390510.post-74020198042338615382012-09-13T10:11:00.001-06:002012-09-13T12:32:57.867-06:00Goodbye Tumbleweeds, Hello Cave NationSo, Lois and I have lived at my parents'
house in Eagle Mountain for over 5 years now. Mom and
Dad have been great to live with. I think I could count the number of
times I've mowed the lawn with my shoes on. Well, I always mow the
lawn with my shoes on. I just mean that I could count the times on my
fingers and wouldn't need my toes. No, I don't really need my toes to
count that high, it's just a silly saying! Okay, forget it. I'm
saying that Dad almost always mows the lawn. I guess he figured he
can't give me chores to do since I work for Lois now. We've also had
the benefit of Mom and Dad volunteering to tend the boys (for free!) so
that we can go out on dates. It's nice when we can just put the boys
to bed and go for a drive, and since Mom and Dad are in the house, we
have no qualms about leaving the kids. And sometimes you're just in
the mood for nachos and Mountain Dew, right?<br />
<br />
The city of Eagle
Mountain is not without its charms. You know in the old Peanuts
cartoons where Snoopy's cousin Spike makes "snowmen" and "Christmas
trees" out of tumbleweeds in the desert? It's kind of like that. Who
wouldn't want to live in a place like that? <br />
<br />
But, the time has
come at last for us to bid a fond adieu to the tumbleweed capital of
Utah County. We're moving to American Fork, which my sister Carmela very helpfully
pointed out is called "Cave Nation." I learned this mere hours after
closing the deal on the house, so there's no turning back. Now, I
admit that most school mascots are kind of stupid. I grew up in Orem, home of the Mountain View Bruins. I was always under the impression that a
bruin was a certain type of bear. But it's not. It's simply another
word for bear. But it's really not even that. It came from an old
Dutch fable, where the bear was named "Bruin," which is the Dutch word
for "brown." That's just silly. <br />
<br />
But come on, the Cavemen?
How does anyone even pretend that cavemen represent anything that a
person would want to emulate? Cavemen lived in caves because they were
too stupid to build their own houses. Their marriage ceremony
involved conking a cavewoman on the head with a club and then dragging
her by the hair back to the cave. Expressions such as "living in a
cave" have become cultural metaphors for a modern human who displays
traits of extreme ignorance or uncivilized behavior.<br />
<br />
Here's one
of my favorite Jack Handy Deep Thoughts: I bet when the Neanderthal kids
made a snowman, someone would always end up saying, "Don't forget the
thick, heavy brows." Then they would all get embarrassed because they
remembered they had the big hunky brows too, and they'd get mad and eat
the snowman.<br />
<br />
So anyway, we're going to live in American Fork, aka
"Cave Nation." When it comes to it, "American Fork" is kind of a silly
name for a city too. It used to be called Lake City, but settlers
renamed it in 1860 after the American Fork River that runs through it to
avoid confusion with Salt Lake City. I can see how a caveman might
confuse the two. <br />
<br />
We are pretty excited about the new house.
It is a rambler built in 2001 with a fully finished basement and a 3 car
garage. It has 3 bedrooms and 2 bathrooms upstairs, and 2 bedrooms
and 1 bathroom downstairs. There's also a little kitchenette
downstairs with a fridge, sink and dining area. So, I guess if we wanted to, you know, have dinner in the basement or something, it would be that much easier to do it.<br />
<br />
Before we knew
we would be closing on the house, I booked a trip to DC for work, which
is where I am currently. We didn't want to delay the closing, which
was scheduled for the 12th, so I notarized a Power of Attorney document
which allowed Lois to sign all of the closing documents. So while I
was eating fish & chips at McGinty's, Lois was buying our house. <br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7o8gbbUQI2fnVhTkCsWp1OIBTPYm8PDJwrB4K3kpl1Ckb8ksWIO5HsA7unkkkzOFpjbrbIhwQfnNkIH6lNceVp-i8ymrjhoYNkQATqZO2A85FTkwyBvk6EmFLxwGmAr512X2ssC2k2Ms/s1600/Captain_caveman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7o8gbbUQI2fnVhTkCsWp1OIBTPYm8PDJwrB4K3kpl1Ckb8ksWIO5HsA7unkkkzOFpjbrbIhwQfnNkIH6lNceVp-i8ymrjhoYNkQATqZO2A85FTkwyBvk6EmFLxwGmAr512X2ssC2k2Ms/s320/Captain_caveman.jpg" width="233" /></a>It's
all taken care of now, and we're going to move this Saturday. If you know me and are looking for something to do, feel free to stop by the house
to move a few boxes, or maybe a refrigerator or dresser. We'll get
started around 9am. Also, this Saturday is my Mom's birthday, so there's
that too. Robhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10682612971529201737noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-665330492962390510.post-50737149424371376802011-11-10T09:34:00.001-07:002011-11-10T15:13:02.932-07:00Reading Between the LiesKids are not very good at lying, but this is only because they haven't had as many years of practice as their parents. Parents love to lie to their kids. Well, let's face it, parents simply love to lie. But it's so much more fun when someone believes you, so we tell the lies to the most gullible people we know.<br />
<br />
<b>Parent: </b>You better be good because Santa is watching and if you're bad you'll get nothing but a lump of coal in your stocking.<br />
<b>Kid: </b>What's coal?<br />
<b>Parent: </b>I meant bologna loaf.<br />
<b>Kid: </b>Eeew! No! <br />
<br />
<b>Parent: </b>If you leave your tooth under your pillow, the Tooth Fairy will come at night and leave you a quarter.<br />
<b>Kid:</b> My friend Amber said the Tooth Fairy left her a dollar!<br />
<b>Parent:</b> Amber is a liar.<br />
<br />
<b>Kid: </b>Why can't I have Dr. Pepper?<br />
<b>Mom: </b>It's bad for you.<br />
<b>Kid: </b>Then why does Dad drink it?<br />
<b>Dad: </b>It's only bad for kids. Now finish your McNuggets. <br />
<br />
<br />
When Buzz was three, we were on a long flight to Kansas to visit Lois's parents. Buzz kept getting out of his seat and wouldn't hold still. Finally I whispered to him (so Lois couldn't hear), "If you don't stay in your seat, the pilot is going to come back here and yell at you." We didn't have any more trouble with him the rest of the flight. <br />
<br />
Lois's uncle, Dr. Teeth, is an orthodontist. At a family reunion a few months ago, he told all of the kids that if you don't brush your teeth, bacteria will get in your mouth and eat the food left on your teeth. What happens after you eat? That's right, you poop. And where do you think the bacteria will poop? That's right, IN YOUR MOUTH! For all I know, this is actually true, but I don't care because whenever Buzz or Rocky give us any trouble about brushing, all we have to do is remind them of what Uncle Dr. Teeth said. <br />
<br />
So we shouldn't be all that surprised when our kids start to invent falsehoods of their own. Has your kid ever told you that he hasn't been in the chocolate stash when there are tell-tale signs all over his face? A while ago I caught Rocky with his finger in his nose. I said, "Don't, Rocky." His reply, "I wasn't!"<br />
"You weren't what?"<br />
"I wasn't picking my nose." <br />
"Who said anything about picking your nose?"<br />
"...Well, I wasn't."<br />
<br />
A lot of times, my kids know when I'm full of it.<br />
"Dad, what are you drinking?"<br />
"Broccoli juice. It's really good. Do you want some?"<br />
"No it isn't, it's Dr. Pepper!"<br />
<br />
"Dad, are you eating chocolate?"<br />
"No, I'm chewing tobacco."<br />
"What?!"<br />
"Oh, I mean, I'm eating broccoli."<br />
"It smells like chocolate."<br />
"Huh. That's weird." <br />
<br />
Studies have shown that it is the intelligent kids who are the most effective at lying because it takes a strong intellect to recognize the truth and then invent a plausible alternate reality. So think about that the next time your kid lies to you. And if they're not lying to you, that just means they're smarter than you are and you haven't figured it out yet.Robhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10682612971529201737noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-665330492962390510.post-17861791891854998042011-09-29T10:06:00.000-06:002011-09-29T10:06:05.664-06:00What Spews ForthMy brother Fritz pointed out to me that it has been over six months since my last post. He apparently thought that six months was a long time. It's all a matter of perspective, though. I mean, if we're talking about how often I shave, then yes, I suppose some people would say that six months is a long time. But if we're talking about how often I shave my legs, then I think six months is just about right, right? <br />
<br />
Anyway, I really just haven't come up with a lot of good material lately (and if I have any readers left, you can submit suggestions to rob@robfromreality.com. I might even read them!). Usually something random pops into my brain, and then it starts writing itself. So I figured I'd just start typing and we'll see if what spews forth ends up being funny. Spew is kind of a funny word, right? Maybe I could just make a list of funny words.<br />
<br />
Spew<br />
Pants<br />
Gazump<br />
Burrito<br />
Gordita<br />
Chalupa<br />
Taco 12 Pack<br />
Slobberknocker<br />
<br />
Hmm... my list seems to have morphed into the Taco Bell menu. Isn't that just the typical way of things? <br />
<br />
I suppose I should address the rather large elephant in the room and tell you how things went with my attempt at Veganism. I am afraid that I did not successfully stay meat free for the full 40 days. My downfall was cheating during my trip to DC. Once I again tasted shrimp, chicken and beef (and I think an ostrich burger came into play too), there was just no going back. And cheese, oh wonderful cheese. There just weren't enough reasons left that I could think of to continue on with the experiment. I did manage to stay away from Dr. Pepper for about 2 months, and I also managed somehow to get rid of the extra pounds that gradually snuck up on me since high school. I suppose my body was afraid I might subject it to more tofu, collared greens, and flax seed. But anyway, I am now once again happily eating food that once walked and frolicked and had parents. And odds are that I probably ate their parents, too. Mmm... tasty, tasty parents.<br />
<br />
Lois, of course, is still faithfully eating only things which sprang forth from the ground. I thought she was nearly cured when she mistook mustard greens for kale and had a very nasty green smoothie one morning (I mean, nastier than usual). But no, she threw out the smoothie, used the remaining mustard greens in a miso soup, and right now she's probably happily crunching away on a raw zucchini. And I am dying to try this braised partridge recipe I just found. <br />
<br />
And another thing:<br />
<br />
Glabella<br />
Bloviate<br />
Hemidemisemiquaver<br />
Widdershins<br />
Shneee<br />
Flink<br />
Skullduggery<br />
Hoi PolloiRobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10682612971529201737noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-665330492962390510.post-40096006873310992042011-03-08T23:41:00.000-07:002011-03-08T23:41:55.368-07:00More Rob to Hate Less<div class="MsoNormal">I’ve always been a skinny guy, despite the fact that I make no efforts to watch what I eat, and I rarely exercise on purpose. It has amused me over the last 10 years or so to be able to declare that I weigh the same as I did in high school. For some reason, the people I say this to don’t often seem to appreciate how awesome this is. In fact, more often than not their response has been, “I hate you, Rob,” or, “You suck, Rob,” or, “Stop posting your pie recipes on my weight loss blog, Rob.” I really don’t understand people sometimes. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Lois and I took Buzz and Rocky the other day to the Museum of Ancient Life at Thanksgiving Point. They have a large platform scale, big enough for around 10 people to stand on at once and it will tell you which dinosaur you weigh the same as. When I stepped on with Rocky, I was mildly surprised to discover that we tipped the scale to 210 pounds, which was only 30 pounds short of the Herrerasaurus. Rocky doesn’t look like he weighs 60 pounds, but he is rather tall for a three year old. What has Lois been feeding him anyway? Rocky quickly got bored of standing on the platform for some reason, so he ran off to growl at a nearby Gargoyleosaurus. This is where I went from mildly surprised to <i>“What the…buh, wha?!?”</i>. The needle should have gone below Protoceratops (158 pounds), but it stopped well above him and was getting rather cozier than I thought appropriate with Tanycolagreus (180 pounds). </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This cannot be. I weigh the same as I did in high school, but I didn’t weigh 170 in high school. The large bold letters in the middle of the scale proclaiming, “No Springs – Honest Weight” suddenly took on a mocking tone, which I found rather annoying. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">How did this happen? Has the Pastrami Burger finally turned on me? Or is it the fries? Surely not my Westerner sandwich? Yes, it has two meats, but how can something as delicious as beef brisket with Polish sausage be bad for you? The whole thing is really a mystery. Lois thinks I put too much cheese on my omelets, but I’d like to see you make a seven egg omelet with less than half a pound of cheese. Sure you could do it, but then you might as well just give it to the dog, and why are you making omelets for your dog anyway? But the most important question is, why do all my pants still fit? </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Okay, I suppose I’m not getting any younger, and I may have developed one or two bad eating habits. But I really like my eating habits, which sounds a lot like eating rabbits and now I really want some hasenpfeffer. Argh, no! I think it may be time to go cold turkey, which also sounds really delicious, especially if it were on an onion roll with swiss cheese, mayo and mustard. And some pastrami. Gah! This is not helping, and I could really go for two or three helpings right about now. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My calendar says that tomorrow is Ash Wednesday, which is the beginning of Lent which, according to my limited understanding of Catholic customs, is a tradition in which you choose a bad habit to give up for 40 days. Then, I suppose at the end of the 40 days it’s party time again. I’m not currently Catholic, but perhaps I could give this Lent thing a try. Lois’s crazy Vegan diet is supposed to make people lose 10 pounds within the first three weeks. I’m not going to be a Vegan, because we all know that Vegans are, I say, crazy. But I’m going to act like a Vegan for 40 days starting tomorrow. It will definitely be a challenge, but I suspect the crazy will find me after just a few days, and I’m counting on that to keep me going for the duration. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This means no meat and no dairy. And apparently, no Dr. Pepper. I very patiently explained to Lois that there’s not a trace of meat or dairy in Dr. Pepper, and it even has real juice in it (somewhere). But no, she insists that while not technically forbidden under the Vegan by-laws, sodas and anything with refined sugar are on the naughty list if I really intend to make this experiment work. She also says that I should put in some exercise while I’m at it, but this is where I remind you that Lois is a Vegan and, therefore, crazy. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I am going to allow myself to cheat a little bit. I’m going to be traveling on business for a few days later this month and my company pays for my meals when I travel. And well, when The Man is picking up the check, I’m having prime rib and lobster and I don’t care who knows it. And probably cheesecake. And while I’m cheating anyway, I find that a nice Dr. Pepper pairs well with those particular culinary items. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Aside from that, I fully expect to make it through without even a… hang on, I just remembered that I still have some gruyere in the fridge. It’s not quite midnight yet… time enough for a grilled cheese. Hmm, I don’t think I can make it in time if I go out for a Dr. Pepper run. Well, it’ll still be Tuesday somewhere by the time I get back. Bye. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Robhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10682612971529201737noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-665330492962390510.post-79206539518107364032011-02-02T22:25:00.000-07:002011-02-02T22:25:14.203-07:00Just when you think you know someoneAfter 11 years of marriage, Lois and I have gotten to know each other pretty well. I know that Lois likes her chocolate dark, her movies romantic, and the heat set to 72 degrees. I also know that when I get home from work, if I sneak up quietly to the room she’s in and then yell, “RAWR!” that it will scare the absolute bejeebers out of her, and I will be in trouble for anywhere from 1-3 hours. <br />
<br />
One thing I did not know about Lois, however, something that she definitely did not disclose during our courtship and revealed only recently, was that she is a vegan. This came as quite a surprise to me. She hid it so well over the years, and I don’t know what she did with all that meat and dairy that I was sure she was eating.<br />
<br />
Lois claims that she wasn’t a vegan before and only decided recently to try it out for a while. How does that even work? Maybe I’ll “decide” to try out having O positive blood for a while. Or maybe I'll “decide” that my astrological sign will be Virgo instead of Libra. And maybe I could just “decide” that I’m going to be a Democrat instead of a Republican. Balderdash.<br />
<br />
Luckily Lois does not insist that the rest of us participate in the odd rituals associated with being a vegan, like the consumption of the green smoothie each morning. I don’t know what all she puts in there, but I know it includes copious amounts of spinach, a frozen banana, and a vile weed called kale. She claims that it is delicious, but she is a vegan after all, so I don’t know why I should believe anything she says.<br />
<br />
About a year ago Lois’s sister, Chloe, had her wedding rehearsal dinner at a very nice Thai restaurant. Rather than ordering from a menu, the restaurant staff would regularly bring out various dishes and we would help ourselves. Some of Chloe’s friends from New York had flown in for the occasion, many of whom are vegetarians. They were all sequestered to a specific table so the staff could make sure to get the appropriate dishes to them. I remember how relieved I was not to be sharing the table with them. Not just because I’d have to eat their food, but because vegetarians are just weird, man. What do you even talk about with a vegetarian? And what if they tried to convert me? Would they be offended at how prominent my canine teeth are?<br />
<br />
Without being overbearing, Lois has undoubtedly hoped that her new “healthy” lifestyle would rub off on me. On the contrary, however, for each healthy change Lois makes, I find myself needing to keep things balanced. When she ate only a salad for dinner the other night, I was compelled to make a grilled cheese and bacon sandwich to go along with my meatball sub. When she checked out <em>Vegan Planet: 400 irresistible recipes with fantastic flavors from home and around the world</em> from the library, I checked out <em>Man Eats Man: the story of cannibalism.</em> And for every batch of vegan cupcakes Lois makes, I shoot one of the neighborhood cats. Granted, I was going to do that last one anyway, so…<br />
<br />
I'm not really sure how long Lois is going to keep this up. I've been trying to entice her back to carnivorism, but subtlety isn't really my strong point. If anything, the gusto with which I devoured that brace of pheasants the other night seems to have made her retreat even farther into her devotion to veganism. In retrospect, I probably shouldn't have butchered them in the kitchen while Lois was hosting her book club in the next room. And perhaps I should have taken more care to avoid getting blood on her Flirty apron. On the plus side, as long as she remains vegan, that means more dark chocolate for me. Robhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10682612971529201737noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-665330492962390510.post-83607082693606189972010-10-12T21:34:00.002-06:002010-10-13T07:55:24.345-06:00The Laws of Gravity and Karma<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">If you don’t know me and you look over at my photo to the left, you’re probably thinking, “Now there is one good looking guy who is probably awesome at sports.” Well you’re half right, but let’s just say that Lois didn’t marry me for my athletic abilities. Considering the sedentary lifestyle I lead and my special diet of trans fats and red meat, I should weigh 400 pounds and ride a Rascal Scooter to commute from the buffet to the soda fountain. But I don’t. The only plausible explanation I can think of is that I must have two metabolisms. It probably happened during a freak lightning storm sometime in the 80’s. You scientists should really look into that.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">When the guys want to get together for some basketball, or football, or volcano boarding, I always have an excuse ready. “Sorry, I gave blood today and they took an extra half-pint.” Or, “I was up all last night writing my thesis.” Or, “I’m allergic to magma.” It’s easy to get out of doing things that will make me not be in a sitting position.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">But when my buddies Slim and Chaos asked me if I wanted to go biking down the mountain at Sundance, I didn’t even hesitate to say, “Heck yeah!” This, I thought, was the sport for me. You get to ride up on the ski lift and then ride down the mountain on trails. There is beautiful fall weather and scenery, the lift does all the work getting you up, and gravity does all the work getting you down. What could be easier? I shall now pause here while those of you with at least a Payson education laugh at my naïveté (for those of you from Payson, that means I’m dumb).</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Slim is in marketing and Chaos is a corporate attorney. These are guys who spend about as much time sitting at their desks as I do. Surely the HR guy (that’s me) should be able to keep up with them and show them a thing or two.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">When we get to the top of the mountain Chaos asks Buff Dude, who is working the lift, which trail is the best. We take Buff Dude’s trail and I quickly learn several things: (1) gravity is quite a powerful force; (2) mountains often have cliffs; (3) I am the slow kid in the group; and (4) when you want to know which is the best trail, instead of asking Buff Dude with the No Fear t-shirt, you might be better off with advice from Skinny Girl with the Justin Bieber t-shirt.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Being the slow kid gave me the advantage of not having my spectacular wipe-out witnessed by my companions. I did, however, perform this feat just as the trail went below the ski lift, and was regaled with the applause of my loving audience. I quickly picked up my bike (originally christened “Silver Bullet,” but now affectionately known as “Mule”), took my bows and then proceeded to fight against Gravity once again as he made his vigorous attempt to catch me up to Slim and Chaos.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The three of us had paid for a full half day of “see if you can hurl yourself down a mountain while balancing on a two-wheeled transport without swearing aloud.” A quarter of the way down on the first ride, I felt as though I had already had more than my money’s worth, so I started to contrive reasons of why I should focus my efforts on conquering the gift shop since Slim and Chaos seemed to have the mountain conquering gig pretty well under control. Somehow I was unable to think of any acceptable excuses, so I found myself back on the lift making the slow, scenic trip to the top of the Mountain of Affliction and Agony. And then, inexplicably, again for the third time.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I have no problem admitting that I gleaned quite a lot of satisfaction when I learned that Slim and Chaos also crashed. Too bad I was too far behind to witness their tumbles, but the scrapes and bruises I could see on them were some comfort.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">When I arrived back home, I decided that I would act heroic and not show any signs of having been pummeled. But then I realized that acting tough doesn’t really do anything for you when your audience (Lois, in this case) has no idea that you were pummeled in the first place. As far as she knew, a ride down the mountain was like riding around the park a few times, and why did I come home so sweaty?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">In retrospect, I should have known I was out of my element when the Sundance clerk wanted us to sign a release of liability. Chaos had said that the release couldn’t stop us from suing if we were injured. This should have been another red flag for me, but I figured it was just another one of those things lawyers are always saying so that we don’t accidentally forget that they’re lawyers. Plus, I had been a little preoccupied trying to figure out why there was a “karma jar” near the register.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">So the next time you find yourself doing something that requires you to sign a release of liability, I highly recommend that you don’t forget to put a little something in the karma jar. And take about 2000mg of ibuprofen.</span>Robhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10682612971529201737noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-665330492962390510.post-52073640235673662712010-08-11T10:30:00.003-06:002010-08-12T14:16:43.463-06:00No Country for Old RobLois and I have been married for just over eleven years now. We tend to keep to ourselves and spend a lot of time at the house. It's not that we aren't friendly, it's just that we don't really like people. Oh, I hope I didn't offend those of you who are people. <br />
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Recently we decided to mix things up a bit and actually got a sitter. Suddenly the whole world was opened up before us. We didn't have to worry about selecting a restaurant that offers crayons and a kids meal with sauceless options. We could choose <i>anything</i> without having to submit a request to Buzz and Rocky. <br />
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It was a difficult decision. This was luxury we do not often indulge in, so we wanted to make sure we selected the *right* restaurant. I was in the mood for a good steak and Lois was in the mood for non-Shrek themed food, so we settled on Ruby River in South Provo. We'd been there once or twice early in our marriage and we were pretty sure that it met both of those criteria. <br />
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When we arrived we were seated right away, which was a major disappointment because I wanted to eat peanuts in the waiting area. Luckily the hostess brought a bucket of peanuts to our table, so I was willing to forgive this oversight. Over the years, I had forgotten about the decor of Ruby River. As we were being led to our table, the first thing I noticed was all the Country Western paraphernalia. There were autographed cowboy boots in colors that I didn't know existed. There were photographs of people with names like Pickler, and Chesnutt [sic], and Rascal Flatts. I think there was even a rug made from the carcasses of brushpopper shirts. <br />
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The music was a quite surprising, though. When I go to an Italian restaurant, I want to hear Italian music. I want my Mexican restaurants to play mariachi music. And I want my Country Western restaurants to play Def Leppard. Or U2. Even Michael Bublé I could tolerate. But country music? I cannot abide this.<br />
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Here's the thing about music. Studies have shown that people like music when they can anticipate 51% of the song. No more and no less. So smrt people like me find country music boring and stupid. So if you like country music, well... it's not really your fault that your parents raised you in Payson. The fact that you still live in Payson might be a little bit your fault. <br />
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I suppose I shouldn't be quite so harsh. On country music, I mean. Some of it is rather delightful. I actually sang "It's Your Love" by Tim McGraw to Lois at our wedding reception. I got jiggy with it. I mean, I got twangy with it. Also, I like "The Joker" by Steve Miller. And... wait, what? That's not a country song? Well, don't some people call him the space cowboy? Whatever. <br />
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So despite the lack of Counting Crows and the overage of Kenny Rogers (or whoever the popular country singers are these days), Lois and I had a good time. My steak was done perfectly, with just the right amount of bloodiness, and my cinnamon yam was delicious. I'm sure the salad or whatever girlie food Lois ordered was good too. And it's nice to know that no matter where you go, as long as you're with the person you love, you can always count on Dr. Pepper being among the beverage choices.Robhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10682612971529201737noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-665330492962390510.post-67701988001225310362010-07-31T17:30:00.007-06:002010-08-02T10:04:36.000-06:00No Amount of CoffeeMy niece, Makayla, upon graduating from high school in Utah County, spent a couple months working in one of the southern states. I think it was the one whose state flower is the tobacco leaf and the state bird is KFC. No no, not Kentucky. It's the one whose state quarter shows Foghorn Leghorn eating a bowl of grits. <br />
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Anyway, while she was there Makayla posted her Facebook status as, "Caramel Crème Frappuccinos." Now, some of you might have picked up on the fact that I am a Latter-day Saint or Mormon, as well as most of my extended family. Even if you don't know much about Mormons, you probably know that we don't drink coffee.<br />
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So naturally I began to fear for my niece's soul. Those pagan Southerners have corrupted her! I figured that Makayla was innocently drinking this carnal beverage, completely unaware of the presence of Beelzebub's roasted beans of degradation. So I commented on her status and said, "You do realize that's coffee, right?" She confidently explained, "No it isn't," and I countered with, "Yes it is." She said, "No, it's made with whole milk." I was beginning to see that Makayla was more than a match for my debate skills, so I appealed to my good friend, Google, to provide the evidence of Juan Valdez's sinful allurement. Aha! Um... it turns out that Starbucks has a line of coffee free "Crème" Frappuccinos. Makayla's soul was safe after all and I, her favorite uncle, had wrongfully accused her of being a doofus.<br />
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So I decided that I'd better try one of these Caramel Crème Frappuccinos and see for myself what all the fuss is about. It pretty much tasted like someone blended ice with milk and put some caramel in there. I guess it was okay, but I didn't get excited enough about it to make it my Facebook status.<br />
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While I was at Starbucks sitting in a comfy chair, sipping my coffeeless frap-based beverage and listening to the frap-based music, I looked around me and began to feel oddly out of place. No one told me that you were supposed to wear hemp jewelry and at least one article of tie-dyed clothing when you go to Starbucks. But the hippies were mostly pleasant and only one of them tried to educate me on the virtues of marijuana. <br />
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So while I may not share Makayla's enthusiasm for caramel flavored ice milk, at least she's not committing a grievous sin while she drinks it. She wouldn't have been the first Mormon I know to inadvertently drink coffee, though. Before we were married, my dear wife Lois's favorite drink was <a href="http://www.ghirardelli.com/products/hotcocoa_mocha.aspx">Ghiradelli Chocolate Mocha hot cocoa</a>. If you clicked that link you noticed that coffee beans are pictured clearly on the label. Lois defended herself by explaining that the one she had was part of a holiday sampler and it didn't have coffee beans pictured. The fact that the name of the drink contains the word <em>mocha</em> didn't clue her in, apparently. But it's okay, she's been on the wagon for more than 10 years now. <br />
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I'd like to tell you more things about Lois that would embarrass her, but I'm almost out of Dr. Pepper and if I don't go get some now I don't know how I'm going to stay awake during church tomorrow.Robhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10682612971529201737noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-665330492962390510.post-76791007530204545422010-07-01T17:30:00.002-06:002010-07-02T12:11:15.404-06:00Living In a Quaker State<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">My sister, Carmela, is participating in something her neighborhood has organized called "No Media July." It is pretty much as horrific as it sounds. Willing members of the area actually signed a contract stating that during the month of July they will refrain from any "recreational" electronic media. This includes TV, internet, email, texting, and music. With regard to internet use, they made a special point of clarifying "especially Facebook." They have made allowances for email and internet if needed for work or school, and "uplifting" music is okay. So Bon Jovi is in, but Midnight Oil is definitely out. </div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The great thing about this is that Carmela shouldn't see my blog for at least a month, so I can't get in trouble for making fun of her. Here's the thing. I can see how it's all noble and great to cut back on the electronic media that we as a society have developed an unhealthy dependency on, yadda yadda yadda. But what will abstaining for a month really do? My brother, Sir Pumpkin Longshanks (I feel compelled to remind you that names have been changed), once gave up desserts for a month. Then at the conclusion he pigged out on chocodiles, Oreo shakes and moon pies. As the clock strikes midnight on August 1st, I think there is no question that we will find Carmela and her media-abstaining conspirators plugging in for the most epic bender of Twittering, Facebooking, and Lolcatting ever seen. </div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Carmela and the Amish are also having non-media activities throughout the month to help stave off the withdrawal effects. She invited us to tonight's activity which involves a "bike rodeo" for the kids. Unfortunately, it starts after Buzz and Rocky's bedtime, so we can't go. The fact that I will be sitting in front of my TV watching Jack Bauer be awesome has nothing whatsoever to do with us not going. </div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I was curious how Carmela would handle her text messages. Does she have the strength not to read them when they come in? So I sent her a text that said, <span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">"If you are reading this, you are BUSTED."</span> A few minutes later my phone buzzed and I was all excited to shame her for not being able to last even one day. Her response said, <span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">"Hi! This is an auto reply to let you know i am media free for july. If you want to talk call me!"</span> A very clever cover up. </div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The media fast was originally scheduled a month earlier until the moms and teenage girls freaked out. They stormed the activities committee meeting and demanded that it be delayed by a month. Further investigation showed that the opening of "Eclipse" was scheduled for June 29th. </div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">So while Carmela is Etch-A-Sketching while driving her horse drawn carriage and somehow perfecting Crack's Theorem to the fourteenth decimal, I will be... well, doing normal stuff. </div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Also, "Carmela and the Amish" is going to be the name of my band. It remains to be seen whether or not the music will be "uplifting." </div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
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</div>Robhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10682612971529201737noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-665330492962390510.post-86447055978674956052010-06-25T23:42:00.001-06:002010-08-12T12:22:43.856-06:00Father's Day 4.3 of 4.3<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The best part of Thursday was having Lois back home with us. The boys were delighted with the toy cable cars she brought back from San Francisco, and I was delighted with the macarons from <a href="http://www.miettecakes.com/">Miette</a>. I was also delighted with the <a href="http://www.tazachocolate.com/store/Products/2ozChocoNibs">Taza chocolate covered nibs</a> even though I haven't tried them yet. That kind of chocolate seems like it should be consumed very carefully and with reverence. </div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">While the house was not a complete disaster, I was careful to keep it at just the right level of disarray. At the office, if they ever find out you're good at planning events, you'll get suckered into the party committee. I believe the same principle applies at home. Plus, I read somewhere that this would be a good way to show Lois that we really missed her. By the way, whoever wrote that is an idiot. </div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">So, maybe I lost a few points there. But I figured I was rich with the points I scored from taking care of the boys for 4.3 days, so I could afford to squander a few. Chances are I was already hopelessly in dept, but still. </div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">So life is pretty much back to normal again. The prospect of a day without crying, whining and playing juvenile games was really appealing, so I went ahead and took the day off work again today and stayed home. I'll deal with those issues in the office on Monday. </div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">There are several things I have learned. If you burn a hotdog on one side, you can hide it by putting that side down on the bun. But at some point, you have to know when it's just too black. Also, kids are pretty good at knowing when you're bluffing. Buzz now owns my car and my vintage collection of Star Wars action figures. I'm hoping to at least win Boba Fett back at next week's poker night. </div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Another thing I learned is that kids aged 6 and 2 don't get tired of spending time with their dad, even when they're together nonstop for 4.3 days straight. These were definitely the best Father's Days ever. </div>Robhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10682612971529201737noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-665330492962390510.post-88139624488048159742010-06-23T22:32:00.000-06:002010-06-23T22:32:16.439-06:00Father's Days 2-4 of 4.3<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">One of my readers who also happens to be my brother, Fritz (names have been changed), has been pelting me with text messages to post more content here. So if it's not funny, blame Fritz for compelling me to write under duress. </div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Day 2 included most of the funny stuff. Days 3 and 4 were pretty tame by comparison. </div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I woke Monday morning around 5:45 AM to the cries of Rocky shouting, "Hey Mommy, hey Mommy!" which is the usual wake up call. Even though Mommy wasn't here, I figured I'd better take the call anyway. He seemed mildly surprised to see me and I reminded him that Mommy was on vacation. </div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">After a simple breakfast I decided that I should take care of the weeds in the vegetable garden, so I slathered sunscreen on the boys and myself and we headed outside. While the boys drew pictures on the driveway with chalk, I proceeded with an attempt at manual labor. After about 15 minutes, I remembered that there is absolutely nothing remotely interesting about weeds, so I abandoned my hoe and joined the boys. I discovered that Buzz had drawn a line down the middle of the driveway and was rebuking Rocky for trespassing on his side. I decided not to meddle in the boundary dispute, and inquired whether they wanted me to push them on the swings. They did, and we all failed as usual to make our swings go all the way around. Maybe next time. </div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Back in the house, the boys wanted to watch a cartoon on the computer. For reasons beyond my comprehension, it was agreed upon that we would watch an old episode of "The Smurfs." While the smurf village was being burned by an angry dragon, Buzz started freaking out. While I concur that smurfs are freaky and disturbing, I was puzzled by Buzz's reaction. After a brief investigation I discovered that the freak out was not a smurfy one, but that he had rubbed his eyes and they were now stinging from the sunscreen. </div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I procured a turkey baster and attempted to flush Buzz's eyes with water. For some reason, six-year-olds do not like to have water squirted in their eyes, especially when they're already hysterical. So I get Buzz to strip off his clothes and I put him in the shower. This seemed like a novelty to Rocky and he wants to get in too. I recall that Lois did want me to make sure the kids bathed while she was away, so I get Rocky in the shower with Buzz. After only a few moments, Rocky is now screaming that his eyes are stinging. Stupid sunscreen. I'm already getting wet and water is getting on the floor so I get in the shower, fully clothed, to see if I can do anything to help the kids. Both boys fail to acknowledge my sacrifice, and neither of them appreciate the humor of the situation either. After forcing them both in turns to put their faces directly into the stream of water, they eventually calm down. </div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Finally, after this ordeal is over, we return to the computer and get to see Hefty Smurf cleverly vanquish the dragon by luring it to the river and getting the other smurfs to open the dam (oh sorry, spoiler alert). </div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The next activity we have planned is to make a trip "to town" so that I can pick up a library book I've been waiting for. After what seems like an unreasonably long time to get the kids to use the bathroom and get their shoes on, I've finally got them both buckled into the van when I remember that I need some spare pants and underwear for Rocky, "just in case." When I return to the van, Buzz yells that he has a bloody nose. I look at him accusingly. "Did you pick it?" I ask. "No!" is his indignant reply. I can see that he's telling the truth because there's no blood on any of his fingers. Stupid dry climate. I get the kids back in the house, we stop the bleeding, and are finally on our way. </div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">By the time we've completed our mission at the library and are on our way back home it's right around lunch time and we pass a Wendy's. Buzz is usually the one to ask whether we can go to a restaurant, but this time it's Rocky. </div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>Rocky:</b> Can we go to Wendy's?</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>Me:</b> No, not today.</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>Rocky </b>(in a somewhat aggressive two-year-old voice): Sometimes when the kids say can we go to Wendy's, the mom and dad say <i>yes</i>. </div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Well, he got me with logic there. But by now Wendy's was well behind us, so I suggested IN-N-OUT instead. Both boys cheered. While the food was enjoyable, I have concluded that IN-N-OUT is no longer awesome now that it doesn't require a trip to California. Stupid trendy burger joints and their market saturation. </div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Days 3 and 4 were fun, but not nearly as hectic. I could just make up some stuff, but the laundry needs doing tonight (did I mention that Rocky is in the midst of potty training?), so I'll fabricate something another time. Lois returns tomorrow evening, but that leaves plenty of time for more mischief. I'm tempted to test the effects of caffeine on the boys to give me some writing material, but I don't want them to start bogarting my Dr. Pepper. </div>Robhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10682612971529201737noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-665330492962390510.post-84652193549145732312010-06-21T20:34:00.000-06:002010-06-21T20:34:51.249-06:00Father's Day 2 of 4.3<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Too brain-tired to compose a comprehensive article. </div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Perhaps tomorrow I will give a detailed account of the day's doings. Note that I said <i>perhaps</i>. Here are a few teasers:</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">There may or may not have been blood.</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I may or may not have jumped into the shower fully clothed.</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">We may or may not have had lunch at IN-N-OUT because Rocky made me laugh.</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Buzz may or may not have started shrieking uncontrollably during an episode of "The Smurfs." </div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">***Spoiler Alert***</div><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">All of the above items happened today. </span>Robhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10682612971529201737noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-665330492962390510.post-50705068658666954372010-06-20T22:50:00.006-06:002010-06-20T23:37:08.167-06:00Father's Day 1 of 4.3<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>The boys and I seem to have survived the first day of Lois's absence. Church services went about how you'd expect an LDS church service to go on Father's Day, plus the mothers of the ward provided an assortment of pies and other desserts for the fathers. During "pie time" I got to talking with my across-the-street neighbor, Mr. Turkeypants (names have been changed). When he learned that I was wifeless for a few days, he invited us to his house for dinner so that I wouldn't have to cook my own Father's Day meal. The Turkeypantses are one of our favorite families, so I gladly accepted the kind offer. </div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Church ended at noon, so after lunch the boys and I had to figure out how to occupy ourselves until our 6:00 appointment across the street. Luckily, Lois discovered an amazing concept known as "quiet time" back when Buzz first stopped taking afternoon naps. Every afternoon Buzz is allowed to spend quiet time doing pretty much anything he wants, as long as it can be done from the confines of his bedroom, and as long as it is quiet. Pure genius. Buzz is a bookworm, so he actually enjoys quiet time. </div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Rocky still takes naps, and as I was putting him down he asked (again) where Mom was. "She's in San Francisco with Yaya and your aunts," I reminded him. "Is Mom coming back?" he asked in all seriousness. "Oh yes, she's only going to be gone for a few days and we're going to have lots of fun," I assured him. This seemed to be satisfactory. </div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I let Buzz out of quiet time early on good behavior and while Rocky continued napping we made videos of Buzz doing some dramatic poetry readings, just to mix things up a bit. Rocky joined in the fun shortly after. There's no telling what crazy trouble we'll get into next! </div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Finally the time came when we could go across the street to the Turkeypantses. They have three girls aged 8, 6, and 4, and a baby boy around seven months. These girls would rather play dinosaurs and pirates than Barbies, so they get along with my boys just fine (the worst insult according to my boys -- and often inflicted by them -- is, "You play with Barbies!"). As we walked in the door we were welcomed by the extremely pleasant aroma of roasting meat. The roast was one of the best I've ever tasted. </div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">During the meal, the four-year-old Turkeypants said to her dad, "Daddy, will you help me cut my goat?" I thought maybe I heard wrong, but I looked to Mrs. Turkeypants and asked, "Is this really goat?" She laughed kind of sheepishly (sorry, baaad joke), but said that, yes, they had received quite a bit of goat and rabbit meat from Mr. Turkeypants's sister. "Well, it's really good," was all I could think to say (and it really was). I then had the following exchange with Rocky: </div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>Rocky:</b> Daddy, am I eating goat?</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>Me:</b> Yes, you are eating goat.</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>Rocky:</b> Are you eating goat?</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>Me:</b> Yes.</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>Rocky:</b> Is Buzz eating goat?</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>Me:</b> Yes.</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>Rocky:</b> Is the baby eating goat?</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>Me:</b> No, I think he's eating cereal.</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><b>Rocky:</b> Oh. </div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Rocky then continued to eat his goat without any complaint. </div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I had never had goat before, but I'm really not very squeamish when it comes to things like that. I even had seconds. But I assure you that Lois is very, very relieved that she was not there. </div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">The best thing about having dinner with the Turkeypantses? I didn't have to do any dishes.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div></div>Robhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10682612971529201737noreply@blogger.com0