Chicken Tenders For The Soul

In my own personal Garden Of Eden narrative, the forbidden tree that I would be tempted with would have chicken tenders hanging from the branches.

These savory, crispy little balls of fried death have no nutritional value, save for perhaps the ten percent that is chicken, yet they have a hold on me that I can't shake.

I am the luckiest guy around, and I love my life, (my wife, my kids, my extended family, my friends, the place I call home) so I have no business shortening it by eating fried food.

But brown food is the best.

When I am having a particularly long day, and I find myself out on the road somewhere, far from home, the desire for fried chicken morsels sometimes sweeps over me, and I am forced to confront the central theme of my life, immediate gratification versus seeing my daughters grow up into young ladies.

The following is a true temptation story, told with the caveat that my wife wishes I would not ever tell this tale. (Objection noted honey, but I'm working on a temptation theme here, and this story is too perfect to leave out.)

I once found myself at a movie theatre near where I live that serves food during the film, and I, desiring to both eat healthy and not spend any more money, brought a granola bar inside with me to snack on.

But the problems with eating a granola bar while others all around you are partaking in "pub fare" are numerous.

The first is the smell.

It's not fair that you can smell fried food for miles around, and most healthier options (say a salad or tofu) emit little to no smell at all.

I need to keep a strict tab on the air currents where I live, so as to avoid the wafting smell of a fryolator. (Or as I like to call it, the "see-you-later")

Those same scientists who gave us the seedless watermelon and the baby carrot need to work on making a Caesar salad smell like a chicken tender.

So while sitting in that theatre, desperately trying to hold on to my resolve to eat healthy, a basket of steaming chicken tenders (dubbed the "Love Me Tenders" on the menu) was placed directly in my line of sight.

They were for the group sitting right in front of me, and they somehow went untouched for the entire length of the movie.

This group had lots of food delivered, and somehow they didn't seem to want this particular basket of vitals that was placed at the end of a row of orders.

This basket of tenders was so close to me that I could practically read the ingredients on the packet of honey mustard sauce.

And so, there, for the course of an entire movie, I was face to face with my nemesis, the freshly fried chicken tender, with only a thin layer of civility separating us.

It was my George Costanza moment.

As the movie ended, (near the dinner hour) and the group in front of me filed out of the theatre, the basket of tenders (on a golden bed of crispy fries) remained unmoved and completely untouched.

I am not proud of what happened next.

I made one of those deals with myself that says "If you go to the restroom and return to the theatre and see the basket still there (untouched by the cleaning crew, who was just then filing in) then it was meant to be.

It was meant to be. And they were delicious.

With the new year fast approaching, and my love of fried food not abating any time soon, I know some drastic steps need to be taken. (Hypnotherapy, olfactory nerve removal, etc.)

So keep me in your thoughts as I attempt to eat more oatmeal and granola and less of the "other stuff."

And please, for goodness sake, eat all your fried food when it comes to your table.

That guy in the booth next to you, who is drooling like a toddler, will thank you.

Of Dungeons, Dragons and Dentists

There are many scary places in this world, graveyards, haunted houses, MTV, my sock draw; and I believe that the dentist office ranks right up there with all of them.

Much has been said by comedians on the subject of dentists, and all of it warranted. But I believe a few more things could be added, and with Halloween fast approaching this seems to be an ideal moment to spend discussing just how scary a routine visit to your local dentist office can be.

It all starts with the music.

There is some music that seems to lend itself to being played in super markets and dentist's offices, and any music made in the 1980's seems to qualify.

You could have gone to the dentist in the 70's and they would have been playing 80's music.

As I settled into the chair on my last visit, the familiar sound of Hall and Oat's opus, Man Eater, wafted through the air and it just seemed right somehow.

After a few more 80's nuggets, (Jesse's Girl, Holiday, Sunglasses at Night) I casually asked my very friendly dental tech if she was an 80's music fan.

"Not especially" she replied.

I then had to ask "Did you choose this music?"

"Well, I typed "rock" into the music playing program on the computer and this is the mix it chose for me."

Aha! The computer was smart enough to know that this is a dentist office and it chose accordingly. (They are going to take over some day you know)

The next scary scene you encounter is that rack of sharp and pointy instruments located just to the side of the chair. They really should keep these things out of sight until you are properly anesthetized.

In fact, with the chair and the sharp tools and the motivational kitten posters, the whole scene takes on the air of an Inquisition torture chamber. Upon sitting down and seeing that rack of tools I immediately started confessing to heresy and practicing the dark arts.

And then came the scariest moment of all.

"Mr. Caldwell," the tech said, "you seem to have a little bit of gum recession (to which I replied "but I floss every week!") and we might have to send you to a periodontist to have some tissue grafts."

"Tissue grafts?" I said, hesitatingly.

"Yes, they can do it either with some of your own tissue or some from a cadaver."

"Cadaver?"

"Yes, from the harvested tissue of a donor."

"You mean from somebody who donated their body to science?"

"Yes, or an organ donor."

I can't help but think that this is perhaps not the place where this noble organ donor thought that he would end up.

Perhaps he thought that somehow his precious organs and tissue would have a place in curing cancer or other deadly diseases, not going to a guy who was a little slipshod in his flossing.

And, as I leaned back into my chair and considered the ramifications of having someone else as part of me for eternity, I had to wonder "I wonder if they need the whole body for that, or just the head."

After my surreal, scary hour in the chair was up I made my way to the front desk and was given one last fright.

They handed me the bill.

Leafing It All Behind

Working in the newspaper industry, I hear and read many stories of wayward youth stealing or vandalizing this or that; stories of misspent younger years and such.

Upon hearing such stories I immediately think "they must not have had good trees to climb." For I believe that if a young person (boys especially, but girls as well) has a tree or two to conquer, then the seeming adventure and lure of a life of crime pales in comparison to the thrill of summiting a two-hundred-year-old oak tree and facing death on every branch.

My family saved me from a life in the "big house" by moving into a fantastic (tree speaking) house when I was seven-years-old and gave me the best gift a boy could get by allowing me to climb to my heart's content on the four stately oaks lining our property.

Those oak trees, Big Jim, Little Jim, Beaufort and Old Glory, took me and the other neighborhood kids (another great gift, a neighborhood) a few years and some considerable scrapes and bruises to conquer, but all those hours filled the longing for death-defying feats and adventure.

Also, the fallen leaves from these four beauties could easily fill the Roman Coliseum.

We would pile up the leaves to a second-story height and jump from Little Jim's branches directly into the pile. (These piles somehow always managed to have a small amount of dog poop hidden somewhere in them; another facet of a neighborhood, I guess, lots of dogs.)

I was reminded of these childhood leaf Olympics last week as I tumbled in a glorious pile of leaves with my two young daughters.

Our wonderful old farmhouse has many wonderful, verdant trees lining the property, but somehow the prevailing wind patterns sweep all the leaves far from our yard. This makes for easy lawn maintenance, but it is work to find a good leaf pile.

But it's worth it to run 50 yards down the hill at breakneck speed and long jump into a freshly raked pile of crisp, colorful leaves.

It is a sound and smell that cannot be manufactured or store-bought.

This is the best part of being a parent, in my humble opinion: getting to "play" again.

If you were to see a person my age (34, but with the maturity of a much younger man and the hairline of a much older man) frolicking in the leaves, you might be persuaded to call the police or mental health services, but the moment you see children in the picture it all makes sense.

This is why I'm hoping for grandchildren while I'm still mobile, because it would be sad for Grandpa to fall in the leaves and not be able to get back up again.

Also, they tend to take you away a little quicker at this age.

But I think that would not be a bad way to go out of this world, rolling in the leaves, feeling seven-years-old again.

Does anyone else smell dog poop?

How to Walk Ten Feet in Five Minutes

This column, properly read (with a nice cup of Earl Grey and a pumpkin muffin) should take just a shade under five minutes to read.

This, coincidently, is the exact amount of time it takes my two children and me to walk the ten foot distance between the back door of my house and the car when it is raining.
In good weather this trip takes about twenty seconds.

There seems to be a rule in my house that the amount of time something will take (like getting the kiddos off to school or to a doctor’s appointment) is exactly two more minutes than you actually have available to you.

It all starts with shoes and socks.

If you think it’s difficult to keep a pair of socks together or keep track of both of your shoes as an adult, it is infinitely more difficult when those items are one third the size of yours.
I don’t believe in much by way of superstition or make believe, (the Tooth Fairy, Santa Clause etc.) but I believe in the Sock Gnomes.

These little pranksters sneak into your laundry and take one sock from every pair you have and permanently remove them from your home. I can only assume they flush them down the toilette, because on these same days I cannot find socks or shoes for my girls there is inevitably a backed up commode somewhere in the house flooding water at the exact moment you need to leave.

Sock Gnomes. There is no other explanation.

When it is raining torrentially (like last Friday’s monsoon like conditions) there is a simple mathematical formula that the girls like to use to determine how long it will take them to cover the short distance between the screen door and the open door of our family mini van "Mrs. Pettigrew". (The van is like a kindly old English nanny, she takes care of us always)

That formula is, as far as I can tell: the amount of rainfall per minute, plus the time we have left to make it to our destination, minus whatever stuffed animals and other assorted toys they can carry, divided by the earth’s exact distance from the sun that moment.

I should have realized long ago what was happening when I spied both girls by the door furiously punching numbers into their calculators and discussing something urgently in hushed tones to each other while looking over at me and making delta force style hand gestures about some upcoming scheme.

There is a typical, very human reaction to being hit with a wall of rain when stepping out your door in the morning, and that is to run like the dickens to get where you need to go.
But if you are a small, your first reaction to weather of this kind is to freeze up solid. No motion. No breathing. Nothing.

There is no amount of coaxing, cajoling, entreating or encouraging that can get a child to move in these situations. Dora The Explorer herself could be waving from inside the van, holding a plate of smores and lollipops and still that child will not move unless there is an adult hand holding theirs, urging them (okay, pulling) them on.

Once that child has finally gotten moving she or he will inevitably discover a few mud puddles that they will want to examine closely or stomp through.

These are both, of course, very time consuming activities.

I wish there was three more hours in every day for all the things that my girls want to look at more closely. "Dad, look! Wildflowers! Mom, stop the car, there’s an Elmo poster in that window. Dad! Doggies!"

Once you have gotten your adorable child (looking picturesque in her yellow duckie rain jacket) to the van there is still the task of buckling them in their seats, which involves standing just outside the vehicle, with rain pouring down the back of your neck directly into your underwear.
All this activity has taken exactly three and a half minutes, and as you settle into the driver’s seat, soaking wet, you marvel to yourself that you somehow shaved a minute and a half off the time it normally it takes to make it to the car in these conditions.

That is when you will look back at your smiling children and see that one of them has only one shoe on.

Oh, and the car keys are still somewhere inside. (Or with your spouse, who left the house in the other car an hour ago)

It’s okay you smile and tell yourself, you still have a minute and a half left.

It's Not Five O' Clock Somewhere

To say that the average country music fan is passionate about the genre is like saying a fish merely enjoys the water.

I can say this with full authority now, because this past summer I have absorbed a lifetime's worth of country music working as an usher at the fantastic Meadowbrook Pavilion concert venue in Gilford, NH. I now qualify for a PH.D. in the subject.

It is not a style of music that I heretofore had any contact with. (Mostly for sanity and okay, snobbery purposes) But having it thrust upon me continually this summer has given me pause, and somewhere between Montgomery Gentry's funny ode to dysfunctional families, Long Line of Losers and Reba McIntire's song for the single gal, I'll Have What She's Having, I realized that there is much to like playing on your local country music radio station.

I offer the following analysis, full of county music's pros and cons. (A fancy pants Latin phrase meaning "the good stuff and the bad stuff")

The pros:

1. Great melodies: If you are not singing along to a country song on the radio (even subconsciously) within one minute of hearing it you are probably either legally deaf or dead. It's not easy to write a catchy melody and many other kinds of music pride themselves on being as weird and "artistic" as they can be, which, frankly, translates into unlistenable music. There is no sing along like a country music concert sing along. I think the Irishman in me likes the idea of rousing song sung in broken voices by a crowd of simple folks.

2. Funny Song Titles: Hands down country music has the wittiest song titles. I can't decide what my favorite one is. So far it's a close race between She Got the Ring and I got the Finger, Being so Blue is Turning me Gray, My Wife Ran off With My Best Friend (I sure do miss him) and the immortal Get Your Biscuits in the Oven and Your Buns in the Bed. I'm thinking of writing my own song titled We Don't Text in Texas (Or LOL in Louisiana). That song title, by the way, is open for any aspiring song writer to use. I ask only for you to name your first born son Tincan and acknowledge me thoroughly before each and every playing of said song.

3. Recognition of the working man: There is no man or woman, no matter how successful or wealthy they may be, who has not at some point in their life worked a dead end job. To these folks country music has been a historic source of comfort and solace. Who can argue with a tune that gives a little hope? The simple joys in life are worth counting, and in this rat race we are in, this piece of advice is sorely needed.

I'm sorry country music fans, but your beloved music form has some decided cons.

1. The simple things: For every country song that celebrates the little things in life (a roof over you head, a good woman at your side etc.) and the working man, I wish there was a song about a working stiff who suddenly realizes that he loves numbers, so decides to get off his duff and go to night school and make something of his life. (In my song he becomes a successful accountant and helps save the family farm of his best friend)Celebrating the simple things too much can make a little ambition in life seem futile. (Put down that beer man, turn off the radio and never stop trying to improve yourself)

2. Twang: Is there a chance for a country band or artist from Wisconsin? Or California? Or New Hampshire? Do you have to have a surreal southern drawl to make it in country music? Here is a fun game. Take any pop song you know and sing it with an exaggerated twang. (Try Brown Eyed Girl for starters) Voila', a country song!

3. The cowboy hats: You should only be allowed to wear a cowboy hat if you actually work with livestock. A majority of country artists are now from urban environments, and have never seen a cow or ridden a horse in their lives. I used to like to pretend to be a cowboy; we all did at one point. The hats are silly. (Okay, I'm being too harsh here. I love silly hats as much as the next guy, maybe more)

4. It's not five o' clock somewhere: Here is the actual song lyric, a reference to cutting off work at lunchtime and heading to the bar: "It's only half past noon, but I don't care, it's five o' clock somewhere."

No it's not. It's five thirty somewhere. Time zones only work by the hour, so it's an hour difference. (And by the way, the place that it's now five thirty in is the Muslim country of Algeria in Africa, where it is, ironically, very difficult to find alcohol)

If the song said "its only noon here, but I don't care, it's five o' clock somewhere", then I would smile at the clever word play. But I cannot stand idly by while such dumb lyric gets quoted endlessly by those who would start the weekend early.

Well there they are. I'm thinking of putting this whole thing to music to make it go down easier.I think I'll call it My Gal took off with my laptop and all I got was this lousy blog.

I think it will be a hit.

Scones, Brussel Sprouts and other Non- foods

There is some great confusion, I believe, between the term "edible" and the word "food".

Allow me to illuminate your understanding.

There are many things in this world that can be classified as "edible" (fit to be eaten, especially by humans) but that no self respecting human being could bring themselves to call "food".

In fact, that above definition from Webster's Dictionary is particularly troubling because of the "especially by humans" clause tacked onto the end. This sounds a bit like a definition that would appeal to Martians.

The book Edible Wild Plants: A North American Field Guide ($24.99 at Amazon.com or slightly more at that hippy bookstore downtown) lists thousands of plants that you can consume to keep yourself alive, but that you would, not in a million years, put in a salad when your boss comes over for dinner.

Skunkweed may be "edible", but it is most defiantly not "food".

I have my own list.

1. Scones: The English have given us many great things: The Magna Carta, Canada, Charles Dickens, Shakespeare, The Beatles and English Toast.Having said that, scones, those British, brick-like, round objects (sometimes with blueberries or chocolate chips) in the window of your local bakery or trendy coffee shop, are a to me a great mystery. They continue to get made, day after day, yet no one I have ever met has actually eaten one.

Here is the actual recipe for scones: Go out in your yard, collect some rocks and bake them.

Then add butter.

Scones, according to British sailor lore, were created to both feed seamen and keep them afloat should their ship sink. (And if they are especially well made they could save the entire crew by draining every last drop of moisture from the ocean and allowing the crew to walk back home on dry land)

2. Brussel Sprouts: These little green balls of fun are to the cafeteria line what scones are to the bakery. They are incredibly compact and they stack well. My wife says that we eat brussel sprouts because somewhere, thousands of years ago, someone lost a bet, and the winner of that bet said to the loser, "hey you see that shrub over there...

"And then the loser of the bet, having just eaten the first brussel sprout in history, said "hmm, needs butter".

3. Spam: Much has been said and written about this curious product in a tin container, but here is a little known fact you might not know: Spam is actually the belly button lint of the pig.

And in a scone related note, Spam has a intertwined history with the British Navy. These poor sailors, scones for breakfast, Spam for lunch and dinner.

I hope they had butter.

4. The new KFC "Doubledown": This "sandwich" from Colonel Sander's Fried Chicken chain is quite possibly the end of Western Civilization. It consists of two fried chicken patties with cheese and bacon between them, and when exposed to the light can give every mammal within a ten mile radius a heart attack.

Somewhere there is a refined southern gentleman in a seersucker suit turning over in his grave.

So eat well my friends, and make good choices about what you put on your plate.

The Sports Edition

This being a census year, I thought that I might offer up a few thoughts on the subject of populace enumeration and demographic trends.

The U.S. population is on the move, following careers, industries and all sorts of other things, and its wreaking all sorts of havoc on the territorial norms and local folkways of our dear country.Congressional districts and states that were once reliably in one party column or the other now find them selves changing hands in a whirlpool of colors. Once dependably red or blue areas now appear as purple on those political maps that appear in Time Magazine.Likewise, regions that were once mono-lingual are finding themselves tasked with finding second language speakers in their court, city and educational systems. Second and third languages are now popping up on road signs, menus and bathroom doors.

This is not even to mention the change in pop culture trends from one quarter of our country to the other.For instance, I attended a Country Music concert this fall, (courtesy of my good friend Jon, Im not sure Id ever willingly pay for a ticket) and under a cold clear New Hampshire sky I heard a large crowd sing along with Alan Jacksons hit song Small Town Southern Man. (With the last chorus changed Simpsons style to small town New Hampshire man)

But all of this geographic tomfoolery pales in comparison with the troubling fact that I can now (if I was so inclined) purchase a New York Yankees baseball cap in many stores in my area.How and when did this happen?All this migration has led to a muddling of sports loyalties, and its now possible to see a Pittsburgh Steelers team flag flying from a house in my in-laws Lowell Massachusetts neighborhood.

Forty years ago it would have been unthinkable to meet a local Yankees fan, but I can now count on two hands the friends I have that bleed pinstripes and dress their children in A-rod jerseys and Got Melky t- shirts.This migration of fans has been noted by the marketing department of my beloved Boston Red Sox and pitched as The Red Sox Nation with a nod to the exodus of Sox fans to all parts of the globe. So its safe to assume that in some neighborhood in the Los Angeles area there is a house with a Red Sox flag flying proudly from the front door.

The sports fan scene gets even more jumbled at my church. Our youth pastor is a Chicago Bears football fan (the self same Bears who beat up on our beloved New England Patriots in the Super Bowl back in 86) and of the men on our board of elders, one is a Chicago White Sox baseball fan (the first one I have ever met) and another proudly wears his vintage Hartford Whalers hockey jacket.And speaking of migrations, I dont have the heart to tell him that the Whalers have now moved to North Carolina and are now called the Hurricanes.

Wait, a professional hockey team south of the Mason Dixon Line?

Yes, and the recently won the Stanley Cup. (Hockeys championship trophy)It gets worse.

They beat a team from Canada.

Somewhere Lord Stanley (a Canadian Prime Minister and the giver of the first championship cup one hundred years ago) is turning over in his grave.

We live in confusing times indeed.And after all this regional extrapolation, I have to ask myself this question; is this the melting pot that our founding fathers envisioned?

After all, wasnt our first president himself a fan of football's Washington Redskins?