Archive for the ‘Food’ Category
You may have noticed that I have taken the ads off of this site. I don’t know if this is permanent or not, because never say never and all that; however, it happened, and we all have to make our peace. Basically, I haven’t earned anything more than a cup of coffee per month from the various companies I have hosted in my sidebar(s), and if I’m not making any money from an ad I don’t really see why you should have to look at it. Also, I accidentally deleted the code for said ads and I am too lazy to track down a new version.
In place of consistent ads I have decided to do occasional sponsored posts. These, unlike the ads mentioned above, have paid me well, and if you have been following along with my lackluster blogging career then you know I need the money. Desperately. For instance, this month, thanks to the good people at Hyundai, Disney, and the Home Depot, my family will actually be able to pay most of our bills on time and eat, which are two of my favorite things, but mostly eating.
The point is, I want to be transparent about all of this, and I understand if you are not inclined to read posts that start with a disclaimer of sponsorship. You’re a purist and/or an elitist, and that’s okay. Some of my best friends are purists and/or elitists, and they don’t read my site even when the writing isn’t sponsored, and it hurts every single time.
I want you to know that what you get from me will not be compromised (for better or worse), and my agreeing to sponsored content is a) based on actual financial need, b) the quality of the products/companies involved, c) a sign of the times. I believe the quality, if I may be so bold, of the few sponsored posts I have done thus far speaks for itself. I am not going to promote something that I don’t believe in, and I am not going to throw a bunch of copy on the page (aside from the copy I am legally or contractually required to add) and spend the rest of the afternoon counting my money. There will be time enough for counting when the posting’s done.
Also, this month will not be representative in terms of sponsored content quantity. I was lucky enough to have multiple opportunities knock at the same time, and I let them all in. They’re still here, watching my TV and having some toast. Again, the eating. I cannot imagine that future months will find me as nearly well-fed.
In closing, I care about you, the reader. Especially you. I hope you understand that my trading ads for sponsored posts is a very positive thing for me, my family, and this site—I sincerely appreciate your support and understanding.
The eggs are in the icebox. They are cold and lacking color. The baskets are packed with rubbish and slowly overflowing. There are no candies, big or small, nor gifts of season’s folly. There are no heads in little beds and no bent to catch the morning. I have nothing to hide, and there is no one to hide it from.
If the boys were home the house would be loud and full of bustle, but they are not and only the sound of jazz makes its way up along the stairs. Only echoes bounce back down them.
I stood in the kitchen with coffee on my tongue and banana bread in my stomach. The paper would be in the drive and there was plenty of work to be done, but motivation and Sundays are not made to mix, so I let them dance their separate sways, two-steps and soft-shoes, breakfast with a show. I grew full on fruit and lonely, and wound up writing here.
The sunlight stirred a fly to buzzing. It has grown louder ever since.
“I’m still hungry,” my youngest said roughly five minutes after he didn’t finish his breakfast. It was an issue. He had developed the bad habit of playing with his food rather than eating it, and it was something that needed to be addressed. Luckily, I had foreseen such a moment and took the proper steps needed to combat it. Basically, I set said breakfast aside and played Words With Friends on my iPhone while the world went spinning on.
“Then you,” I replied, “are in for a treat.” I slid his breakfast across the counter as he climbed onto the same stool that he had only recently vacated. The stool was still warm, his food was not.
“This is my breakfast,” he said. “Again.”
He’s pretty quick.
“It’s your second breakfast,” I explained. “Like a hobbit.”
“What’s a hobbit?”
“You, but hairier.”
“They eat two breakfasts?”
“That’s what I’ve read.”
“Do you know any hobbits?” he asked.
“I suspect a few,” I told him. “But I can’t prove anything.”
His breakfast was colder than he remembered it. I assured him that was the way it was supposed to be. The hobbit way. One hot, one cold. The ying and the yang of a balanced diet(s).
“Do hobbiths get beg and strawng from eating so munch?” he asked.
“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” I answered.
“Do hobbits get big and strong from eating two breakfasts?” he asked.
“I can see why one might think that,” I started, “but the fact-ish is they don’t. They don’t grow much at all.”
“Why not?” his concern was palatable and smeared with jelly.
“Well,” I took a breath and looked him squarely in the plate. “The popular theory is they might get bigger if they actually ate one healthy breakfast the first time it was served and didn’t waste food.” I let the time and money go — everybody wastes those.
“Healthy is good for you,” he said.
The light above his head glowed warm and knowingly.
“I only want one lunch,” he stated, “a good one.” I nodded accordingly.
It was quiet there in the kitchen save the sound of a boy chewing and a father counting his blessings.
My oldest walked in and poured himself some orange juice.
“Why is he still eating?” he asked the room.
“It’s my second breakfast,” answered the youngest.
The oldest took a long sip from a short glass. Then he looked at us both with too much understanding. “Hobbits,” he said, “never get bigger.”
He smiled as he walked out of the kitchen.
One brother ran grinning, and the other was right behind him.
The views in this post are not approved by, or affiliated with, the works of J.R.R. Tolkien. For more information on hobbits and the dietary issues thereof, please consult the assorted writings of Mr. Tolkien, or if you are in a relative hurry, the movie adaptations of the same. Thank you.
“Aren’t candles bad for the ozone?” he asked.
“What do you know about the ozone?”
“I saw it on a cartoon,” he replied.
“Of course you did. Yeah, I suppose someone is making the case that candles are bad. Still, we’re saving electricity. It’s a wash.”
“You can’t fucking win,” he said. Except that he didn’t because I would have scrubbed his mouth out with soap until he was blind.
“Wash what?” he asked.
“Your hands,” I told him. “And take your brother.”
The thing about drinking heavily on surprisingly little food and even less sleep is that something has to give and it is usually the wallet. It gave a lot. Now there are memories where dollars used to be, and they were worth every one.
“Don’t go avenge’anin my name,” sang the youngest between bites of warm biscuits and fresh blueberry jam.
“I would,” I told him.
“What does that mean?” asked the older.
“It means that I love you,” I said.
“Is this the Avett Brothers?”
“Yes. They’re a band of brothers, just like the two of you.”
The jam nearly melted into the bread, and the taste was like pie in the shadow of the oven.
“It’s good to have a brother,” said the youngest.
“You are both very lucky,” I said as I watched their faces through the reflection of the window. They were looking at the blueberries on their fingers.
It took two nights for me to accept that I wasn’t going to die in my sleep. Things tend to slow down when the party stops, and shifting into a lower gear doesn’t make the hill any less steep. The last time I flushed something solid was when I dropped my gum in the airport urinal. My head was full of clouds and cocktails.
“It’s past your bedtime. Again. Hurry up.”
That was me. They were mostly screams and laughter.
“Why is it past our bedtime?” one asked.
“Because it’s late,” said the other.
“Will you read us a story?” they asked.
“No,” I said, “but I will write you one.”
Once there was a man full of malice and mischief. He was made to wonder and wander, so he did both in spells and pieces. Sometimes he mixed mischief with wonder and malice with wander, and sometimes it was the other way around.
Most of the time he preferred just to wander and while doing so he wondered about things like where dreams came from, why stones break bones, and where it was he was going. Now and again he gave way to a tune in his head and he would lose himself in a whistle. He was as happy as he thought he could be.
It wasn’t until he met a woman and fell to courting that he did the things that men of fancy find themselves doing in front of crowds of friends and strangers — with caution nothing but the wind upon his back. Then it started to gather a bit in the middle and he said to himself, “That is how you focus.”
Malice gave way to mischief and mischief gave way to just occasional nights of far too rowdy. The wandering went to destinations and the wonder was said aloud instead of swirling thoughts inside his head. He was happier than he was before, so he thought that was the end. But it wasn’t.
Eventually they had a son and there had never been anything like it except for maybe those occasional whistles from paragraphs before had they been shared by a choir of angels and, he thought, if cartoon birds put ribbons upon my wife and in her hair, then that, too, might be half as good as this.
That went on for the space of time that exists between one son and the other. Then there were two boys with the man and his wife and you would not be laughed at if you assumed that their happiness had doubled, but that would be easy and math seldom is. There were algorithms and remainders and factors to consider which is only one of the reasons you should stay in school, but when the dust had settled the number had grown larger than the paper on which it was written — so the man threw it into the sky and told it to return when it had settled on a sum and the paper is still floating out there somewhere like so many stars and expanding equations. I hope you were listening to the part about staying in school.
So that is where the story is now. The man healing from a few nights of far too rowdy and his wife ready to wander with ribbons in her hair and her destination fixed. The day was one where two little boys floated and whistled and filled themselves with a bit of malice, the best kind of mischief and mastered, once again, the tendency to grasp happiness while expanding through worlds worn with wonder. They went to bed too late, covered in warm crumbs, small kisses, and the freshest coat of blueberries.
The man sat by a candle and did exactly as he had promised.
I filmed a video with the boys in which we announced the winner of the Hillshire Farm Year of Meat Contest. Now you are forced to watch it. Here’s the thing, I filmed it straight to YouTube and apparently that guarantees that the quality will suck, which it does. I tried to make a new one, but the fact is I look like an ass regardless of video quality. I may as well post the video with the kids in it, that way I can write them off. I apologize if it’s hard to watch, but at least one of you will leave a year of meat richer.
And scene. Thank you to everyone that participated and tweeted and made meat jokes that offended others due to their overt sexuality. I couldn’t have done it without you. Or Hillshire Farm. Mostly Hillshire Farm.
Go forth and be meatful to one another.