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Really? Cop edition

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Wednesday midafternoon in the office fighting off a small headache. We’re entering that time of year in Texas when it is still cool enough to do stuff outside, but hot enough to do it sporting a swimsuit.

This weekend, J, J’s friend from grad school and I piled into J’s SUV to ride down to San Marcos for the first river float of the season.

On the way up, unfortunately, J got pulled over for speeding. We were sooo close to San Marcos, going through a very small town called Martindale. We’d been following behind a slow truck towing a boat for quite a ways, so when we were finally were safe to pass J hit the accelerator and went around. Just as we were merging back into our lane, a cop comes out of nowhere and throws his lights on. It was really one of those, “are you kidding me?” moments.

The cop was a jerk. Do they make small town cops that aren’t? He asked leading and open-ended questions. He said he clocked J at a number that seems impossible. Now, I’m not saying we were not at fault. We were speeding. But there was no reason this guy had to be such a…typical small town cop. Really, dude? This is your impression of Martindale that you want to leave?

J swears that when his court date comes that he will drive up to the town and defend his case. Well, I secretly hope that he cools off by then and doesn’t. Because really, that cop doesn’t have anything better to do and will likely show up in court, guns blazing. And put yourself in a situation to be belittled by that guy again? I don’t think so. I’d rather pay the fine and take defensive driving any day.

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'It is well with my soul'

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J and I just finished the most wonderful weekend camping trip to Garner.

It was our first camping trip as a couple. And we survived! It's been years since I've camped and so I'm happy to report that not a lot has changed.

My friend Chelsea's boyfriend served as the master of ceremonies as he was the expert camper. Due too one of our campers backpacking experience, we cooked for our semi-large group on his one burner attached to a half-sized propane can. It was all good, but still laughable. I remember the days when we used to "car camp" and used out totally legit camp stove! Oh the good days... Anyway, I think you live and learn and no one died along the way.

J and I even hiked up to the summit of a small Texas "mountain." Yea, it was pretty much a vertical ascent and the outdoorsy boyfriend pretty much jumped up the mountain at a speedy clip leaving J and I to kinda bumble up the mountain at our newbie, untrained pace. Either way, we made it! When I get the pics I'll be sure to post.

On the top of the mountain, there was a stack of rocks to mark the highest point of the formation. Like people do on Everest, past hikers had left rocks indicating the date they had climbed and words of encouragement. It was neat that the time we arrived there was also a trail now-dried flowers that led up to the hill of rocks and apparently were a part of a marriage proposal. We deduced this because there were a couple of rocks at that said, "and I want to spend the rest of my life with you." We assumed that the "Will you marry me?" rock was carried back to the bottom as a keepsake, but the other nice words were left behind. These rocks were fairly large..small boulders..so I don't blame the happy couple for leaving some behind. I do give major props to the young man (I'm guessing) who  secretly hiked up the mountain to set up the romantic scene only to hike down and do it all over again with his wife-to-be.

Anyway, the picture has nothing to do with all this I just typed. Mom took this picture at the Antique Rose Emporium weekend before last and I like it. Reminds me of a favorite hymn, "It is well..."

Listen to 'It is Well in my Soul'

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'I promised her a rose garden...'

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First off, let me say, I intended to include a picture of mom sniffing a flower with a blissful look on her face with this picture. Note to readers, there are no pictures of mom sniffing flowers on Facebook. Surprised? Doubtful? Prove me wrong.

Anyway, this nice picture of Sarah will do just fine. Mom is the photo credit on the picture and I believe that it was taken at a botanical garden in Denver before Sarah's grad school graduation (wasn't that just yesterday...?).

Mom, Dad and Sarah just left Houston on  Sunday (Sarah left Monday, but I was at work, so that doesn't count) after two weeks of visiting. During their visit aside from trips to the many wonderful culinary offerings of Houston, Jarrod, Mom, Dad and I went to Brenham to pay a visit to the Antique Rose Emporium. We would have gone to the Blue Bell Factory...but it was closed. We would have gone on the painted churches of Texas tour....but apparently Good Friday means that the churches are closed to tourists. We would have gone to Galveston, but mom says, "Ew, gross."

But the Antique Rose Emporium is one of those places from the good ol' days of Mom an Dad living here that they like to visit. It's one of the 'pluses' in the short list, next to the long list of  'negatives' that Mom and Dad have drawn up about living in Texas. I'm not sure which side of the list I'm on...poll the audience?

It was a beautiful day, perfect for taking pictures in the blue bonnets and for wandering around the big flower shop. Mom and Dad insisted that you can't visit the ARE without purchasing a rose, or two (or many more if you're Mom, but she couldn't since she was flying back to Alaska). So we set about the task of picking roses for me!

Dad chose the Julia Childe rose for me, a petite rose bush with baby fist-sized yellow blooms and deep floral notes (sounds like I know what I'm talking about, right!?) and Mom helped me select a plant with light pink blooms. Though she did not think the two would compliment each other well. We also picked up a rosemary plant, though I've already filed a living will for it because I have a terrible, horrible track record of killing rosemary.

I spent some time picking yellow, spotted leaves off of my two rose bushes yesterday afternoon. I know nothing about plants, so I have no idea if my plants are doomed to disease-ridden death, but for the 15 minutes or so that I sat crouched on my porch picking off the dead leaves I felt like a gardener. I felt like I was with Mom in her garden at the Katy house. I remembered all the Saturdays and Sunday she piddled around the pool caring for the beds and around the front yard pulling weeds.

I don't know that I'll ever be filled with the passion for plants like mom is. Someday? Maybe when I have a house? But I remember forever how mom could spend so much happy time out there picking at the garden and making it look nice.

So, Mom, there you have it. The flowers you bought me make me think of you.

I'm glad you all made it home safe. Much love from Houston.

EM

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Stuffed Acorn Squash

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Hey everyone, The recipe below is a favorite of mine. Acorn squash are fairly inexpensive and you can easily increase quantities to accommodate for multiple people. Typically I vary in terms of what I stuff them with based on the season and my mood. For my most recent rendition I used Italian sausage, dried cranberries, sauteed almonds, greens and goat cheese.

Ingredients:

- 1 or 2 acorn squash

- butter or olive oil

- salt

- brown sugar

Stuffing ingredients (below are just suggestions):

- Quinoa or rice (some sort of grain)

- garlic, onions, salt/pepper

- Meat of some sort (leave out for vegetarians)

- Squash, almonds, greens, pretty much anything you like can be added

- some sort of cheese to make things stick together

Directions:

Squash prep

- Cut acorn squash in half  and scope out seeds

- Douse the inside of the squash in butter/olive oil, salt and brown sugar for a slightly sweeter taste

- Place cut side down on a cookie sheet and bake at 425 degrees for approximately 20 mins (Essentially when you pull them out you want a fork to easily go through the meat of the squash)

Stuffing prep

- While your squash are baking prepare your stuffing

- Typically, I saute the meat with garlic and onions while whatever grain I've chosen cooks

- Once your stuffing is done place into the center of each squash half and top with cheese

- Bake (stuffed squash) at 425 degrees for another 5 - 10 mins or until cheese is thoroughly melted

Serve and enjoy!  My suggestion would be to serve squash in individual bowls since serving them on a plate can make eating them difficult.

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Happiness is a choice!

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From a wise friend of mine, Rachel:

Decide is the killing off of another option (geno-cide, sui-cide, homo-cide) . It requires careful thought and validation from others with a lengthy explanation of why you made the decision, and it is final.

Choice is simply free choice.  It does not kill all other options. It requires no validation from others. We all have free will, and that in itself is a gift.

“I decided to go to Rice because this other college was more expensive..if I live in Houston..blah blah, blah….”vs. “Oh, I just chose to go to Rice.”

Life is actually really simple. We choose to complicate it sometimes.

Life is too short to not choose happiness.  Happiness is a choice.

Etiquette question: Eating guests' food

Dear family, I have a question for you. I have guests coming over for a potluck this evening for church. I told them I would make macaroni and cheese and I did. However, it was very late last night when I made it and I was very hungry...so I ate some of it. I felt guilty even even as I dug my fork in. I'm not sure, but it seems like when you come a potluck, you expect the food to be undisturbed. So, what do I do? It's, of course, baked mac and cheese, so the fact that the corner is missing is quite obvious. Am I just being a freak or is this in very poor taste?

E

That time J and I almost killed each other in Zac Brown rodeo traffic

This year I made it to three shows at the Houston rodeo: Eli Young Band, Florida Georgia Line and then last night, Zac Brown Band.

I’m pretty sure I did more rodeo this year than I have done in my life. I learned an important lesson, too. People do “rodeo” differently. We’re always growing in our relationships, right? Learning to be better, more supportive (not submissive) people.

Well, you see, J likes to do ALL of the rodeo. I thought that meant getting there 15 minutes before the show started in time to see the Mutton Bustin’ event and then you see the show you really came to see, right? Wrong.

Apparently, some people (Jarrod) grew up with the “total rodeo experience.” What is that? Well, that means you see the entire rodeo including every buck and barrel race. But thats not it. You get there before the rodeo to “walk the grounds.” Apparently there is a livestock show and a stadium full of vendors. Think of it as the Nutcracker Market but more rhinestones and redneck. Wait. Just kidding. Nutcracker Market is both of those things. It’s just like Nutcracker Market but smaller and perhaps more cowboy hats.

Because J and I have “jobs” the last two time we went to the rodeo… It’s also worth mentioning here that J got a fantastic deal through his work on tickets. We’re not suddenly lushes who spend all out money on entertainment.

Back to the what I was saying, though. The last two times we went were on week nights. That meant that were unable to do the “total rodeo experience” and that J was totally unhappy. Both times we missed a few events and were unable to even set foot in the Rodeo Nutcracker Market. Let alone see the livestock show which is apparently also a thing people get really excited about.

So anyway, yesterday we set out early. And this time we prepared. After church we went back to J’s home and I took a nap so that I would be fully rested for the “total rodeo experience.” I even ate a wholesome meal (grabbed a peanut butter brownie on my way out the door). Fast forward. Rodeo show. J getting his nickers in a twist because we had neighbors that were not observing no talking or moving while performance is happening. The show, a day show, was out by 8 p.m.

The day before J and I had argued because I wanted to go home early Sunday and “get some stuff done at my place” (watch Parenthood on my DVR). So J was gloating at this point that as predicted the show let out before 9 p.m. and we were on our way home. Or so we thought.

Now to understand the frustration in the following scenario you must understand a few things. Number one, J has a handicap parking tag and always has, so he’s used to premium parking and not waiting very long. Number two, J doesn’t do the best with waiting. Number three, it had been raining all day long so we were wet and cranky. Number four, I’d been an irritable grouch all weekend, so on the walk back I’m sure I picked an argument about something. I honestly can’t remember or I would share.

We got into the car ready to go home and get ready for the upcoming week. We got into the car and, ugh oh, traffic was slammed to a halt. I mean no one was moving anywhere.

At this point we were both grumpy and tired and totally over hanging out with one another. Have you ever, EVER, been ticked off at someone in a CAR? THERE IS NO WHERE TO GO. Not to mention the ever-present traffic is irritating.

So we sat there in the car, both squished to our respective passenger doors not talking to each other. I don’t know about J but I’d occasionally cast a glance over his was just to make sure he was still just a mad as I was. Ha.

We sat there, I kid you not, for an hour. We sat in Zac Brown Band traffic for longer than the entire concert performance.

Eventually we waited so long that we had to talk it out. And we talked about some logistical stuff that has caused bumps in our love story. And we caught up on what’s been going on in our lives and minds. No one ever told me (I don’t think) that when you’re romantically linked to someone and spend a lot of time together that you can somehow slip into just doing and have no idea what is going on with your partner. I don’t know how it’s possible to spend time together and yet be disconnected. I guess when you’re doing you’re having less “feelings” conversations.

All in all, as it always goes, the rodeo traffic eventually let up. And a day later I’m grateful for the time we got stuck in the car, couldn’t go anywhere and had to talk out what was bothering us. So I look back over this rodeo season and think, ‘holy crap that kept us busy.’ But I suppose that you look back and talk about the time you saw XYZ band live at the Houston Rodeo more often than you talk about the time you came home from work and went to bed. So a little bit of busy in this case isn’t so bad.

Happy Monday, family. Talk to you all soon.

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Curmudgeon chronicles #2 - From Boors to Buttheads

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Mom & I had a wonderful long weekend in Seattle. The weather was fantastic, the shopping was productive, and the food was excellent. Follow mom on facebook to get a fuller idea of our weekend. That will not be the topic of this curmudgeon post. In our time out, we had repeated experiences with people exhibiting what I consider to be boorish behavior. Now I realize that there are a LOT of people in the world today and that public venues, like restaurants, pack customers in like sardines, such that we cannot help but observe the events at nearby tables, or overhear conversations that we may, or may not, want to hear. Behavior of fellow patrons crosses into the neighborhood of rude and insensitive when their conduct begins to needlessly impact the quality of my experience. It seems that many people these days simply conduct themselves in public, as if they are the only ones present, or at least, the only ones who matter.

I also recognize that I am increasingly hard of hearing. The more background noise there is, the more difficult it is for me to hear the conversation at my table, which can be irritating for both the speaker and the listener. So, in fairness, I start off with a base level of pissed off.

My first harangue against bad behavior was directed at a table of late 20 - early 30 something women. It only took a few moments to understand that these 10 women were having a party. Most of the behavior, though, was not offensive. The brief rendition of happy birthday for one of the women interrupted conversation at all surrounding tables for a minute, but it came and went. Not a big deal. The girls were having a good time and lots of conversation and laughing and posing for pictures was going on. My problem was essentially with one member of the party that clearly had never been taught the concept of an inside voice. She bellowed. She howled. She pontificated loudly and, seemingly, endlessly to the complete destruction of any chance to have a conversation. After a while, others in the party became aware of the turned heads when the banshee cried and gradually stopped engaging her in conversation.

Dinner the next night started in a similar way. Tables packed into a small space with poor acoustics. Sound levels that made conversation somewhat difficult, despite the fact that most people were being only as loud as they needed to be. There was one table, however, that attracted attention. Everyone at that table seemed to be yelling. Now it is normal that voices go up when good times are had, but there is necessary, there is normal, and there is jerk. The women at the table were loud periodically. The men were loud always and, surprisingly, far more interested in their buds than in the attractive young women who were trying hard to stay in the game. Now this was a fairly nice restaurant. Maybe it wasn't FANCY, but it was definitely 4-5 star. It was not the corner bar and, my expectation is, that people should behave accordingly. So, it was with a sense of relief when I noticed the party rise to leave. Though I should not have been, I was shocked to see the two guys stand and walk away from the table with no attention to the women. There was no pulling out of chairs, no fetching or holding of coats, not even allowing the women to go first. I suppose there is a recognition that women are capable of standing, putting on a jacket, and walking on their own. Still, the total lack of chivalry, and even attention, was amazing. I found myself hoping that these buttheads would be going home alone. A lyric from an old Graham Nash song says that " a hobo or a poet must kill dragons for a bride."

So, remember, there are others around you. Use your indoor voice. Be nice to your ladies, or, expect that your men be nice to you.

The difference between an enzyme and a hormone.

It is a classic from Dad's joke bank. We all know it. "Can you tell me what is the difference between an enzyme and a hormone?"

Admittedly, I have adopted it into my own, very limited, joke circulation.  The problem is that while Dad was able to bestow this gem upon unsuspecting college biology students I have a difficult time finding an audience who can truly appreciate the genius of the joke. Often, upon administering the joke I am met with blank stares and friends who politely divert the conversation in another direction. But finally, last night, I was able to deliver the joke it its full science nerd glory.

My friend Matt and I were huddled over some delicious Thai coconut basil mussels discussing various nerdy topics such as non-Newtonian fluids, how a zombie virus could actually exist and chronic alcoholism's effect on bone density when there came a lull in the conversation.  Cooley I said "Can you tell me the difference between an enzyme and a hormone?"

Being that Matt is a medical doctor he was more than happy to launch into an at-length explanation of the differences between the two biochemicals. As he moved from each chemicals production into function, I sat politely nodding away at his various statements. After a good five minutes of narration he stopped and asked if he had provided a thorough enough explanation.  "That was a really good explanation. But you are wrong." I replied. Immediately Matt's face took on the appearance of a child who had just been told that Santa doesn't exist. "Really?" he said. This was the moment I had been waiting for. Slowly, trying to control smile from  creeping across my face, I said "Yeah, don't you know that you can't hear an enzyme." Dumbfounded Matt stared back at me. Then he got it and laughter erupted.

Now this beautiful execution of Dad's classic joke would have been fantastic all on its own but it was made better by what Matt shared with me this morning. I had just arrived at work when I received a series of frantic texts from Matt. Apparently he was so tickled by my telling of the joke that he decided to try it out on his attending physician. Giddily Matt reported that at first his attending had rolled his eyes but that quickly the joke was being retold to other docs on the floor. So although Dad's joke can be difficult to retell among most social circles it lives on in the hearts of nerds everywhere.

Top 25 things to buy at the Dollar Tree

Todd and Nick came to visit me this week and I told them about my secret...I visit the Dollar Tree once a week. It's a bit of an obsession. A strange one at that. I begin to feel this surge of joy just thinking about all the deals I could get in just one trip.

I've even started vlogging about my trips to the Dollar Tree. I'll link bellow.

But the thing is that I must be careful about who I tell. Not everyone is accepting or even encouraging. Dad says that only garbage can be purchased at the DT and Jarrod, well, he scoffed when I said I rarely make it out of there without spending $30.

I stand by my list. There are great deals for EVERYONE at the Dollar Tree. Like my other love, Goodwill, there is junk too. That's why it takes an expert to see through the junk to the gems.

[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_9yZ3-atpgI?list=UUzzb6IYhfNGA9MD9oQuijFg&w=560&h=315]

A favorite bar shutters

Jarrod and I went to a favorite bar last night and sadly came to the conclusion that it will be closing soon.Known as one of the only spots in Houston willing to pay the high tax for smokers to light up indoors, the bar has a large, impressive humidor in the center. As the bar began to slide, cigarette smokers began to replace cigar smokers. Thin, well-bred women, the AKC of dog breeds type women, were replaced with the stretched and dyed, nipped and tucked type women who lure men with exposed seams of skin instead of perfectly coiffed bobs. It even started showing sports games last year. They didn’t seem to mind as basketball seeking, Fubu and ECHO sweater wearing men replaced the buttoned up professionals. The beautiful waitresses began to fade, too. Like moths to a brighter light, they’re gone. Last night there was just one, not beautiful, wearing glasses with her hair pulled back in a bun that she probably tied up while still wet from the shower. The quick one she grabbed while rushing to get changed from her other job. At a waffle restaurant. The old waitresses were never rushed. They never had another job, or a life. The bar was just that. A perfect picture where men ruled and women were problem-free. The final nail in this Mantopia’s coffin was the smoking ban. A breast cancer clinic moved in upstairs and who-knows-what moved in next door. The property management made the decision to revoke the bar’s privilege to smoke indoors or out. There are a lot of bars in Houston. There are few things that make them special. But this one was a place where young unimportant men could spend a little more than they could afford and purchase a cigar and whiskey and feel successful, important, elite for a short while. But now that’s over and the bar, Jarrod and I decided, will continue to slide.

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The trip from hell

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In my story about the pie crust tip, I mentioned a trip from hell that has been a part of family lore for years. Before it is lost, I thought that I would record it here as a Daddy story.

While we were still living in Alabama and I was working at The University, I occasionally worked on pipeline projects just outside of Mobile. Little did I know at the time that I was sort of already working for Shell because the offshore gas platform and the onshore processing plant were Shell's. There were several pipelines that were being built from there and I and some of my colleagues were working on the environmental surveys. I had made that trip several times.

This particular time we came up with the idea of taking the whole family to Mobile. Mom and the girls could hang at the hotel for a couple of days while my friend Larry and I did field work. Then, the plan was, to go on to Gulf Shores for a few days of beach time. Sarah was three or four. Emily was just over a year old. Mom was early pregnant with Todd, or, soon would be.

The trip started uneventfuly enough. I had worked at The University most of the day, then drove home to Helena to pack up the car and the kids and head out. We were getting on the road about 6 p.m. expecting a 3-4 hour drive to Mobile.

Just before getting on the interstate (about two miles from the house) we stopped at Arby's to get food for the road. At the time we were both enamoured with the Arby's beef and cheddar sandwiches. We got the food and the curly fries and got back in the car, headed for the beach. Emily was in her car seat and Sarah was in her booster seat.

I put the car in reverse and, as I was backing out of the parking space, Sarah bent forward and spewed all over the back seat and floor. Oh God, the smell was horrible. We drove home and I spent the next 30 minutes up to my elbows in vomit. Mom gave Sarah a quick bath and change of clothes. She wasn't acting like she felt bad, so we thought/hoped it was an isolated event.

Back in the car, we headed South. Fortunately, mom had grabbed a large yellow mixing bowl with a handle.

We didn't make is 10 miles before S got sick again. Fortunately, we had a bit more warning and I was able to pull over and catch the majority in the bowl.

We were now running very late and I had an early start the next, so I pushed on.

Along the way S yaked about five more times. I reached the point where I didn't even slow down. I just held the bowl into the back seat and, bless her heart, she leaned forward and heaved.

We finally got to the hotel about 1 a.m. S had done all she could do and collapsed into a deep sleep. E had been asleep in the car, but was now awake and acting almost frantic. Mom and I were exhausted, so brought E into our bed in hopes that she would relax. I was just about asleep and she suddenly raised up and threw up all over my chest. The bed was now filled with an astonishing volume of puke.

We leapt into action. Mom took E into the tub to clean them both off. I quickly stripped the bed and called the desk for more bedding. They didn't have anyone to bring it to the room, so at 2:30 a.m. I was running around the hotel trying to get sheets.

When I got back to the room E had already thrown up in the crib, soiling those sheets. The room absolutely reeked, but we collapsed about 4 a.m.

I sneaked out at 6:30 the next morning and spent a full day hiking through the swamps and fields of Mobile county with my friends Larry Davenport (thankfully he had driven by himself) and Bruce Bodson. Mom spent the day shut up in the pukey room with two girls who were beginning to feel better. All the while she was starting to feel bad.

When I returned to the hotel that evening I insisted that Larry come by and meet the kids. When we stepped in the room, I realized that it still reeked of sickness and mom was feeling like something you would be upset to step in.

He later told me that he felt the illness germs jumping at him from the walls.

That night my head hurt so bad, that I laid face down in the tub breathing out slowly until I had to take a breath. Mom was sick a bit. I think I took the girls out to eat, but neither mom or I ate.

I spent another day in the field and mom spent the day getting just a bit better. From there we went to Dauphin Island and caught the ferry to Fort Morgan for the first time. We spent the next two days in Gulf Shores in a hotel that was fairly new. Gradually we all felt better and there is a great picture with the girls pressing their faces against the glass door. Mom and I were actually out on the balcony trying to breathing the sea air trying to feel better. We ended up having a great time.

The rest of the story: You kids may remember that when we used to go to Gulf Shores we would always stop for the night at a Holiday Inn just outside of Mobile. That was the sick hotel. We also always started the vacation by driving to Dauphin Island and taking the ferry (a cruise) to Ft. Morgan. Those traditions started on this trip.....from hell.

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Pie crust tip

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You kids may remember that I have a friend (Larry Davenport) who teaches at Samford University, just over the hill from Nanni & grandad's house. Every few years we get together while we are in B'ham and catch up on grad school friends, what is happening in our lives, etc. Larry & I used to do field work together. Mom & I attended the christening of their son. Larry was along on the famous trip from hell (perhaps the subject of another post). When we got together this year, Larry had a list of things to tell me. among them was that Lori Wiersema had recently died. Apparently she was undergoing minor surgery and something went horribly wrong. Her husband, John, was a co-grad student of ours, though, as a botanist was closer to me than mom. Lori came to town as a grad student in nutrition but a close friend of another woman who was in the biology program. They started hanging out with the bio crowd, even playing on the softball team. Romance bloomed between Lori & John about the time when mom & I were realizing that we might be more than friends.

Lori was a good cook. I had made a pie for some grad student cookout party, but was complaining about struggling with the crust. She gave me a tip that I have used on every crust, pastry, or biscuit that I have made since. When I do this I always think of Lori. That's a lot of thoughts over the 30+ years that I have been using the tip, so I was shocked to hear that she is gone. In fact, the night before Larry told me, I had made a lemon meringue pie and thought of her.

I know that I have told all of you kids the tip and, probably, shown you. Here it is:

To make a crust, the first step is to "cut" the flour into the shortening. I usually start that process with a fork, but that only goes so far. To finish the process and get a really flaky crust, use your thumb and fingers on one hand to rub the flour and shortening together. Keep working it until the combination has the consistency of light snow.

Carry on the tradition and think of the tip that came from a one time friend.

Sarah's brush with bravery

What is bravery? According to Merriam-Webster, bravery is having or showing courage. For some, bravery is as simple as speaking up in a group while for others bravery entails far greater feats such as skiing back country during a blizzard. Whatever bravery means to you it is something that should be exercised as often as comfortably possible. For me, bravery entails doing or trying something that makes me somewhat to considerably uncomfortable. My most recent brush with bravery occurred this past Saturday evening.

Several weeks ago my friend Jonathan sent me a link to a  magazine called Fellow. Browsing their site I noticed that this new Denver publication focused on several of my hobbies (local food, beer, crafts and photography).  While continuing to browse I noticed that they were having a launch event that included free food, brew and music. Elated, I quickly bought a $20 ticket.  Normally, I would have bought two tickets but for some unknown reason I only bought one.

Fast forward to the day of the event. It is mid-afternoon when suddenly it hits me, I am going to an event alone where I won't know a single person. Panic sinks in. Frantically I attempt to buy another ticket. No luck, there is a wait-list. Next, I weigh my options. I can either a) forgo the event and eat the $20 ticket or b) suck it up and go. Both options are not ideal, but in the end my frugality wins. "Worse comes to worse I can always eat/drink and then bail" I think as I pull on my $9.00 goodwill dress and cowboy boots.  While waiting for my cab I  feel my heart rate increasing moment by moment and quickly administer some liquid courage to ease the creep of anxiety. As I swallow the last of my glass of bourbon my phone erupts, my ride is here.

A short cab ride later I arrive at, Greenspaces, the venue for the launch party nestled in one of Denver's burgeoning neighborhoods. Stepping out of the cab my driver yells after me "Everything is going to be just fine!' Even with that last feeble confidence boost I find myself wringing my hands and fidgeting as I approach the door.  As I approach the door swings open and out pours several fashionably dressed women giggling among themselves. "Shit", I think, "I am not dressed appropriately."  Kicking the snow from my boots I step inside. The room is a warm spacious historical warehouse space with exposed filament bulbs and pine bows hanging from the ceiling. From behind a check-in table a posh women demands my ticket without looking directly at me. Fumbling I hand her my ticket. "Great" she replies, handing me two drink tickets. Drink tickets in hand I take a deep breath and force myself into the horde of people milling about the room.

Smiling as pleasantly as possible, in an attempt mask my growing sense of social nakedness, I make my way towards the bar.  Pushing my way through the crowd I take note of optimum spaces for social haven. Wall space near the food, a vacant area behind a group of tables, a corner near the entrance all offer some level of social protection. Reaching the bar, I quickly extend one of my drink tickets to the manicured man in skinny jeans and flannel behind the counter. Rolling his eyes he replies "What do you want?" Thrown off by his terse unfeeling response I sheepishly point to the beer with a picture of a camera on it. He thrusts an unopened beer in my direction; I grab it eager to retreat to one of my identified social safe havens.

Unfortunately, in the time it took me to acquire my beverage most of the spots I had identified previously have now been occupied. Clutching my beer to my chest, like a small child clutches a safety blanket, I set up shop near the buffet table. For a while I stand there blankly staring into space while periodically taking gulps of my rapidly disappearing beverage. All of a sudden a small Asian woman in horn rimmed glasses appears next to me and proclaims loudly into my ear "I like your dress". Somewhat shocked all I can muster in reply is "9.00 dollars, goodwill." As asinine as this response would have been in any other setting for this particular moment it is apparently a secret password. "Really?!" exclaims the small hip Asian woman. "Yes" I say. She nods in approval and turns to leave. Recognizing that this is my first contact I quickly proclaim that I am here by-myself and don't know anyone. Turning, she smiles and says "Wow you are brave. Let me introduce you to a few people." "This is it, I'm in" I think to myself.  What follows is a parade of trendy strangers all asking me a standard set of questions. I answer each of them dutifully and nod along in agreement as they pontificate on hipster life in Denver.  After about two hours of an endless slue of question and answer sessions I have learned much about what it takes to be "hip".  Apparently in order to be hip you must not care while simultaneously caring about a lot of things. You mustn't have a real job because real jobs are for stiffs. And most important of all hold tightly to the belief that everyone outside of your immediate surroundings is infinitely less cool than you are.

As the evening drew to a close the crowds thinned out and I found myself talking to the husband of  on of the founders.

"Are you a photographer?" he inquires. "It's a hobby but not really" I reply.

"Are you a writer?" he asks.  "Sometimes I write but not professionally" I offer.

"Are you in a band?" he asks as a look of confusion creeps across his face. "No" I reply smiling.

"Then what are you doing here?" he proclaims with a certain air of disbelief.

Gently I explain my love for all of the things he mentioned as well as how I had heard about the magazine. He nods along appropriately before replying "Well, welcome. It is brave of you to come here by yourself. Everyone else knows someone." Grinning from ear to ear I say "I'm not brave. Just curious."

Stepping out into the falling snow I feel a sense of accomplishment. Despite my anxiety I followed my curiosity into an socially uncomfortable situation and discovered that there was nothing to fear. Some may view it as an act of bravery but, for me, it was just another adventure.

Dad's award winning baked beans

Thanks to Emily, these are now award winning baked beans. Is it, perhaps, a bit ironic that the prize for best beans is free gas? This recipe has its origins in a recipe that I got from my mother.  It has been changed through trial and error over the years to become something that she would no longer recognize.  If you have seen me make these, you know that I just do this by feel, so the measures are approximate.  You may have to adjust things a bit, but this will get you close. 

2 - 15 oz. cans of Van Camp’s Pork & Beans drained

4 strips of bacon chopped into ¼ inch segments

½ sweet yellow onion finely chopped

¾ cup brown sugar (light or dark)

¼ cup white vinegar

1 cup barbecue sauce (I use Masterpiece hickory smoked)

¼ cup maple syrup

1 tablespoon yellow mustard

1 tablespoon worchestershire sauce

1 heaping teaspoon ground black pepper

½ teaspoon ground chipotle pepper (or cayenne)

 Pre-heat oven to 400 degrees.

 To drain the beans, I usually just partially open the cans and then lay them on their sides in the sink until the liquid mostly drains out.  If you want to use a colander, you can, but it is not necessary to go that far. 

 Brown the bacon in a skillet.  When the bacon is beginning to crisp, add the onion and cook the two until the bacon is crisp and the onions are cooked through.  Set aside.

 In a mixing bowl combine the brown sugar and vinegar.  The sugar should dissolve and the consistency should be about that of a thick syrup. 

 Add bbq sauce through ground chipotle stirring to mix.  Add onion & bacon including the drippings.  Add beans. 

 Spray a 9x13 glass baking dish with Pam.  Add bean mixture.  Bake until most of the liquid does not slosh when you shake the dish (about 45 minutes).

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#MemoryMonday Mom reads at Nani & Granddad's

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Every now and then I go through my phone and am amazed at what I come across. 'Oh, I took a picture of that?' More like, 'Oh, I have more than just selfies of Jarrod and I and pictures of dog Aggie?'

Anyway, above is a picture of mom I found on my phone that I took this Christmas in the bedroom I stay in in Nani and Grandad's house. To the left of Mom is a bookshelf filled with books that I remember from growing up and a full encyclopedia set from the '70s.

To the right of mom is a chest of drawers in which one of the bottom drawers is filled with Barbies with their toes chewed off and some doll clothes that one of my great grandmother's (Lollie?) sewed.