I Like To Cook

I took up cooking after I became an at-home dad mostly to give myself a sense of purpose.

I always dabbled in cooking - and of course like most men I am the master of the grill - but stranded at home during nap time in the early years of my tour I took to watching The Food Network.

Watching a kid, cooking gave me something to think about during the day.

Most recipes call for some sort of prep time and time was something I had a lot of and outside of reading and television I needed to find other things to stimulate my brain during the days.

I got a few cookbooks that first Christmas (Bobby Flay and Jamie Oliver) and I was off and running. One thing my wife and I had been doing for years was to replicate delicious meals we had at restaurants. For instance, after we moved from Los Angeles to North Carolina, we had trouble finding good Thai food. So we started preparing our own pad thai and a dish called pra ram which is a red curry, spinach and chicken meal. Or cribbing appetizer ideas from my work. One thing we often serve is a seared tuna, avocado and chipotle mayo on a crispy wonton that's a popular item at one of my jobs.

The first thing I learned was that you need a cabinet stocked with various herbs and spices especially when dealing with international foods. Another thing I learned was the value of using fresh ingredients (which also spun off into using seasonal and local ingredients as well).

In recent years I've been supplementing the family finances by working part-time for several local catering companies which allows me to see first hand how dishes are prepared. I also have access to chefs whom I can ask their advice on techniques, textures and the value of presentation.

I'm pretty up to speed these days and you'll find me cooking meals probably four to five days a week.

Last week I had some pork chops but I didn't know what to do with them. I ended up braising them in a pineapple juice and Worcestershire sauce served with steamed broccoli and brown rice.

Some other dishes I made was a olive oil, lime and green beans side that I pinched out of one of my wife's Better Homes & Gardens magazines which turned out to be freakin' simple and delicious. Grilling bread is my new thing that a neighbor turned me on to this summer. Over Labor Day I grilled a loaf (sliced) of rosemary olive oil and then the next day made some sunny side up eggs and use those to top off the bread. Yum!

Fortunately, my kids are pretty adventurous eaters and will try most things I make at least once. I'm not sure if it is because many times they are part of the food prep process whether it's just going with me to the grocery store to get some essential items, helping measure or mix ingredients or maybe just seeing someone preparing food in the kitchen that makes them interested in eating the food I make.

There's still the occasional raviolis and mac & cheese in their diet but not nearly as much as some other kids I know.

Maybe one day I'll open my own place. I've toyed with the idea on and off over the years. I'm not really into trying to do the restaraunt thing per se, but maybe some sort of upscale deli.

Food, Glorious Food

 

It's been some time since I wrote about food despite that fact that the holidays innudated me with fine grub so I'm going to try and get back to doing more food posts.

Yesterday I made beer brats with carmelized onions and dijon mustard served with "chips" (as those Brits like to say).

Take notice of the paper plate: in my wife's quest to reduce water usage in the midst of this crazy drought the Southeast has found itself in, she has taken to paper products.

So we've traded one problem for another.

It's always something ain't it?

Food, Glorious Food

 

It's been awhile since I wrote about food.

I was recently inspired to do so after seeing the pics of
AMR's garden which made me hungry for fresh produce (of which I had none myself).

Because of the recent bullshit I have been going through we have been forced to maximize [spelling changed after being pointed out by Dan my editor friend. see comments section. -ed.]our grocery runs as a means to tighten up the budget. This means the house needs to be cleaned out of all edible food before returning to the store.

So there I was staring into a mostly barren fridge wondering just what the fuck I was going to eat when I peaked into the crisper and saw some asparagus that was in need of being consumed as it was on the verge of going bad.

I looked in the cupboards and found some rice but also a jar of roasted red peppers. I went back to the fridge and spotted a container of goat cheese.

I went outside to see if anything from my garden was ripe but was quickly rejected by that thought.

On my way back inside I saw some garlic we grew drying and picked that up.

Within 20 minutes I had this gem of a meal: jasmine rice and roasted red peppers with sauted asparagus and garlic tossed in a bowl with goat cheese and liberal amounts of extra virgin olive oil.

Because this is what I do best: make lemonade out of lemons...

Carne Asada

 

If you've known me for any length of time, you know that I love street vendor Mexican food.

As a former resident of Los Angeles, in recent years I would complain about the lack of access to real, quality Mexican food, specifically the carne asada here in the Triangle.

It would take visits back out to Los Angeles to satiate my palate for this gloriously simple fare.

These days, with the Latino population on the ever increase in North Carolina, my options have improved.

And then this week I hit jackpot.

I had spent the better part of the morning doing what most editors do at magazines, newspapers and websites and that is meeting with fellow editors on topics for possible features as well as speaking to/emailing with the magazine's crop of writers to see what they have on their plates.

Suddenly it was past 1 o'clock and I needed to put something in my gut, so I slipped on my jacket (it's been brisk here) and walked out the front door of the office.

Right across the street is the old Durham Bulls Ballpark which is currently under renovation.

I spotted a couple of construction workers sitting with their backs up against the fence eating, a card table set up in front of them with napkins and condiments on it.

And right next to it was a big, white, nondescript truck.

Hallelujah!

They were low on asada so I got one carnitas with my two-taco order.

For $3.

There is a food god.

Now I wish that truck would come back...

Call Me Crazy

 

Apparently I didn't get enough to eat over the Thanksgiving holidays because I had the urge to fire up the grill yesterday. It had been some time since I got to do some grilling and in some sense I guess the urge to have a campfire and I used the grilling as a way to supplant that jonze.

But it was a rainy, overcast day and really not conducive to either. It got dark quicker than I expected so I had some concerns about being able to tell when the food was done. The backporch light just didn't cut it - my wife said I needed a coal miner's hat.


So I hunkered down and made some grub anyway. Much like Thanksgiving, I usually try to grill enough food to make it through two meals if not three.

On the menu yesterday was a piece of salmon marinated in soy sauce and maple syrup and seared with a coat of crushed red pepper. I also made mini-burgers (because nothing is worse than your kid leaving a half-eaten burger on his plate), grilled some veggies (orange/red peppers, zucchini and red onion) as well as some bread.

I know I have gone on at length about the joys of grilled bread but that shit is awesome. This morning my wife made a sunny side up egg, took some leftover bread, topped it with the egg, salmon and hollandaise sauce. Fucking grilled bread cannot be denied!

I made jalapeno and cheddar mini-burgers for lunch (often called sliders on popular restaurant menus).

Tonight I'm thinking about making veggie/goat cheese quesadillas with the rest of the batch of food.

Can't you just smell it?

What I do smell is a hardy exercise regime in my future!

Weighing In

I started wearing a belt years ago when my waistline girth started to exceed it's proper limits.

Weigh gain first started to appear on my lean frame in the mid-'90s, after I moved from
Los Angeles to North Carolina. The year was 1995 and it would be the time when I first became working in the food service industry.

I skipped around hotel jobs like being a bellman at The Washington Duke Inn (which is across the street from Duke University) until finally ladning decent part-time work as a banquet server at Hope Valley Country Club in Durham. It was here that I first noticed my belly starting to bulge.

It was easy to get to as employee meals where usually left over food from the wedding reception of cocktail party. You never really felt like you were eating a lot because your intake was done by constant grazing: a few appetizers here and couple of rolls of bread there, maybe plate of mash potatoes downed after the shift. Brunch for me was the ideal shift, although most people hated it, because you had unlimited access to bacon, pancakes, scrambled eggs, and fruit.

Eventually, like most places I've worked where food is served, you get bored of seeing the same selections over and over again, get sick of the taste and curb your appetite.

The I got a full-time job working at a weekly newspaper.

I had scored the dream job: music editor.

The downside was that it involved sitting on my ass in a cubicle for 8 to 10 hours a day.

And then there was the daily lunch trip with my co-worker the Reverend Gene Slax, he of the red pen and copy edit God. Suddenly, there was many options: chicken philly sandwiches, great pizza and extraordinary sandwich shops. Life was good. Slax often busted on me for looking pregnant so I would push my belly out and rub it just to taunt him.

Enter the belt.

It allowed me to strap it up or down a notch depending on my mood. Around that time, it was customary to ride it on the third notch.

Things went sour years later and I got laid off.

So it was back to catering. Only this time none of my black pants fit. I had gone from a 32 inch waist to a 36 inch waist. I needed new clothes.

I trimmed down a bit and many rode the fourth notch.

And it was like that for years.

Then last year the whole chronic sinus infection-turned-into-sudafed-overdosing and I found myself making constant trips to the doctor's office. Each trip required a weigh in.

At my heaviest, I remember tipping the scales at about 173 pounds.

I tried to get into excising, but my first son had been born by now and finding the time and energy wasn't quite as easy as I hoped it would be.

I maintained a good 168 pound frame for many moons and was comfortable at the belt's fourth notch. Some days, when manual labor was required of me, I'd slipped it up to the fifth notch, making my jeans or pants snug enough to avoid any gangsta-styled baggy sagging.

Then just the other day it happened: I felt like I needed to hit the fifth notch.

I reached down to adjust my belt, and lo and behold, I already was on the fifth notch.

I tried hitting six but that was far too tight.

Dumbfounded because I had made no real attempt to lose weight only changing my diet by reducing dairy for it caused too much havoc on my sinuses, I decided to step on the scale in the bathroom.

158.

Damn. Haven't seen myself under 160 in quite some time. I hope to seize this moment to jump into some spring time exercise routine (of minimal effort) by riding my bike and doing a few simple sets of push-ups and sit-ups.

Although, I can say I've never felt the slightest bit concerned about my girth and I have no desire to get back to my lean 135 pound college days frame.

But I would like to stay under 160.

Pets: To Have Or Have Not*

It was my son’s third birthday and he got a little fish tank.

Both the wife and I grew up with fish tanks so delving into the issue of having a pet with a fish seemed like a reasonable idea.

Of course, we do have a proper pet - a cat named Ginger who has been with us since the early ‘90s. We got Ginger while we were living in Los Angeles. You see we had these friends who were real animal lovers. They lived in Tujunga, a small neighborhood above Glendale in the San Fernando Valley. And these people rescued just about any animal that they could; they had birds and cats and dogs and snakes and fish and hamsters and shit if you told me they had a flea circus I wouldn’t have been surprised.

So Ginger was rescued by them as a kitty from the netherworld streets of Los Angeles. She became ours by proxy; she was the only cat that ever warmed up to me and would always come to me whenever we were at their place. It was a no-brainer that when our group house situation dissolved in Glendale, that we would have this grey, short-legged Burmese come live with us in our Los Feliz apartment.

As the story goes, she was found by a dumpster near a Ford dealership in Tujunga. She turned out not to be neutered like we thought so we got her fixed. But that was after we discovered an infected sore underneath her fuzzy hair and had to have surgery for the nasty abscessed thing. She would also survive the great big rumble that was the Northridge earthquake and even traveled with us in our car during our exodus from Tinseltown and has been warming our hearts in North Carolina ever since.

But when the kids came along, she made herself scarce, occasionally showing her face after they went to bed. Friends and relatives often debated that she even existed becomes nobody but us ever saw the cat. They’d see the litter box in the bathroom or the food bowl in the kitchen and be like, “You guys have a cat?”

So to say that we didn’t have a pet would be a disservice to her.

Anyway, Spencer got one of those 2-gallon hexagon fish tank set-ups and we were off and running in pet fish land. I began to dream of a school of African cichlids brooding about in a wall-length aquarium but was quickly steered back to reality by my own memories of sticking my G.I. Joes’ in the family fish tank “scuba diving” only to contaminate the water and kill all the fish.

There was no way I was going to shell out top dollar for a bunch of fish that would be dead in a month’s time.

We tested the waters with some goldfish, but I don’t remember them lasting very long. We turned to a beta – the Japanese fighting fish. The fish had simple needs and could handle life as a loner. Spencer named him Blue, because, well the fucking fish was blue!

Blue had a good run of several months, maybe even half a year before he died during a 4-day trip to Maryland because we forgot to get someone to come over and feed it while we were gone. God bless cats, man. You just leave out some food, a little water and some fresh litter and they are good to go.

When Blue bit the dust, we had our first major trauma of having a pet: death. We had opted to flush the first batch of dead goldfish down the toilet to the Great Big Aquarium In The Sky, but with Blue Spencer wanted nothing to do with that – he wanted to give Blue a proper burial. He dug a hole, made a marker out of popsicles sticks and we had our moment of silence for Blue.

For a good year after that, every time Spencer drew a family picture he would include Blue. Of course the thing he scribbled on the paper looked nothing like a fish and I’d have to ask him what it was. “That’s Blue, dad,” he’d say emphatically.

I decided maybe we should get another beta for the kid. So we went to the local pet store and got a marble-colored beta for him. Spencer named him Lots Of Colors. He must have some Native American blood in him I thought after finding out the name of the new fish. I mean my wife was adopted so anything could be possible when we get to talking about bloodlines.

Lots Of Colors didn’t last very long. Spencer was older now and I didn’t supervise the feedings quite like I used to with Blue. I’d catch him feeding the fish three to four times of day, not the little pinch of flakes as instructed. We were talking gobs of food. The tank started getting dirty and green with algae. The fish would hide amongst the meager plastic plant and singular sea shell. This would cause Spencer to tap on the glass to see “if he was okay.”

Lots of Colors joined the other side a few days later. He lived long enough for us not to be able to get our refund back but short enough that we decided to bail on the idea of having a pet fish.

By this time, Spencer’s younger brother Cole had come along and Ginger sightings were more prevalent. I guess she started to figure out that if she wanted to get some attention she was going to have to come and get it.

In the mornings, both the boys would lay down with me in the morning on the floor of the family room and chill out to some Sesame Street. Ginger would waltz out from her nesting area under our bed and lay herself down next to us, allowing the boys to pet her while she groomed herself.

One day the phone rang.

I answered it.

It was some telemarketer and I quickly hung up and placed the phone back in the kitchen.

I came back into the family room and Cole was nowhere to be found. I called out his name. He didn’t answer. I went from room to room looking for him but didn’t see him anywhere.

I did this twice.

A slight panic set in.

I heard a noise in my bedroom. And again I walked in to find no child there.

“Cole, where are you?”

And then I heard a noise under my bed.

I figured it was the cat since she pretty much lives under there almost all day long every day. But then I saw a tuft of hair by the bed frame and under it a smiling face. And I realized that Cole had “followed” Ginger under the bed. I don’t know how he managed to get under there – it appeared I was going to have to lift the frame of our king size bed to help him get out because they was no way he was going to navigate his big head through it. Yet he did.

So he apparently chased the cat down the hallway and followed her under the bed to her secret safety zone.

I haven’t seen the cat in weeks and I’m thinking it’d be best to wait until the boys are a little older before talk of getting another family pet comes up again.

* a version of this essay originally appeared in Raleigh's The Hatchet.

Books

 

The schedule has been crazy around here... last week was the beginning of soccer season so now I have to fit one more thing into my already hectic life.

The days go something like this: drop kids off at school, go to radio internship, pick one kid up from school and entertain him until his brother comes home from elementary school, have a half-dozen neighborhood kids play in my yard, make dinner, tell other kids to go home, eat... and - depending on what night it is - there's either class, band practice, or catering.

Phew.

One thing I did manage to squeeze in this weekend - a thing that has become a sort of family tradition - was going to the Chapel Hill public library book sale. But because Saturday involved dual soccer games at the same time at different fields and a catering shift, I had to opt for Sunday to go to the sale. Sunday is known as "bag day" at the public libraries and it's where all the freaks come out of the woodwork to purchase as many books as they can squeeze into a brown paper grocery bag for $3.

It's a deal no doubt but sometimes it can look like looters from the L.A. riots where bodies scramble to stuff shit (shit they most likely hope will be resell able via the internet) into a bag in the fastest manner possible. I usually try to avoid bag day precisely because of this: it allows no room for browsing. But I needed the diversion and the kids were up for it so we went.

And despite the mob scene, I did manage to walk away with some decent books:

- The Underground Man by Ross Macdonald. LA gumshoe/dick lit from the '40s. I had doubts that I might already have read or owned this book but I picked it up because you need a start at things like this or you'll just turn around and leave. Oh, yeah, I do already own this in hardcover. If you haven't read Macdonald, I'll send this to the first reply - he's that good.


- The Wishbones by Tom Perrotta. Perrotta hit pay dirt with his stay-at-home dad-centric tome Little Children which became a hit movie. This is his debut novel and it is centered around a wedding band. No shit.

- Pinktoes by Chester Himes. Like Macdonald, he's been name-dropped in the same sentence as Raymond Chandler and Dashiell Hammett only unlike Macdonald he's not white or Canadian; he's black and from Ohio.

- The Joy Of Wokking by Martin Yan. A totally informative yet hilarious (think late '70s sensibilities here folks) cookbook about making food with a wok. He's got Canadian ties like Macdonald and has appeared on Cartoon Network's Space Ghost: Coast to Coast. "Food and sex are human nature." Indeed.

- Cloudsplitter by Russell Banks. While I don't know if I've ever read Banks, I did see the movie The Sweet Hereafter several times and it made enough of a mark that I felt compelled to pick up this book.

Not bad for $3 and a thirty minute trip to the local library book sale huh?

Food, Glorious Food

Panko fried asparagus with sea salt, malt vinegar and lemon.

Oh, and some Brussels sprouts for good measure...

Fuckin' Squirrels, Man

 

I got a new bird feeder for Christmas from the family because I really like birds.

I really do.

I've managed to make friends with the wrens from the summer and have been tossing them old bread from time to time and then I figured since winter was upon us that maybe it would be nice to put some food out there on a regular basis for them.

I hung the bird feeder up in one of the trees right off our back deck; one that had an easy vantage point from the window over the sink in the kitchen (where I spend most of my time rinsing and cleaning dishes) as well as out the back door (which I go through all the time to toss beer bottles into the recycling bins).

It seemed like the birds were ignoring it or hadn't discovered it yet because every time I looked out the window the feeder was still full. Yet my backyard is full of birds like cardinals, wrens, orioles, finches, tufted tit mice and the occasional owl, hawk or falcon.

The one day the feeder was empty.

Completely empty.

And the I noticed that the fucking squirrels had chewed their way through the little beak size holes and made them big enough to stick their heads in there.

Don't get me wrong, I like squirrels for the most part.

We almost adopted one this past summer

But goddamn if they aren't a total fucking nuisance when it comes to trying to maintain a bird feeder.

I always hear of talk of squirrel-proof feeders but then everybody I know who has purchased one said that the squirrels eventually figure out a way to get at the food.

Somebody help me... or help the birds!

Are You Experienced?

Have you ever been experienced?

I have.

I've been to over a dozen beer festivals in my day but yesterday was my first Bull City Food & Beer Experience.

The concept, in its second year, is to pair the area's craft beer scene with our locally acclaimed culinary world. It's a match made in heaven and one brought to fruition by DPAC, Tyler's Taproom and Sam's Quik Shop. 

Some of my favorite pairings was Saltbox Seafood's spicy mussels dish with Founders Brewing Co.'s All Day IPA.

I sampled far too many food vendors and beers to go on a mention all my favorite pairings. I was too engrossed in sampling the pairings that I never got to hear the panelists speak. But I did make it down to the Cask section and enjoyed some Heavy Seas Winter Storm Imperial ESB and Starpoint Brewing's Weaver Berry Stout infused with ginger and lemon zest.

Of course Sam's Quik Shop serving up Founders' KBS and Backwoods Bastard couple and that special bottle of North Coast's oak-aged Old Rasputin imperial stout in the VIP section. Yummy yum. 

 

Breakfast

 

I always think of these great posts I want to write about food but then I forget to snap a picture or get caught up in the daily grind and never managed to make the meal I had planned. So here's a wrap up of what's recently been going into my mouth.

Last week the wife and I made the mistake of not filling up on breakfast before we headed out to the boys' first football games and we paid handsomely for it.

This week we were slightly more prepared: we made it to the stadium early enough that I was able to duck out and head down the street to Bagels On The Hill for some breakfast bagels.

It's hard to get real, fresh bagels in the area, not like the bagels my Jewish mother-in-law gets that's for sure.

But these bagels came close and my breakfast was cooked to order because this ain't a fast food chain folks.

This bugger was tasty although nothing at the moment can hold a flame to Blitz's Market morning eats down at the shore...

Through The Pores

I am sick.

Stuffy nose. Congested head. Fever. Cough.

And when I am sick, I get a junkie's sweet tooth.

I want salt and sugar; I want potato chips and starburts; twix bars and kalamata olives.

Junk food. Just give me junk food.

I once worked with this ex-junkie. She was a courier with me in DC back in the late '80s. She told me she could smell a junkie a mile away; could smell the cut oozing through their pores. The body's way to extract the poison ebbing through it's system.

I can smell myself today. I could shower twice a day during times like this and still smell the infection, seeping from my skin. I burn incense. Make potpourri. Spray air freshener. Nothing covers the smell. I change my dampened shirts several times a night. My pillow cases as well.

I had a coughing attack last night. Coughed so hard that I fell into a dry heave jag - I'd do anything just to catch my breath before the next wave hit. Made some lemon tea with honey and laid on the couch. Watched late night television.

Was duly impressed by Bryan Adams concert piped in from Ireland. Yes. That Bryan Adams. Mr. Cut's Like A Knife. The band played as a three-piece w/ Adams mostly handling the bass duties. His guitar player was a real scorcher. Fuck. I kept going back to it. I flicked between that and rock start-like illusionist Criss Angel. Now that guy is out there, man. Out there.

I came to the conclusion that late night tv is so much better then daytime tv. But late night tv is best enjoyed under the storm of sickness, when you are too tired to care about it all. Or hopped up on a handful of your favorite street drugs.

Either way, it's the pores you'll be smelling.

A Monkey Is Born

I worked a post-wedding brunch yesterday (Sunday) at a house in Durham which was full on Cribs-style (if Southern gentrified folks had their own version of Cribs.)

Had to get to the catering company shop by 6:30am.

Woke up very unrested from sleepless kids with sick desires:
"Blow my nose," "I need a drink," "wahhh aah wahh."

I make it to the shop on time but coffee and the morning constitution aren't part of the program.

Because the house is so huge (i.e. VIP customers) we've got the crack staff to handle it. 9 people are working a party for 100.
Two kitchen staffers who prep the food and work the eggs benedict stations, event planner, one lead, and 5 waits of which I am one.

We had to set up tables and chairs around the house.

Some of which involved a flight of stairs 16 steps long.

Midway through the shift one of the co-ed, young girl waits confided in me that she was about to shit herself.

I'm not sure why she told me this other than to get some smypathy. Caterers (and food service blokes for the most part) are a rare breed. Not topic is too taboo.

When the lead wait sat down for a break in the garage and tipped over an ice cooler with wheels, falling back into the bussing area and knocking over the tub of slop (i.e. the liquid of drinks not drunk) and spilling it across the garage floor, there's nary a chuckle. Just a matter-of-fact discussion by those in the room:
"It looked as if it happened in slow motion." After said discussion the collective regroups and continues about the duties of the shift. Someone muttered the adage: "what happens catering, stays in catering."

So I'm not suprised about the shit comment. Everybody probably needed to take a morning dump, myself included, but when working a house party, nobody wants to be the staffer who stinks up the bathroom.


As the shift began to wind down, I noticed the bathroom door ajar and got a whiff of stench.

A few minutes later I saw the co-ed and asked her if she felt better. She chuckled. "I feel like I just gave birth to a monkey," she said.

"That's funny, " I said.
"Because I just saw a monkey running through the house."

This is catering.

At Home Dad Convention In KC - Being There

  

I get up bright and early.

Too early considering I had a hotel room to myself and nary a kid demanding my attention in sight.

Then I went to the lobby for a few cups of complimentary coffee (much needed).

I spotted a few AHDs doing the same.

Shortly there after I hopped into the car of KC Dad Kevin “Kace” Christensen now dubbed a “shuttle” and made my way with a few other dads and a Japanese woman to the spot on the campus of UMKC where the convention is taking place.

The Japanese woman Renge Jibu is on assignment for some business magazine in her home country. “Japanese men do nothing at home,” she says with head tilt that is customary in her country.

People register, breakfast is consumed and introductions are made.

And soon after, the first of the day-long breakouts begins.

I attend a breakout on kids and the internet which is really informative but mostly pertains to parents of the tween’er set and kids who use email. The moderator is Dave Lux from Chicago and he has some scary shit to say like the fact that 1 out of 7 children will be sexually solicited in a year’s time or that 75 percent of children are willing to share personal info online.

I make a mental note and place this in a file for a few years down the road when my kids actually use the computer for such purposes. Right now both my kids strictly use the computer for video games and virtual puzzles but I am aware that my 6-year-old knows how to boot the sucker up and often goes online unsupervised. It wasn’t so much of an issue say a year ago, but now as a first grader and ardent speller the boy could easily find himself viewing inappropriate material whether it’s some knucklehead lighting himself on fire on YouTube or one misplaced vowel away from porn.

Taking candy from a stranger somehow seems like such a trivial thing these days. Yet it’s basically the same principle that is applied here.

After a brief break it's onto the next breakout which covers the topic of going back to work and preparing yourself for a return to the job market. Much of what is discussed pertains to recent grads more than At Home Dads but the general info regarding resumes and cover letters is a nice little refresher.

What isn’t explained (and maybe because it can’t be) is how to address the gap in work history due to being a stay-at-home-dad. One fellow is really concerned about how this will look a few years down the road and is aggressively taking courses and looking into grad school to make sure he’s got something to account for during that time besides bottles, diapers and memorizing the theme to Barney.

I believe more is achieved with the internal discussions amongst the men in the room then the career counselors but they do provide excellent questions which prompted the transfer of information between us all.

***

Lunch is basically the make-yer-own sandwich spread and serves its purpose to fuel up the conventioneers for another couple hours of talking heads, fluorescent lights and all things At Home Dad-esque.

***

My post lunch breakout is an open discussion amongst the dads that is segregated by age. I hit up the 2-5 age group even though my oldest is 6. I figure I may get some fresh insight on 3-year-olds and possible shed some myself to those about to run into the 5-to-6-year-old bracket.

Lots of interesting discussions come up: from the importance of routines to clean-up tactics.

“Routine is key,” says Steve Lundy from the KC Dads group. He uses the 3 B rule: “bath, books, bed,” he says.

Minnesota Dad Tom Vytlacil points out that while routine is key, kids are “event sensitive not time sensitive.”

With all the great ideas and good advice, I suddenly feel like I’ve been teleported to an episode of Dr. Phil what with high level of enthusiasm being used among the informative exchanges.

From there it’s off to the Kids, Nutrition & Behavior breakout.

This breakout focuses more specifically on the concept of a minimally processed, organic food diet. This being the Midwest, it comes off a bit forced trying to push this type of diet on what I perceive as the meat-and-potatoes sensibilities of the locale. Working in food service and living in the most cosmopolitan part of my state, most of this is either old news or stuff I already have implemented (buying/using local and seasonal goods, substituting soy milk for milk and keeping a minimum of the ingestion of sweets). It also can be stripped down to the age old adage "you are what you eat.” Of course if my kid eats at McDonalds all the time and drinks soda there’s going to be some nutritional – and behavioral – issues to be addressed.

That said, I still gleaned some valuable info from the session.

[Note to organizers: more coffee after lunch! Or maybe nap time!]

The last breakout of the day was about depression and isolation and the one I probably got the most out of despite the fact that it had this sort of Iron John/AA vibe to it: we are all men with this unique experience and we are not alone.

The day finished with brainstorming sessions on likes and dislikes and on getting a leg up with the planning of the 12th Annual At Home Dad convention. Capping off that was men sharing their anecdotes with the crowd.

And yes, I broke out the Breathing Penis story.

I won’t tell it again here, you had to be there for it.

Then it was back the hospitality room at the hotel for cold beer and conversation before boarding a bus for ribs and BBQ at Kansas City’s stories Arthur Bryants.

A Cautionary Tale on Chocolate City

In the late '80s, I spent a lot of time in DC. Sometimes my friends and I drove into the city, sometimes we rode the rails.

It was a dangerous time. Crack was king and go go was its theme song. But nevertheless, we navigated the bowels of the city from F Street NW to Southeast, from Georgetown to Dupont Circle, but this was all done with an err of caution.

Age was on our side back then. Danger was there for sure, but we were either impervious or felt invincible.

My last few trips to DC have shown me that the city I love has changed.

Drastically.

For better and for worse.

Places that were once "sketchy" have now been gentrified and overrun with entitlement. And this must clearly breed resentment. But that's a tale for another time.

One last thing before I share my story: If you are on the subway, after midnight, alone, and passed-out drunk you increase your chances of being a victim.

***

On Saturday night I went to the Black Cat on 14th Street with my girlfriend because the DJ in the back room was doing an '80s Night. She likes her Erasure, Depeche Mode, Cure, and Tones on Tail. Like is actually an understatement. I confess I love me some '80s tunes too. Yaz? Yessir. The Smiths? Hellz yeah!

14th Street in my day was the domain of pimps and prostitutes. Now it is a haven for twentysomethings to burn off steam after a long week of work. A Metro stop that nobody wanted to get off at is now a stop that everybody gets off at.

The sidewalks? Crowded. The clubs? Lines to get in. The food joints? Busy.

The night waned on.

Hot, sweaty, tired (and broke, the city is expensive!) we left and headed back to catch the train.

While waiting on the platform, a train going in the other direction pulled into the station. There was a commotion. We saw a gaggle of black teens cornering someone. I saw fists flying. I heard voices screaming.

And I reacted.

As the doors opened I ran onto the train. "Chill the fuck out!" I yelled, pushing bodies away. I saw two Latino guys sitting down. A gaggle of black teens throwing punches. One of the teens, a female, is pulling at his ear buds. "I want that fucking phone!" she screamed. "Get the fuck back," I said as I pushed both male and female teens forcefully in the chest. Several of them scattered but two stayed close. One was the girl who wants the phone. The two Latin boys were now on their feet. One of them pulled a knife. The teens, seeing this, scattered to the back of the train.

The door to the train closed. The train lurched forward. Suddenly my good samaritan deed seems like a bad idea. Because now there was no escape. It was me, the victims and the perps all in one car with no one else. Anything could happen. I walked in front of the Latinos. They knew I saved their asses, if only temporarily. I headed towards the crew who were throwing punches. I scanned both sides of the train to see who was sitting on the subway. To see who didn't step up and stop this madness. I got the feeling this whole train is in on this shit. "Don't do anything stupid!" I yelled out to no one in particular.

The door opened at the next stop. I got off and waited to catch the train back to where my girlfriend was waiting on the platform. Several of the punch-throwing group got off at the other end of the train. They eyed me from a distance on the platform. I stared back with a "You want to bring it, bring it," look.

There were no words nor actions on their end.

I caught the next train back and met up with my girlfriend Sonnie, who confessed, "As soon as that door closed on you, I felt sick. I thought I might never see you again."

Ironically, both our cell phones had just about died. Three more minutes or less and we would have been unable to communicate. I had enough juice to text her that I was OK and heading on the next train back.

We hugged.

I started to question my actions. I could have been stabbed, or shot, or beat up. But then I realized if it happened all over again I'd probably do the same thing. In a heartbeat.

What would you do?

The m.o. in the above video is the same, but is not actual footage from my experience. But oh so frightening similar.

Inside The Devil's Lair

It's been busy around these parts for the last few weeks.

I'm doing an internship at the local NPR affiliate - WUNC radio - and I started taking a class through the Center For Documentary Studies in Durham by Duke University, both as a way to add a few more feathers to my cap for when I get to job hunting when my 4-year-old goes to kindergarten.

Band practice has also resumed from the holiday break.

And now catering is starting to pick up again.

I had to work last Thursday. When I checked my schedule I saw that the party was on Duke's campus and that it was in a building by Cameron Indoor Stadium. So I checked the team's basketball schedule and - sure enough - there was a game that night which meant that most likely my party would be a pre-game thing. Pre-game shifts are always hectic because you have to scramble to set up the space before getting slammed by a rush of people eager to eat and drink before high tailing it to their seats. The upside is that these parties are usually quick and have what we like to call an end time because people have somewhere to go and therefore don't stand around shooting the shit while we caterers have to politely wait for them to leave before we can break down and clean up.

When I got to campus I found out that this particular party was going to be held on this sixth floor of a building right next to Cameron. The guy who was captain for the pary arrived with the van full of supplies and confirmed my suspicion: it indeed was a pre-game gig. But instead of the usual fare of heavy hors d'oeuvres and drinks this was to be a seated, served dinner (three course) for 14 people.

No big deal. I've done this sort of thing a thousand times.

The problem was that we needed a card to get into the building and then some sort of ID to get the elevator to work. Again, not that usuual as most campus buildings these days have pretty good security.

When we pulled the cart of food and drinks off the elevator we were greeted by a big picture of a Duke basketball player and then a whole hallway of photos and trophies.

"Oh shit," I mumbled.

As some assistant told us where our kitchen space and prep area was going to be it became plainly obvious that we were in the war room of Duke basketball.

We set up our are and then went into a conference room and turned it into fine dining. As guests arrived I was instructed to see if any of them wanted something to drink. This is called butlering - as oppose to standing at a bar - and takes a bit more dexterity to balance a dozen of so drinks in varying glassware on a small, round tray.

The door to the room was closed and the assistant pointed to another door that I could use to get into the room so I turned and entered...

And I found myself smack dab in the middle of Mike Krzyzewski's office.

Or Coach K as he is known to the rest of the world.

I had joked earlier when we were unloading the van about how I should have brought my camera because the world needs to see the silliness that is Krzyzewskiville: a tent city where students camp out for Duke basketball tickets. I would love to ask the parent of one of these students how they feel that their kid is spending an entire semester in a tent for $45,000 a year.

And now here I was in Coach K's office with signed basketballs and trophies and framed jerseys and not a damn thing to show for it.

Man I wish I had a camera phone just for times like this.

For you Heels fans, nope I didn't get a chance to pinch their playbook or spill red wine on Coach K's floor but there's always next time....

And now the menu:

Passed Hors D'oeuvres-
crab cakes topped with basil aioli
house-smoked salmon on a potato cake with creme fraiche and chives

First Course-
Arugala salad with red onion and parmigiano-reggiano

Second Course-
Cowboy-cut beef steak served over sweet potato hash, topped with chipotle-lime compound butter.

Third Course-
Creme Brulee

And Still More Talk About Food

 

So here it is: the veggie quesadilla I made from grilled leftovers.

I know cheaters never prosper but suffice it to say I didn't make the salsa or guacamole from scratch and I substituted Mexican-blended cheese for goat cheese.


But damn it was still really good!

ESL, Ike And The Like

Hurricane season is shaping up to one real mother what with Gustav just landing and Hanna, Ike and Josephine lined up like a string of pearls off the coast.

North Carolina has a long history with hurricanes and since I moved to the Tar Hell state in '95, we've had 8 notable ones that have made landfall, ones with names like Fran, Bertha, Bonnie and Floyd.

I'm about 160 miles from Wilmington which isn't that far by weather standards but I had to find that out the hard way. When Fran came through in the summer of '96, some friends and I decided we would stay up and watch the doppler radar on the Weather Channel.

The rains came heavy but soon it got late and we all retired to bed.

"Hurricanes are nothing," I thought.

I had lived through the Northridge earthquake just a couple of years earlier - I felt I knew what total destruction was and what it could look like.

At some point in the middle of the night I woke up to what I thought was someone knocking at my door.

Nobody was knocking at my door.

No, but my little mill house was getting pelted with trees branches and other debris.

The next day we woke up to one of the most gorgeous days ever only to be greeted by power outages and fallen trees. Suddenly you realize how dependent you are on electricity: for money, for food, for communication.

Fran left her mark alright, plowing through beaches towns and straight up I40 through Raleigh and on to Durham, Chapel Hill and Carrboro. Some people I knew didn't have power for weeks.

Weeks.

Crazy shit.

And that's why sometimes things can get tricky when you try to explain these things to kids. You don't want to scare them so that every time they hear the word "hurricane" in passing they'll start to freak out. Yet at the same time you want to instill in them the importance of being informed and prepared.

And to respect the power of Mother Nature.

That said, I'll take a hurricane over an earthquake any day... at least you can see it coming.

Snacks That Saved The Day

 

We needed some snacks to watch one of the greatest of sports rivalries this past weekend: the Redskins versus the Cowboys.

Let me just say that I grew up in a die hard Skins household - my father has had season tickets since before I was born and I'm going to be 40 next year so that's a mighty long time. [Also, the last song played at my wedding reception was the Skins Fight Song...]

I been to and watched many a Skins vs. Cowboys game. I seen beat-downs of gloating Cowboys fans in the parking lot by the hand of drunken angry Skins fans after a severe defeat; another loss at the hands of the Cowboys ruined a family Thanksgiving dinner as the house fell sullen and dejected.

I've also been on hand for victories at RFK stadium where you could see the upper deck bouncing for Redskins fever and had my conversations with my brother or dad drowned out by a thunderous, excitable crowd.

So now it's a favorite tradition I'm passing down to my sons: when the Redskins and Cowboys play all chores are put on hold and we get to the task of eating, drinking and hollerin' at the TV.

While I'm not happy about the outcome of yesterday's game, it was still enjoyable to watch (although I don't understand how any team much less the Skins could leave T.O. open. Duh).

Food served: beef tenderloin with goat cheese on toasted bagettes and brie cheese tarts. Nothing too elaborate but tasty none the less.