Happy Anniversary, George

Twenty-five years ago today, George and I were married at St. Paul United Methodist Church in Charlotte, North Carolina.

Twenty-five years.

Wow.

George had hair. I weighed 109 pounds. He was 21, and I was 19. I felt nervous and happy and all warm and fuzzy inside.

Neither of us can remember much about the wedding. When we watch the video, it's like we're watching actors in a movie. Who are those people?

We had no idea what we were doing.

We still have no idea what we are doing.

But we're doing it together.

Which still makes me feel nervous and happy and all warm and fuzzy inside.

What Happens To You When You Work for the Military Industrial Complex

Take a look at this picture of our dining room table, which isn't a dining room table anymore. It's been taken over by technology. And George.

Me: This is sad.

George: Yeah. I've been thinking I need to think about cleaning it up.

Me: You need to think about thinking about cleaning it up?

George: Sure. First, we need to do a Desk Cleaning Analysis. Define the requirements for cleaning. Do we have to get everything off or just some stuff? Also, how many hours will it take to clean? Next, we need to do a Feasibility Study. Is it even possible to clean the table, especially during tax season? Then we should draft a Request for Cleaning Proposals, see if we get any bids. Award the contract. Then get whoever wins to come in and clean. It's going to take some planning to get all this done.

Welcome to my world.

Food TV

George and I watch very little television. We watched much more before we had children, but over the years, network television in particular has somewhat faded from our lives. NatGeo, Discovery, Animal Planet, History Channel, and PBS tend to be our default channels. I love me some Antiques Roadshow. We did watch LOST…okay, I admit we were addicted to it. But nothing has come up to replace it in the “freaky smoke-monster drama” category, so our new favorite television show is the Food Network’s The Next Iron Chef.

Oh, how we love this show.

The Iron Chef America series pits two chefs—a challenger and one of the six Iron Chefs—against each other. The two chefs have one hour to create five different dishes using a secret ingredient, such as avocados, corn, almonds, or sea urchins. A panel of judges decides whether the challenger or Iron Chef reigns supreme in Kitchen Stadium.

The Next Iron Chef is an elimination show that pits a bunch of professional chefs against each other to, well, decide who will be the next Iron Chef. In general, elimination-tournament shows don’t interest me. Furthermore, I despise shows where nastiness masquerades as entertainment. I’d rather see everyone play nicely and NO ONE be sent home.

But that’s just me and certainly would not make for good television.

So why does The Next Iron Chef appeal to me so deeply? First, it’s about food. I love food. Good food nourishes body and soul. Who doesn’t love food?

Second, chefs are trained to make great food quickly. Taking top-notch chefs and putting them in odd situations (on a beach cooking on a grill, at a State Fair cooking only with ingredients they can find in the booths for gyros and funnel cakes and corn dogs) leads to some fascinating food.

Third, I am in awe of the chefs’ creativity. Three Sundays ago, the competitors in The Next Iron Chef had to make four dishes in 90 minutes: one dish from each of the four regions of the United States (north, south, east, and west). This meant they had to decide what to cook, find the ingredients, adapt if the ingredients were taken by another chef, cook, and plate four dishes. One of the chefs rarely cooks American cuisine, so he was particularly challenged.

Great chefs all have bad days, which is at the heart of what The Next Iron Chef is really about: who has the fewest bad days.

This season, there aren’t any truly annoying chefs. Last season, there were two jerks whose downfalls caused me great happiness. One was a liar (admitted it himself to the world on television), and the other was just arrogant and played mean. This season, I pretty much like them all and have been sad every week. Chef Tsai is a bit snotty, and Chef Canora is a bit of a whiner, so I'd prefer one of the other chefs to win.

But it’s not up to me. I watch helplessly as chefs I really admire get sent home, like two Sundays ago when Chef Caswell had a mediocre day. I like him a lot. He’s cute, which doesn’t hurt, but really, he just seems like a nice guy, the sort of dude George and I would like to have to dinner. It was just so sad.

Next Sunday is the final challenge. Chef Tsai was sent home last Sunday, but sadly, so was Chef Tio. I liked her fresh and gutsy attitude. The final two Iron Chef candidates are Chef Forgione (my favorite) and Chef Canora (the whiner). I can’t wait to see how the final challenge plays out.

George likes to enact his own Iron Chef challenges on the weekends. I take on the roll of the Chairman on Iron Chef America and create artificial constraints (only use what we have in the pantry or make something with a secret ingredient such as sweet potato or a Boston butt). George makes stuff up and almost always scores a hit. It’s a great way for him to exercise his creative itch to cook without taking on the brutal lifestyle of a professional chef. I also think it’s kind of cool that an odd-ball television show can influence and enhance a real-life hobby.

That’s television programming I can get into.

What shows grab your imagination? Why? Has a show ever influenced something you’ve done in real life?

Directionally Challenged

For the record, I am most definitely directionally challenged. Over the years, I've been lost a number of times and am usually quite capable of getting myself unlost. Such occasions don't cause me distress at all, except when I somehow got lost in the Chicago projects.

That is a very long story.

Anyway, yesterday (Wednesday), I got a call from Camp Kern, a YMCA camp near Lebanon, Ohio. The entire fifth grade at Nick's school had been there since Monday hiking and petting snakes and learning about nature and getting dirty and dancing around campfires and sleeping in bunk beds. The students were scheduled to return to school early afternoon on Wednesday.

The phone call was from the nurse, who informed me that Nick was sick. I shall not give details, but the poor boy needed to be picked up and brought home.

In all the paperwork sent home about camp, there was a map showing very clear directions. I'd never been past the camp before, but George rides his bike around that area all the time and knows it well. I figured with this very clear map, I'd have no problem finding the camp and picking up my sick boy.

Oh, how wrong I was. You see, it's very, very wrong, when reading a map, to assume that the first interstate you come to is the RIGHT interstate. In fact, one should absolutely and without fail read the road signs and not mistake Highway 42 for Interstate 71. Especially when there is an immediate left just past Highway 42, as there is just past I-71 on the very clear map guiding you to your destination.

That immediate left (the wrong one, it turns out) forks into Wilmington Road and some other road whose name I forget. Anyway, I started by taking Wilmington Road because a big sign with a canoe on it pointed that way. But after driving about five miles, I crossed the the Little Miami River. The map clearly shows that Camp Kern is BEFORE the Little Miami, so I knew I'd gone too far. But as I backtracked, I couldn't find Camp Kern.

At that point, I suspected that I had taken the wrong fork, so I backtracked and took the other fork. After going over four miles, I realized that, indeed, I was hopelessly lost.

My first thought was that, undoubtedly, Camp Kern is listed as a point of interest on the Garmin GPS we bought for our trip to Minnesota in June. My second thought was that this realization was pretty useless to me because the Garmin was in my coat closet at home.

I realized that things had gone wrong back at the "left past I-71" and I needed to backtrack. I was, however, feeling the push of time...my sick son was waiting for me. So rather than backtrack all the way, I pulled over and called George, not really expecting him to answer. But he did. What ensued was several minutes of debate as he searched Google maps and I told him I where I thought I'd gone wrong (without remembering helpful things like street names). I really wish I'd tape recorded this conversation for your entertainment because it was so clear that George and I were speaking completely different languages: he, the language of the former Air Force navigator, and I, the language of the directionally challenged.

Finally, I got to an intersection with street signs, and told him where, indeed and at that moment, I was.

He replied that it wasn't possible for me to be at the intersection of Emmon and whatever the name was.

Yet there I was, hopelessly lost yet still perfectly capable of reading street signs.

Then he asked me if I was heading west or south.

Bwwwaaaahaaaaahhhhaaaaaa!!!!!!

Sorry. You see, all I can do is guess on cardinal directions. The only time in my life when I felt comfortably oriented to the compass was the two year we lived in Wichita, Kansas. HELLO! That's a well-planned city on a grid. Unfortunately, I grew up in Charlotte, North Carolina, where Queens Road intersects Queens Road and unless you're in downtown, nothing is on a grid. Cardinal directions were simply no help in navigating in Charlotte, so I never really had much use for them.

George, on the other hand, spent too many years telling military pilots where to go and plotting targets for bombs. Directions HAD to be right, so his brain is hardwired to know where he is in space at all times. To him, asking which direction you're driving is a complete no-brainer. To me, the only answers come from wild guesses and trying to figure out where the sun is.

Do you see where I am going with this?

George had me turn left and found me on the map at the next intersection when he asked if there was an animal hospital on my right. YES! THERE WAS!!!! I fell instantly in love with Google Maps. At this point, he comforted me by saying, "Well, you're not as lost as you could be." He vectored me to the right road and I arrived at Camp Kern an hour and a half after leaving the house.

It took me and Nick less than a half-hour to get back home.

Nick had no problem finding his way to the sofa, where he curled up and watched movies with Daisy Doolittle.

Poor Nick suffered for my directional incompetence, but I'm happy to report that about three hours after I shot this photo, he was fully recovered and running around the house making pewwing noises while pretending to shoot mummies.

Don't ask. He's a boy.

Last night, George had to call up Google Maps and debrief the mission with me. He wanted to know where in the world I had been. We realized that Ennon Road has several names, not all of which were showing up on the scale map George had been using. He was really quite kind about it, though, and I suspect it's because the situation is similar to his comment about Daisy this weekend and how dogs make us feel "superior and loved at the same time...it's a win-win situation." Well, he's directionally superior to me and loved by me. Win-win.

Yesterday's adventure taught me two things:

1. It is good for a directionally challenged individual to a) have a cell phone and b) be married to a former navigator. (Thanks, honey!)

2. It is even better for a directionally challenged person to take a Garmin navigation system with them whenever they go someplace for the first time so they don't get lost and look like a complete idiot to their loved ones and the world.

Care to share a time you got lost? How did you get unlost? Do you get upset when you're lost or are you, like me, rather accustomed to the situation?

Great Moments in Parenting

At dinner tonight, a discussion of comedians took an interesting turn.

Nick: Well, Mike Myers is the sex guy. And you gotta respect him for that.

Me and George: WHAT!?!?!

Me: Nick, what makes you say that?

Nick: He shags everybody.

George: People who shag everybody don't deserve your respect or admiration.

I smiled and thought what a wonderful man I'd married. But then...

George: You might envy them, but you shouldn't respect them.

I'm running away. Anyone have a spare room?

A Few Things Overheard

George: So, what is the most you would let me spend on a bike?

Me: I have no comment.

George [laughing]: You don't want to divulge that information?

Me: No. Why do you ask?

George: Come look at this bike. [I join him at his computer.] It's a Felt B2 with the electronic shifting.

Me [seeing the $6,499 price tag which, for some reason, he failed to point out]: That's more than I am willing to spend.

George: Really? But it's got electronic shifting!

Me: No.

See. It's all my fault that the economy isn't recovering faster. I won't let George spend $6,499 on a bicycle. I'm so mean.


In other news...



The following comments were overheard at A Day out with Thomas the Tank Engine [pictured above], which Jack must go to every year or the earth will stop circling the sun and life as we know it will end in cataclysmic disappointment. Unfortunately, the train ride features Thomas songs played over and over.

Nick: Am I being punished for something?



George: I wonder if I died on my bike ride and am in hell. We should make all the Gitmo prisoners have multiple days out with Thomas. They'll talk for sure. But it's probably against the Geneva Convention. Cruel and unusual punishment.

Me: Will those screaming toddlers please shut up. Can't they see I have a cold?

Jack [singing happily, loudly, and off-key]: Thomas the Tank Engine, rolling along....

We're in Madison!

We arrived in Madison a few hours ago and checked into our ideally-situated hotel. The room is awesome...a corner room with a curved wall of windows on the third floor. I'd need a wide-angle lens to show you.



We have a view of the Capitol building and, more importantly, Starbuck's. Well, you could see Starbuck's if it weren't for that tree, but trust me, it's there. I've already had a mocha.


George registered, a process that's much easier on Thursday than Friday, when everyone who couldn't come today tries to register. He sailed through, signed the waivers, got weighed, picked up his race chip, transition bags, and such.

Below is a picture of half the parking lot that will be the home of about $5 million dollars worth of bicycles on Saturday.


The scope and scale of this race astounds me every year. Almost 3,000 racers are signed up this year. We'll see how many start Sunday morning.

I bought a Support Crew T-shirt to wear on race day. George refuses to buy any Ironman gear until after the race. He's very superstitious about the race and doesn't want to jinx his chance of finishing by being all optimistic.

He does, however, have an unnatural lust for this bike. I just asked him to tell me again the name of the bike, and he replied with something that sounded vaguely Latin with overtones of Japanese and involving the phrase electronic shifting, I think. If you really want to know, I'll ask him to type it in the comments. Whatever it is, he wants it.


He told me that he would not mind in the least if I bought it for him on race day.

I love him so much. He really knows how to make me laugh.

When Snuggle-Bunnies Goes Bad

George and I lay on the boys' bed last night for Snuggle-Bunnies (our nightly ritual of tucking the boys in and spending what is supposed to be a little quiet time with them). During Snuggle-Bunnies, George and Jack often play a variation on "Got Your Nose!" with Jack stealing various facial parts off George. Last night, it went too far.

Jack: Got your butt!

George, Nick, Me: GROSS!!

Jack (cackling gleefully): I got your BUTT!

George: My butt just farted in your hand.

Jack: GROSS!!

Nick (laughing): "My butt just farted in your hand!" That's so funny! Say it again, Dad!

George: My butt just farted in your hand.

Just wanted you to know I'm running away from home. The testosterone in my house has carried butt/fart humor too far.... I need some estrogen.

Anyone know a good convent that will take a Methodist?

It's Just a Matter of Time

I have mentioned before how thermally incompatible George and I are, but recently, it’s come to my attention that we are also temporally incompatible on several levels.

Consider our mutual interest in history. I love all things medieval and can talk intelligently about the effect of longbows on military tactics in the 14th century, the monastic revivals of the 10th and 12th centuries, the Norse invasions of the dark ages and the resulting linguistic oddities in English place names, as well as the impact of the bubonic plague on medieval sermons. But don’t ask me much about American history because I haven’t touched that subject since 10th grade when I didn’t have a choice in the matter.

George, on the other hand, knows a scary amount of both American and world history covering the past 200 years. He is appalled at my level of ignorance on the more recent past and wonders how I have the mental capacity to stand upright and, you know, walk around without assistance. He has always accused me of being the intellectual snob. I don’t think so. Hmmph.

Anyway, our temporal incompatibility extends beyond history to daily time-keeping. It’s really all the military’s fault. You see, George’s training as an aviator in the United States Air Force deeply inculcated the idea that you live and die (quite literally) by Zulu time, also known as Greenwich Mean Time. George was a weapon systems officer on bombers, so it was his responsibility to tell the pilots where to go, how fast to get there, when to turn, and so forth. It was also his job to drop bombs on target. On time. No exceptions. If he screwed up the timing, the bombs could kill the wrong people.

I seriously don’t know how he handled that responsibility, but I do know that before he went to war, he had nightmares about killing civilians or our own troops with an ill-timed bomb. His nightmares didn't come true, though, because he’d learned his lessons about being on time and on target very well.

For USAF aviators, if you’re not in your seat five minutes early for mission planning, you don’t fly. The rest of the crew will find someone else who wants to fly. George can not turn off this programming even though he no longer flies. He and I are always early to everything, including parties. This freaked out some friends who had said we could come a little early to a dinner party at their new house in another town. Thanks to George, we showed up two hours early because he didn’t want us to be late and we might get lost on the way.

Our hosts were incredibly gracious (the husband was also a navigator, so I’m sure they understood), but the whole experience was so embarrassing. We tried to made up for our egregious earliness by pitching in to help get ready for the other guests…who showed up fashionably late.

George retired over two years ago, but he’s still obsessed with the right time. When we spring forward or fall back, he’s the first to climb on the step ladder to reset our kitchen clock. I’m certain he checks his computer and cell phone clocks to make sure they self-adjust properly. The clocks he never looks at (our bathroom, the stove, the microwave) can stay wrong, but not the clock in his car. It’s definitely set to the correct time all the time.

Months ago, my car needed a new battery. It’s a VW Passat station wagon and I love it, but those silly German engineers designed the innards so that changing the battery takes an hour and can only be done by someone who knows what he/she is doing, which isn’t me. The service station’s parts supplier sent the wrong battery, so they installed it and told me to come back in four days, when they would replace that battery with the correct one.

Do these sorts of things happen to you? Am I the only one?

Anyway, knowing that they would replace the battery, I didn’t bother fixing the dashboard clock since I’d just have to do it all over again in four days. During the wait for my new battery, I had to take George’s GTI for an oil change, so he drove my car. Sure enough, the next day, I noticed the clock in my car was correct. George couldn’t even drive my car for a single day until he’d fixed the clock setting.

Oh, by the way, I did reset the clock in my car for daylight savings time—yesterday.

When I had Nick, I entered the time warp I call Baby Time. I totally lost control of time and was forced to go with the flow and not watch the clock much at all. If the baby wanted to play at 2:00 in the morning, I had very little choice in the matter. Knowing the precise time somehow made the whole thing more painful. Now that both my babies are big boys, time isn’t so warped, but I’ve sort of lost my ability to worry about time. Can you imagine how frustrating this is for George? Poor man.

George is an amateur chef, and I’m often enlisted to help with the more basic preparation, like cleaning green onions and making rice or pasta or mashed potatoes. When I was growing up, my mother never timed her pasta; she went on appearance and taste and whether or not the spaghetti stuck to the wall when she threw it. George’s mom, on the other hand, timed her pasta. After almost 24 years as husband and wife, George still expects me to set a timer for pasta, and he is shocked every time to see that I have not.

Last Saturday night, we had burgers and fries for dinner. George fretted over the timing of the fries I had popped in the oven.

“How much longer on the fries?”

“Twenty-five minutes.”

“Okay, I’ll put the burgers on when the fries have fifteen minutes to go.”

Some time later, he asked, “How much longer on the fries?”

I glanced at the kitchen clock. “About 15 minutes.”

“That can’t be right! I asked you seven minutes ago, and you said, ‘25 minutes.’ It should be 18 minutes until the fries are ready!”

“If you knew, why did you ask?”

When we sat down at the table and started dressing our burgers, I looked around and said, “Oh, no!” I’d forgotten about the fries, ran across the kitchen, and got them out of the oven. They were fine.

The very next night, George asked how long it would take to make the mashed potatoes so he would know when to put the leg of lamb on the grill.

“About 35 minutes,” I replied.

“Is that 35 minutes from putting the water on to boil, or 35 minutes once the potatoes are boiling?”

Long pause. “Um, maybe 40 minutes from putting the water on to boil.”

“Are you sure?”

I wanted to say, “No. No, I’m not sure, and what the heck difference does it make because if everything comes out close, who CARES!?!? It’s not a matter of national security!” Instead, I said, “Pretty sure.”

Then HE screwed up the timing. He put the water for the potatoes on the stove and told me, “Your water is on.” I finished preparing the potatoes, and dropped them in the water. Ten minutes later, I noticed the pot still wasn’t boiling. George had set the burner to low, not high. When I pointed this out to him, he panicked. The lamb was already on the grill, but you’ll never guess what happened.

The meal came together just at the right time and everything was scrumptious. It’s a good thing I was wrong in my estimate of the time for the potatoes.

I’m thinking that somewhere between the two extremes George and I represent on the time-obsession spectrum, there is a reasonable, moderate place where time is everyone’s friend and we can all get along. Neither George nor I are moving toward that moderate place. It was made worse recently by the fact that I lost my favorite watch—a daintily pretty silver-and-gold Bulova I’ve had for about 15 years. Now, the only watch I have is a horridly uncomfortable and bulky sports watch I bought for eight bucks at Target. Needless to say, I’ve been doing without.

Eventually, I will drive George completely insane or, at the very least, burn something in the kitchen.

It’s just a matter of time.

Gratitude Journal #37

Today, I am grateful for this owl who got to fly free once again.



For this man who loves our children, takes amazing pictures, cooks amazing meals, and made it possible for the owl to fly free once again.



For this old dog who still retrieves sticks at the park.


What are you grateful for today?

Strange Adventures with the USAF: Drunk and Disappointed

For previous Adventures with the USAF, click here and here.

As I’ve already mentioned, alcohol is a big part of Air Force life, particularly among lieutenants and young captains who enjoy getting stupid in their off-duty hours. By the time most folks reach the rank of senior captain, they no longer enjoy the after-effects of being stupid and prefer to be designated drivers for the younger guys and gals who are still stupid. It’s sort of strange how killing brain cells eventually makes you smarter, but I quit trying to figure it out years ago. Very little in Air Force life makes sense, and you’ll go crazy trying to make it come out all logical.

Back in 1988, George was a butter-bar second lieutenant intent on killing plenty of brain cells every Friday night. I could see why. The stress of Undergraduate Navigator Training (UNT) and Electronic Warfare (E-Dub) Training was intense. He needed to have fun, cut loose, and do something his mother didn’t approve of. Youth craves freedom, rebellion, and a serious buzz. These young men and women were signing over their freedom and perhaps their very lives to their country and the mindless machine that is the bureaucracy of the Department of Defense. They were no longer Americans with names, just numbers to be slotted into the machine in whatever way the uncaring pencil-pushers saw fit. George was about to learn this first hand.

The goal for most folks in UNT was a fighter cockpit. There were three “tracks” for UNT graduates: fighter, tanker/transport/bomber, and electronic warfare. A random, highly variable number of slots for each track came down to each class. The fighter slots went to the top students: the hot shots with dreams of being like Tom Cruise in Top Gun—only Air Force, not Navy.

Electronic warfare was next in prestige, mainly because if you went through E-Dub training, you still had a shot at a fighter.

Most slots, however, were for navigators in heavy aircraft: the bombers, tankers, and transport planes. These planes were not nearly as sexy as the fighters. Some, in fact, were downright ugly, like the B-52, which was called the BUFF (Big Ugly Fat F-er). Air Force aviators say the B-52 is so ugly that doesn't actually take off, it just scares the ground away. Watch one take off and you'll see just what they mean.

UNT students filled out a dream sheet with their top choices ranked in order of preference. My grandfather, who flew in WWII, warned George that the Air Force looked at your dream sheet and then gave you whatever was furthest from your dreams. Not much had changed by 1988. I doubt it ever will.

George wanted the back seat of an F-15E Strike Eagle, though he would have settled for any fighter in the inventory. George’s UNT class had over 40 students. Five fighter slots came down. He ranked seventh in his class, which meant he didn’t get one of them. He went to Electronic Warfare instead.

Disappointment #1.

At one point in UNT, George should have gone to the flight doctor and been made DNIF…Duty Not Including Flying. He was sick and shouldn’t have flown one of his check rides. But all Air Force aviators avoid the flight docs like the plague (which some of them are, as we found out later). So George toughed it out and stayed with his class. Had he washed back to the next class and finished well, he would likely have been assigned to a fighter because 12 fighter slots came down for that class.

I believe we can call this salt in the wound. Disappointment #2.

By the time that UNT class graduated, however, George was already well into E-Dub training, the classified equivalent of memorizing the Sacramento phonebook. There are lots of numbers and frequencies and, well, electronic stuff to learn, and all of it is classified. The E-Dub training building had no windows. I of course never saw the inside, and during this training, George was able to use the line, “I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you,” which caused me to pull a muscle in my eye from rolling it so hard. Obviously, study materials could not be brought home, so the guys spent roughly 100 hours every day in a windowless building memorizing very important crap.

George was motivated to do well, however, because he could still get a fighter. When the assignments came down the week before assignment night, only one fighter came through, and George was second or third in his class. To reward him for his good performance, he was assigned to be the very first navigator student to receive a slot in the sexy and still relatively new B-1 bomber, which until then had only been given to experienced aviators from the B-52 to reward them for hard time served in the BUFF.

Going to the sleek B-1 wouldn’t have been so bad, but the B-1 slot got TAKEN AWAY by the pencil pushers at the last minute and given to some B-52 electronic warfare officer, so George got that guy's sloppy seconds…the B-52. My husband, who worked so hard and did such a stellar job throughout his training, received the WORST E-Dub assignment available.

Disappointment #3. Are you noticing the trend here?

B-52s are old and slow, and the electronic warfare officer on the crew has very little to keep him occupied during 10-hour training missions. The other crew members—pilot, copilot, two navigators, and (at the time) a gunner—referred to the E-Dub as self-loading baggage. On those long missions, George would eventually find that, after reading the stock of magazines packed in his flight bag and eating his boxed lunch, he could take a nap by wrapping himself around the base of his ejection seat with the hot air vent blowing on him. Then, he could wake up, do his half-hour of actual work for the day, and go back to sleep until just before landing. Oh, the exciting life of an Air Force aviator!

Disappointment #3 led me to the one and only time in my life I got drunk. It goes without saying that George got drunk, too, and I stayed sober for him, walking the dark and empty streets of Rancho Cordova as he processed his disappointment and threw up on the curb. But when I was in the apartment the next afternoon, alone, my sister called. She was experiencing some serious disappointment in her own life at that moment, and we were commiserating. She brought up the idea of getting drunk together via long distance telephone, and it seemed like a good idea at the time.

As one of George’s later instructors might have said, in his delightful southern drawl, “It was a good idea that shouldn’t have seen the light of day.”

It turns out, I am not a fun drunk. I go straight from pleasantly buzzed to hugging the toilet very, very quickly. By the time George got home, he found me lying on the bathroom floor. I mumbled something like, “You always wanted to see me drunk!” He took good care of me, made sure I drank plenty of water, and helped me to bed. Bless him.

Getting drunk didn’t help…a lesson I learned the first time through and haven’t felt the need to repeat. Our disappointment at George’s assignment was acute, but we made the best of it and met a lot of really great people, which I considered to be the best perk of living the military life. After a few years at Wurtsmith AFB in Michigan serving hard time as self-loading baggage in the B-52, he got his B-1.

But he never gave up on his dream to fly fighters, which—as you can probably predict at this point—simply led to further disappointment and drunkenness. But let’s save those adventures for another day.

Lucky Zen State

I am in a Zen state as I reheat leftovers for dinner. We sit down, and the following conversation occurs:

Jack: I want to pee on the floor.

Nick [laughs hysterically]: He wants to pee on the floor!

George: I think he said he wants to be on the floor. What did you say, Jack?

Jack [slight impish grin]: I said, I want to pee on the floor.

Me: You would be in big trouble if you did.

George [teasing]: Yeah, we’ll treat you like a dog. We’ll rub your nose in it and throw you outside. [both boys laugh hysterically]

Me [Zen state compromised]: Let’s not talk about pee at the table.

At the end of the meal, my Zen state has been recovered by George’s brilliant chicken and dumplings. Hoover is begging, so I blow on his face. Dogs hate that, but in his beggarly intensity, Hoover barely reacts.

George: That was mean! Why did you do that to the dog?

Me [still Zen]: Because he’s an obnoxious beggar. [Look at dog, who is totally fixated on the table and more energized and alert than usual]. Are you going to jump on the bed all by yourself tonight, Hoover?

George: He looks like he could. He’s all full of piss and vinegar.

Nick [laughs hysterically]: That’s funny! Piss and vinegar! Piss and vinegar! Ha, ha.

Me: Do not repeat that, Nick.

George: Why not? It’s not bad.

Me: It’s not appropriate for school.

Nick: Piss and vinegar! Ha, ha. That’s funny!

Me: My Zen state is rapidly deteriorating.

George: You live in a house with three boys. Four if you count the dog. You’re lucky to have any Zen moments at all.

Battle Cooking Light

What started off as a simple, exaggerated-for-effect observation about George’s cooking—“You are simply incapable of cooking light”—turned into an Iron Chef Raihala challenge, as I reported last week. George’s reaction should not have surprised me because years ago, when he was young and rebellious, his mother told him to choose a career that was safe so she wouldn’t have to worry about him. He became a combat aviator in the United States Air Force and went to war twice.

Yeah, that’s safe.

Anyway. My comment that he couldn’t cook light threw down the gauntlet for Iron Chef George, who took on Battle Cooking Light with determination but also with a certain level of waffling which didn’t surprise me in the least. At first, he decided to try a mole sauce with chicken. For those who don’t know, a mole (pronounced mo-lay) includes a bit of dark, unsweetened chocolate to add richness and flavor to a savory, spicy, nutty sauce served over rice.

In general, one doesn’t think of a mole as light, but George could have made it light by using fewer nuts (he used toasted almonds), very little oil, and lean chicken. It would still be rich, certainly, but at least relatively low fat. Then we had this conversation:

George: Oh, you didn’t get boneless, skinless chicken thighs.

Me: No, these were cheaper. Do you want me to run to the store?

George: No, I bought two packages of boneless, skinless anyway. I guess I’ll use one of the boneless, skinless packs and the one with skin and bones. It will give the dish a nice flavor.

Me: But you can easily peel the skin off the thighs.

George: No, it’ll give the dish more flavor if I leave the skin on.

Me: But then it won’t be light.

George: No, maybe I’ll cook light tomorrow.

Me: I knew it!

George: If you blog about this, I’ll boil chicken breasts and serve them over plain white rice tomorrow night.

Me: I don’t have time to blog about this until late in the week.

George: You are evil.

So on Saturday, the mole definitely didn’t get a light make-over. It had EXTRA chocolate and almonds, chicken skin, and George knows what else.

Excellent flavor, not so light. No victory for Chef George in Kitchen Stadium.

Sunday, George decided to make a light stir-fry with lean beef and asparagus over noodles. The flavors were strong and spicy, the beef and noodles were satisfyingly filling, and the dish was definitely not fatty. George thought he’d need to use more than two tablespoons of oil (carefully measured) to cook the beef but found the lighter version worked fine. He even decided that his other stir-fry specialties could use less oil without sacrificing flavor, which can only be a good thing for our waistlines.

Chef George wins in Kitchen Stadium, defeating the doubting Susan who is forced to admit she was WRONG! He CAN cook light!

What isn’t good for our waistlines is the sad fact that cooking a light meal seems to have a rebound binge effect on George. He proved he could do it, but this weekend he’s talking about roasting a whole chicken wrapped in bacon and then wrapped in pizza crust. At least he’s not talking about wrapping it in puff pastry and deep frying it.

Now THAT would be high fat.

See you at the gym, folks. It’s my only hope.

To read George's version of this story, please see his blog, Eat, Drink, and Be Merry!

Cooking Light

George cooks Friday, Saturday, and Sunday dinner, often inventing or improvising recipes in our own private enactment of Iron Chef. I rarely cook. I reheat his leftovers. I am happy with this situation, but both George and I have put on a bit of weight lately. Sunday night, George invented a meal which he intended to be light, but it ended up being floured catfish fried in butter and topped with spicy pecans that were also fried in butter with a huge side dish of spicy sweet potatoes fried in, you guessed it, butter.

In fairness, George insists that the proper term here is sautéed, not fried. Looked like frying to me. George said, “That’s because you don’t cook. You just reheat. You don’t know the difference.” He has a point, but sautéed is just fancy French for fried, as he confessed later. Here is an actual conversation after that buttery catfish meal to give you a taste of culinary life in the Raihala household.


Me: George, you are incapable of cooking light.

George: Yes, I can!

Me: No, you can NOT.

George: Nonsense. You’re only saying that because I never have. Name that movie I’m paraphrasing.

Me: Princess Bride, of course. And that’s my point. You’ve never done it because you’re not capable.

George: I’ve just never tried to cook light. I’ve tried to cook delicious. Besides, beans and rice was my idea.

Me: That’s not cooking. That’s making rice, heating up canned beans, and mixing them together. The recipes you invent are never light. Besides, I’m always the one fixing beans and rice, not you.

George: I made light oatmeal cookies when we lived in Boise.

Me: Yes, I suppose you did. [Note: We left Boise in 2000.] But you are not capable of cooking a light meal.

George: You are trying to use reverse psychology on me. You’re challenging me.

Me: No. I truly believe you are simply incapable of cooking light.

George: I made you a delicious salad a few months back.

Me: It was wilted with bacon fat, had a pound of crumbled bacon on it, and an egg fried in bacon fat. NOT light.

George: You are evil. I’m going to make you eat turkey. Next weekend, you’re eating light. I don’t know how, but I’m going to do it.

Me: No, you won’t.

George: Yes, I will. How many meals have to be light? Just one? Surely just one. One would prove you wrong.

Me: True. But you can’t do it.

George: Yes, I will. But just once, to prove you wrong.

Ever since this conversation, George has asked questions like a lawyer looking for a loophole. Who decides what’s light? Do you mean light in calories or just taste and texture? Is bacon light? How about goat cheese?

We shall see.

Random Raihala

Here are some random observations from the past week of holiday fun. Enjoy.

*George is an awesome cook.

*A small boy can create a tsunami in a bathroom and still completely deny responsibility even when there’s a witness. BTW, water stains on downstairs ceilings CAN dry to invisibility, if you’re lucky like we are.

*A random sales associate at Best Buy knew everything I didn’t about the Wii and was hugely helpful. (Dang, Best Buy should pay me for this!) Yes, we ARE the last family in our entire freakin’ neighborhood to buy a Wii. I can’t believe we’re caving on this one. Please don’t judge me.

*Our kitchen table can hold approximately 248 cook books and cooking magazines without collapsing. I kept moving the stacks to the book shelves, and my mother-in-law and George kept moving them back to the table. Like mother, like son, I suppose. Given the quality of cooking the two of them produced, I am obviously not complaining. It’s just an observation.

*The Bon Appetit Special Collector’s Edition: Provence has disappeared in our house. A reward will be offered to anyone who finds it before George expires from despair.

*Four adults in one week produce enough empty beer and wine bottles to fill up the recycling bin and make it mildly embarrassing to put the bin out on trash day. What will the neighbors think?!?

*The movie Fantastic Mr. Fox is deeply, deeply weird. Christopherson is a stupid name for a fox. I practically fell asleep, but George remembers that Whack Bat ends when someone calls “hot box.” Dudes have the oddest ability to remember stupid sports facts, even when the games are made up in deeply weird movies.

*Hiking in the woods on a sunny fall day is a combination of sheer joy (sighting a deer bounding through the underbrush) and sheer parental frustration as boys bicker (Mommy, Jack kicked me! Mommy, Nick pushed me! Don’t touch me! Mo-ohmmmm! I’m tired. I can’t take another step! It’s too steep! I want to go home!). You’d think we were force-marching them up Mt. Everest. (Give me oxygen!!!!) Papa saved the day by taking everyone to McD’s afterwards for french fries. Papa rocks!

*The microscope Nick got for Christmas last year is super cool. It has a light aimed down at the slide so you can look at opaque objects. Nick and Grandma share an interest in rocks, so they looked at Nick’s mineral collection under the microscope. There’s no humor in this, but it was highly cool, in a geeky, geological sort of way.

*When people say they don’t want biscuits, they lie.

*Bacon laid on the turkey curls up at the ends so it looks like Pippi Longstocking. Combine it with the gravy-making genius of Grandma, however, and you get the best gravy EVER IN THE HISTORY OF GRAVY. Burp.

*George tried growing a goatee over the holiday. I do not like facial hair on a spouse as it reminds me of kissing my mustachioed grandfather…can you say, “Ewwwww”? Yeah. He doesn’t care what I think on this issue, but he finally got annoyed with it catching on his pillow as he tried to fall asleep and shaved it off. Thank you, George. Now he’s either lazily not shaving his cranium or letting his hair grow out (can’t make up his mind on that one), and I pointed out that his peninsula of hair (you know, the one in the middle of the forehead that has receding coastline on either side?) has disappeared. He pointed out that it had, in fact, not completely disappeared and can be felt, though not seen, at this point. If he keeps growing his hair out, he’ll have a sad little island of hair surrounded by bare skin right on the top of his head. My increasingly gray hair seems less a problem in light of his hair woes, don’t you think?

*If you turn off the heat to open windows to air out your old-food-scented house and decide two minutes after opening the windows that it is too cold outside and a Yankee candle will have to suffice, you really ought to turn the heat back on. Otherwise, you will awaken the next morning to a 60 degree house. Just sayin'.

*Thanksgiving is a great holiday. It deserves not to be lost between Halloween and Christmas.

*As we tucked the boys in tonight, I realized there are now only 23 days until Christmas. HOW DID THIS HAPPEN!!!???!!!???

*I need a hug.

The Joy of Cooking

It all started with a crock pot.

Back in 1988, after only two years of marriage, George grew bored with my limited repertoire of recipes so, in a desperate effort to broaden our dietary options, he bought a crock pot.

Do you know how infinitely weird it is to see your otherwise testosterone-driven, USAF second-lieutenant “I wanna fly in fighters” husband dancing with glee over a $20 crock pot he bought at the BX? Trust me. It’s weird.

He comes by his innate passion for cooking honestly. His mother is half Italian, which gives her a genetic imperative to cook. She enjoys putting good, rich, plentiful food on her family table, and both her children inherited that joy.

I’m not feeling quite the same level of joy myself. But then, there are no Italians in my family tree, either. My mother taught me to cook, for which I am grateful. Because of her, I can follow a recipe and feel pretty competent in the kitchen. I can pull together a complete Thanksgiving feast without feeling intimidated by anything except the gravy.

Why does the thought of having to make gravy give me anxious hives? I mean, why gravy? It doesn't make sense because gravy isn't terribly difficult or persnickity. Lots of other things are harder to make. Pie crust, for instance. Most people break out in anxious hives over pie crust and run to their grocer's freezer to buy them ready-made. Not me. All through my childhood, my mother would make dozens of apple pies every fall to freeze and give as Christmas gifts. Her apple pies are legendary, and she taught me her secrets so well that my apple pie won a blue ribbon at our church festival.

Of course, I won because I waited until the last minute to bake the pie, and it was still warm when the judges tasted it. (I didn’t strategize this, by the way, I just procrastinated.) No matter how wonderful other desserts are, they simply cannot compete with warm, cinnamon-rich, buttery apple pie. I felt like I was cheating.

I live in America, folks, the land of baseball, apple pie, and Chevrolet. Of those three things, the only one every single man, woman, and child in the country cares about is apple pie. If you want to win a baking contest in America every single blessed time, submit a warm apple pie.

But am I passionate about cooking? Not really. It’s okay, but I’m more of a short-order cook and baker than a true chef. I don’t make up recipes or contemplate the mysteries of yeast while stuck in traffic. Cooking is mostly a chore for me, so I look for ways to make it go fast.

To my great good fortune, my apathetically monotonous menu activated George’s passion for cooking. Even in the early days, he created surprisingly few disasters. Only two have seared themselves into my memory. In case you didn’t know, pinto beans cooked to mush in Italian spices are not delicious. Also, if a recipe calls for two ancho chiles in adobo sauce, don’t use two CANS of ancho chiles in adobo sauce.

Please trust me on that one.

Mostly, however, George succeeds in his culinary adventures, which have increased in both daring and cost over the years. I cannot let him go to our local upscale market unsupervised anymore. Did you know it’s entirely possible to spend $100 on a single meal? Okay, it wasn’t just a single meal because there were enough leftovers to last a week. George is one-quarter Italian, remember. He cooks BIG.

To curb the expense, we started playing our version of Iron Chef. I buy a fairly random selection of ingredients that don’t cost $100, and George has to invent something edible with those ingredients using only whatever else we have to hand. He’s invented some lovely dishes with these challenges, and he has fun pretending to be Bobby Flay.

A dude who makes Julia Child’s French bread and fearlessly tosses a cup of water into his hot oven makes a great husband, but he comes at a price. Whenever I make dinner—let’s say a pot of chili—George will eat it and then tell me what he would have done differently. “Oh, I would have added a hint of Penzey’s ancho chili powder; it would add a more complex, smoky flavor.”

WHAT!? Are you saying my chili doesn’t have enough flavor?!?! You make the freakin’ chili next time, Mr. Flavor Expert!

Of course, he doesn’t mean it like that. He’s a foodie, and he just wants to talk about food. A lot. Like anyone with an obsessive interest, he derives great pleasure from discussing the process, the ingredients, a recipe’s good points and bad points and how he’ll change it next time. He contemplates the complexities of spices while sitting in boring meetings, invents recipes in the shower, plans menus while riding his bike. Sometimes, he even dreams about food.

To fuel these thoughts, he collects books and magazines about cooking. Consider this picture of his cookbook shelves:


Methinks we need bigger shelves.

For a while, George fantasized about going to a cooking school to become a professional chef, but after reading Kitchen Confidential by Anthony Bourdain, he decided that wasn’t a lifestyle he wanted. Instead, he kept buying cookbooks and magazines until he so overflowed with ideas and enthusiasm that he craved a larger audience than little ol’ me. He started his own cooking blog, and posts his inventions and ideas for the world to see.

George uses his blog (Eat, Drink, and Be Merry with Spot) to spread the joy of cooking. I encourage you to check it out, even if you didn’t inherit powerful cooking genes, because finding joy in an everyday necessity really is good for the soul.

This Thanksgiving, George is making the gravy, but I'm making the apple pie. What a great way to share the joy.

Words, Words, Words from the Dinner Table

I lean on the table in a food stupor after ingesting a deliciously huge, medium-rare rib-eye steak. George makes a move to tickle me….

Me: Don’t tickle me. I’m too full and will hurl. I enjoyed it too much to lose it.

George: Well, you could always enjoy it a second time, a la Hoover [the dog, who cleans up his own vomit].

Me: You are disgusting.

George: Yes. I’m a dude. We’re halfway between chicks and dogs.

Me: Halfway?

George: Okay, closer to dogs.

Me: Right.

George: Ewww. You women think you’re soooo superior!

IM Moo, Race Update #3

See that half-crazed expression? It's what victory looks like at an Ironman. It also signals the end of George's odd-year losing streak. 2009 is a FINISH!

George didn't do as well as he wanted, but he did do a personal best at 12:36:46. He finished in 799th place. We'll see tomorrow what the final count of finishers is, but he's definitely in the top half.

We did make a quick trip to the medical tent for some chicken broth and gatorade, but he's fine.

Unfortunately, our friend Keith didn't finish his first Ironman. His race went a lot like George's 2007 Lake Placid race, so we know the disappointment he and Mary feel. Man, it stinks. I'll be checking on several other people tonight to see their finishes, like Rose's husband, and will report those as well.

For now, I'd like to say thanks to all of you who have been reading and following and praying. It's been a blast sharing this experience with you, and I have more to share after we get home...especially photos.

Blessings,
Susan

IM Moo, Q & A

How do they manage the swim? Do they all go at once?

The pros do start ten minutes ahead of everyone else, but there are still several thousand athletes starting the swim at one time. The swim is probably the most dangerous part of the Ironman. People get kicked, hit, pushed under by people swimming over them, and generally treated like spawning salmon. Often, slow swimmers will seed themselves too close to the front, and that makes a bad situation worse.

How/what do they eat? I find it really hard to exercise vigorously for a good while after I've eaten--but they need the energy. I know some marathoners down Gu (or something like it)--is that what IMers do?

They all do different things. Some Ironmen load their transition bags with Big Macs and fries, sandwiches, fruit and other real food. Others, like George, rely on sports nutrition products (drinks, gels, bars), plus the bananas available in aide stations on the course. George uses a custom blended powder that is supposed to help him recover some of the salts he sweats out so heavily. George started his day with a peanut butter and honey sandwich. He’ll end it, more than likely, with a big burger and fries after the finish!

Both times George DNF’ed, he was severely dehydrated and cramping from loss of salt and potassium. He’s a particularly salty sweater, which makes it hard for him to handle heat like they are having today. He seems to be okay right now, but about half-way through the marathon is when he gets in trouble. I’m sitting on pins and needles for his third run split to post.

What is the longest training George did? Would he do, say, a 75-mile bike ride immediately followed by a 15-mile run? (I can't even walk right after a 45-minute bike ride, so I'm in total awe.)

I think George actually trains fewer hours than most IM participants. He tries to push harder rather than longer, but it varies every year. In 2006, he did RAGBRAI (a 600+ mile ride across Iowa in one week), and that helped him finish IM Wisconsin that year. This year, he did several 75-80 mile rides and one 110-ish mile ride about a month ago. Most of his rides are around 50 miles, though. He calls a 25-30 mile ride an “easy spin.” (insert rolling eyes here!)

He does do “bricks”: a ride followed by a run. His are not usually that long, though. The longest run George did was around 12 miles, but he had several injuries this year, so his run training was perhaps slower than usual because of that.

He swims at the YMCA several times a week, and takes his wetsuit out to a local lake for open-water swims a couple of times.

Most years, he participates in several shorter, Olympic distance triathlons starting in May, and some years, he does a half-Ironman. Most IMers would think his lighter training schedule crazy, but it allows him to balance work, training, and family very nicely. He’s very good about spending plenty of time with the boys, and will incorporate Nick’s triathlon training with his own this winter by having Nick ride his bike while George runs.

Any other questions? I'll try to answer them. Once George his back, he may correct my answers, LOL! My perception and his sometimes are different.

IM Moo, Race Day Update #2

Woohoo! George came off the bike just a bit later than when he predicted, and he was running uphill when I saw him. That's just evil for the race planners to have such a long uphill out of T2 (or the bike-to-run transition). Okay, evil may be a strong word, but wow, many of the runners looked beat when they were just starting!

Here he is just catching sight of four women screaming his name.

Here's the smile he mustered for the camera. Good thing I caught it, even if I did almost chop his head off. You try shooting a moving target with a Nikon Coolpix.


The smile went away quickly. He's tired, poor guy. He's just gone 114.4 miles. He's entitled to be tired.

The volunteers had smeared George with sunscreen, and as he ran away from me (up the dang hill!), I noticed he had lots of salt on his black tri-suited butt. I hope he heard me yell "Take SALT!"

A few amusing observations:

1. After a small group of runners passed out of T2 and couldn't hear me, I muttered, "You all still have a marathon to run. You guys are CRAZY!" A woman passing by on the sidewalk replied, "Amen, sister!"

2. If you can't find someone to talk to among IM spectators, you're seriously introverted. Everyone wants to talk, meet and greet, share information on their racer. On Friday, I met Rose, who teaches children with autism and sings professionally. Mary and I ran into her today and spent a few hours waiting for the guys out of T2, along with Rose's friend Kaarina. Put four women together with ripped dudes in sports gear running past, and you've got a recipe for a good time. All we needed was pina coladas, 'cause it was hot. Here's a pic of Rose and Kaarina:

Don't they look friendly? I tell you, I'm just lovin' everyone in Madison today.

3. It's hot. Africa hot. (Name that movie....) Okay, so it's not exactly Africa hot, but it's 82 and sunny. You try doing 140.6 miles in this heat. Just spectating is hot and sweaty work. Ten days ago, NOAA was predicting a high of 64 degrees. They lie. They lie like a bad rug. Oh, for a 64-degree race day!

4. I'll say it again. Ironman athletes are crazy. Insane. Mad. Loony. Nuts. And I love them all. Kaarina's boyfriend, Rich, had just passed through T2 to start his marathon a few minutes before the winner of the whole dang race finished. It's gonna be a long marathon for some folks.

5. This observation is not so amusing. Guys are already DNF-ing. We saw a racer whose race was over around 1:30. Ouch. Another racer came out of the medical tent as we passed who'd clearly been in a bad bike wreck: broken arm and hand, horrible road rash. George has DNF'ed twice and no two ways about it: it sucks. Men and women train hard for the better part of a year, spend gobs of money on gear and travel and registration fees, and sometimes, the outcome isn't what they hoped. Pray for them, please.

More when the race is done!

PS Several people have asked questions about the race. I'll try to answer them all in another post. In case you hadn't noticed, I am hugely impressed by these crazy athletes, and it's more than a little amazing that so many finish this grueling race. I'll share George's training schedule and other Ironman trivia soon. Stay posted!