Honea Express

Archive for the ‘Food’ Category

I try to maintain a pretty constant flow of quality posts here at Honea Express. Constant being relative and quality being stuff my mom marks as liked on Facebook. This post isn’t either of those things.

It may appear to the naked eye that I’ve been MIA, but that is not the case. I’ve been wandering the internets and dropping knowledge into whatever web will catch it. Also, non-knowledge.

If you have the time I’d love to share some of it with you. Seriously, it’s either humor me or go back to work, and we all know how that will end.

At DadCentric I’ve been waxing poetic about stuff that is centric to dads, namely this dad and the raising of two boys. A Tale of Two Mornings is a little slice of life piece where one day sort of represents the whole pie – à la mode .

Also at DadCentric I pay my respects to J.D. Salinger in The Day was Mixed with Foul and Rye. It’s funny, I always knew that Catcher in the Rye played a big part in helping me find my voice as a writer, but it wasn’t until yesterday – nearly 20 years after I read the book that I realized just how much it had influenced me. Holden Caulfield is a classic unreliable narrator, something I later embraced with open arms in the Pushcart-nominated Madness and Bubblegum. I just tooted my own horn, excuse me.

Over at UpTake I’ve been talking about how I came to be in this country illegally and a little place down the street that may very well be the BEST. DOG. PARK. EVER.

It pays the bills passes the time.

I’ve also been using my children as guinea pigs by having them consume their body weight in Pom and Funky Monkey snacks. They also went to a very cool warehouse event for bloggers that changed their life forever, give or take an hour.

Pom sent me some of their wonderful 100% pomegranate juice and it was delicious. It was a bit tart for the kids so I took the liberty of making them some pomegranate lemonade – which was also pretty tart, but they loved it.

Here’s why I agreed to try Pom: A) It’s healthy. It was right before New Years and I thought some healthy stuff in the fridge would be a great way to get on track in 2010. B) When I was a kid my neighbor had a pomegranate tree (bush?) in her backyard and we used to pick the fruit and throw them as hard as we could against the back of her garage. They smashed against that white brick like Jackson Pollock’s lunch. Or possibly his head. Yes, we were hooligans but we made up for it by staying off drugs. Occasionally. My point is that pomegranates and I have a history.

I used most of the Pom making pomegranate martinis. They were fantastic.

The Funky Monkey treats were hit and miss. I liked all of the flavors but the kids didn’t care for them – not until I opened the MANGOJ (see what they did there?), which went over pretty well with the oldest. He loves him some mango.

For the record, the cat also liked them, which is kind of weird, but so are cats.

What is a Funky Monkey? It’s dried fruit THAT CRUNCHES! Basically it a freeze-dried snack that manages to maintain nearly all of the flavor and nutrients found in the fresh fruit version. Again, I was going with the healthy angle. Funky Monkey is gluten free, which is cool (my neighbor has a gluten allergy and it appears to suck).

Speaking of neighbors, did I tell you that we had a huge bonfire last weekend and burned 6 Christmas trees and drank too much? Well, we did. See:

While we were standing around the fire my gluten-less neighbor, a carpenter by trade (the profession not the musical group), turned to me and said, “this should be easy to write about,” to which I replied, “you know what else is easy? remodeling a fucking kitchen,” which is not something I know for a fact, but it can’t be any harder than writing this damn post.

Where was I?

Oh right, the warehouse event. Stacey from Because I Must Blog was kind enough to set up an event with Lance, the owner of Clowns Unlimited and Games2U. Lance invited a group of us to his warehouse outside of Seattle where he and his staff had set up a handful of inflatable slides and mazes, some cool games, an assortment of cotton candy and THE TRAILER.

What is THE TRAILER? Well, as the name implies it is a trailer, and it is filled with pure awesome – the name may not have implied that part, hence my mentioning it. The trailer is all tricked out with cool lighting, comfortable seating for 12 adults (16-18 kids), and six 52″ HD flat screen televisions (4 inside, 2 on the outside). Everyone can play the same game- if the game can handle it, or each TV can have its own game from over 51 choices on the latest XBOX, Wii and PlayStation systems. They can also play actual television if that’s your thing.

It’s as cool as you hope it is.

The trailer will come to you. Yes, you. A very knowledgeable game coach is included. I’m thinking about getting the neighbors to chip in so we can rent it one of these weekends- after we run out of Christmas trees.

In closing, I’ve been doing stuff. And now it is the weekend. I hope you have a good one.

Behind the curtain:
Compensation: No
Products Received: 3 small bottles of Pom juice, 3 small bags of Funky Monkey

The man leaned against the counter, almost sitting on it. His view was of the kitchen. To his left sat a boy in a diaper and a Steelers jersey. It was midnight and the boy had been sleeping in his bed for hours before crying in the night for his mother. It had been the man that answered.

The man leaned against the counter and to his left sat a boy in a big red chair that reminded the man of kitchens from his youth and reminded the boy of nothing but the only kitchen he had known. The boy ate cold, calculated bites of macaroni and cheese and an entire garlic roll. He sat silently and sipped water from a Mickey Mouse cup. His view was in the toaster.

There had been visitors earlier in the evening. There had been football and cheering and too much to eat, but the boy had been hard at play and had ignored everything but the potato chips and onion dip. Hence his cries in the night and his midnight snack. Hence the man beside him leaning on the counter and staring into the kitchen.

The house was quiet. Somewhere slept a woman and another boy and random pets of various size. None of them made a sound.

The only noise was that of the boy lifting his cup and setting it down. His chewing was muted whisper.

The man looked at the kitchen, surprised by surreal clarity and unexpected sobriety. He looked at the kitchen and his thoughts went to his grandmother in another state in a strange bed in a lonely hospital who had been told just hours before that she was dying.

The man thought of her and how the news was broken to him in that same kitchen just hours before and how he had talked on the phone and sounded strong and sure, something slightly less than stoic, and how once he hung up he was unable to speak one word to his wife without breaking down and crying as she wrapped her arms around him, groceries at their feet and the refrigerator door slightly open.

The boy sat in the big red chair and silently chewed his cold macaroni while staring under heavy eyelids at little square tiles and a dull metal toaster. The man watched him for a moment while they both listened to the nothing, and then he proceeded to run his hands slowly through the boy’s hair, because frankly, he just had to.

When he reached for the chocolate syrup I knew the food was wasted. In a bold, unapproved and non-sanctioned act of independence and innovation he was creating his own sandwich. He was also unsupervised.

It had started as a peanut butter and jelly. A classic. Or maybe it was a turkey and Havarti on wheat. Very seasonal. It’s hard to know which came first. One was the chicken and one the egg and between them lay mystery and hope. The hope was for chocolate syrup.

I nixed it. Cue the tears.

I’m sure if he had given it any thought he would have realized that I was saving him. Then again, could chocolate really hurt a peanut butter, jelly, turkey and cheese sandwich? Could anything?

It turned into a full-blown breakdown. Maybe I was too harsh. Maybe he was too ambitious. We both said things we regretted. Things get ugly in the kitchen.

He ate his Spagettios with a frown and a spoon- each tiny ‘o’ short for oppression. It tasted of tyranny, from a can.

Later that day he sat at the table decorating a small cake that he had baked with his mother. It was a beautiful mess. A masterpiece. Frosting is his medium.

He looked up as he felt my presence, his face still stained orange from his meal of resentment, but in the corner of his smile there was a twinkle. A hope. It was the shadow of chocolate remembered and the promise of more to come.

“Do you want some cake, Daddy?” he asked.

I shook my head, kissed him on his and went into the kitchen to make myself a sandwich. It left much to be desired.

I’m not a religious man. Far from it, really. For instance, I was going to do a little bit about the commandments and I actually typed “God’s Top Ten” in the search box. Letterman loves that.

Still, I can get behind the commandments, except for the part about coveting my neighbors wife. I’m big on the coveting. I also enjoy being coveted, but apparently it’s okay to covet thy neighbor’s husband. Not that there is anything wrong with that.

We took the boys to McDonald’s tonight because they love it and there is a recession going on. The place was standing room only. Literally. I actually ate standing up. It turns out there was some sort of Christian fundraiser being held.

Old pious women tried to sell us apple pies at the door. We passed. I’ll take my chances on the afterlife without a McDonald’s pastry stuck to my ribs, thank you.

The kids were all well-dressed and surprisingly ill-mannered. My kids crammed into their table for two and ate silently in sin. Or what passes for it nowadays.

I kept thinking back to a night in high school. A group of us went to the local skating rink for some wholesome teenage fun. I hoped it was foreplay. It wasn’t.

That place, too, was packed. We put on our skates and commented on the fact that none of us recognized the very loud, and apparently popular, music that was playing. We were halfway around the rink before everyone, everyone but us, threw their hands up in the air and started chanting.

I didn’t even finish the lap. I just cut straight across the rink and went to the heathen window for my refund.

I felt like a caveman at a Geico party.

I think it was Milton, or perhaps Cake, that said, “sheep go to Heaven, goats go to Hell.” And I can’t help but wonder if I had lived just that.

Someday, when all is said and done and you find yourself standing in a long line outside the Pearly Gates, don’t be surprised to see some Golden Arches in the distance.

However, if you are one to skirt old ladies hawking pie, or you turn your skates in before the Hokey Pokey- if you want things your way, you’re getting flame-broiled, and that’s a whopper.

I wonder what Jack in the Box is bringing to the table.

We woke up early to watch the parade. It started at 7am, which seemed to me a fairly unreasonable time to get out of bed, especially for Al Roker. New York City was buzzing with people doing something as simple as watching a parade and as brave as leaving their homes. It was two months after the terrorists attacks and we sat in our living room drinking butter-rum coffee and feeling as safe as ever and guilty about it. It was the first Thanksgiving morning since we lost so much, and it was bittersweet. We had much to be thankful for.

The parade announcers, including Mr. Roker, were dressed smartly in their free Macy’s wardrobe, and the song numbers were lip-synced to near perfection. It was how Thanksgiving was supposed to start; family, coffee, the parade, and then football, turkey, and six bottles of wine. We had much to be thankful for.

About midway through the parade Katie Couric said something that I will never forget. They were cutting to commercial and she was telling us which balloons were making their way up the street, and she said, quite casually, to stay tuned for Jesusauros Rex. Yes, Jesusauros Rex.

“What did she say?” we asked each other even though we all knew the answer. There was a balloon coming, somewhere between the high school band from Alabama and the 27th boy-band float of the morning, that encompassed everything that we wanted, that we needed. That America needed. It was a monster, a dinosaur of the Rex variety, the kind that devoured its enemies. And America has enemies.

Yet, it was Jesus. Jesus is kind and understanding. He turns cheeks. He forgives. He makes a mean Merlot. Jesusauros Rex was everything we were feeling. Everything we wanted. Revenge and understanding. War and peace. Rage and reflection. Not to mention the endless bottles of wine. We looked at each other and waited his arrival like it was the Second Coming.

He never came. There is no such thing as a Jesusauros Rex. There is, however, a Cheesasauros Rex, a giant dinosaur that encompasses something else America needs- pasta and cheese powder in a nice blue box. Kraft had a balloon and it wasn’t a giant smiling cigarette. We had much to be thankful for.

So Cheesasauros Rex came and went, followed by the two oldest men alive, Tony Bennett and Santa Claus. It was really a nice parade. Al Roker was great. Katie Couric was cute and perky. Yes Katie, there is a Cheesasauros Rex.

The funny thing is that when the parade was over I couldn’t shake the message it had sent, even if I had imagined it. Love and mercy. Revenge and redemption. These were things that I needed too, and so, as I always do in times of trouble, I turned to the Beatles. After all, they were spiritual and blasphemous, revolutionaries and pacifists. They were eggmen, fragile (fra-gee-lay) and hard-boiled.

I am the walrus. Koo Koo Kachoo.

But football was on, so I forgot it all. Again. As if it hadn’t happened, and I had never known the kind of pain that I had. The pain that was but a pinprick to the pain they had felt. Still. They lost their wives, husbands, children and friends, and they kept their cool.

Those people gave new meaning to the word “hero,” and the old guard, like our professional athletes for example, could do nothing but say “thank you,” salute, and dry their tears. Sure, the Lions can’t remember the last season they had that wasn’t filled with pain, but it doesn’t matter. It is a game, football, like so many other things we elevate onto pedestals it may not deserve, but it’s okay. It keeps us sane and entertained. Football is a great game. An American game.

The Beatles, however, are not American, yet they are as much a part of our culture as any force in entertainment could possibly be. And then some. They are Beatlemania. They were bigger than Jesus for God’s sake! John Lennon said that, not me, but he had a point. They were selling out much bigger stadiums than God.

On September 11, 2001, Paul McCartney sat in an airplane on a runway in New York City and watched the world burn down. He saw through a first-class tinted window what we saw on our TV sets. He saw hate.

But for us it was Thanksgiving. We had each other. There was wine in my glass, football on the TV, and in the next room my wife and my sister sang A Hard Day’s Night on the karaoke machine. We had much to be thankful for. And it was bittersweet.

It came and it went, tethered heavily upon our heartstrings, floating like a giant balloon. Yes, Katie, there is a Jesusauros Rex, and he loves you.

Yeah, yeah, yeah.

Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours,
Whit