“Stop Licking That!”

Posted on January 16, 2013 by ChefJohn

 

The house is quiet now.  Too quiet.  Amy and the kids have been gone for almost two hours, I’ve had my breakfast and now I’m back in bed trying to write.  And that’s when the licking starts.  Sometimes she licks her front paws, other times her bottom and sometimes it’s whatever piece of furniture she happens to be closest to; the rug, the chair, the arm of the Ottoman.  It’s a heavy wet licking sound she produces, over and over and over.  I sit up in bed and look around but she’s in the next room.  I throw myself back on the bed, pull the pillow over my head but I can still hear her.  Slurp, slurp, slurp, slurp…

Our dog Pip is never satisfied with her level of cleanliness, perhaps if she would stay out of the cat-box she wouldn’t feel the need to “groom.”  I like the way my lovely wife describes her; “Bless her little pea brain.”  Pip is a Boston Terrier and she’s probably ten years old.  She’s practically blind due to her cataracts, she’s lost most of her hearing and she recently started having seizures.  It’s the natural process of aging.  Our vet friend claims Pip probably has doggie Alzheimer’s which would explain why she often forgets to drink water and why she also forgets to stop drinking water, once she remembers to start.

Pip found us one day.  She was wandering the streets looking forlorn and lost so we put her in our backyard thinking someone with a leash would soon walk past.  When that didn’t happen we called the vets; then we put flyers out, then we left flyers at Pet Smart and such, then we placed ads in the paper.  Nothing.  Full blooded Boston Terriers don’t come cheap so we were surprised.  Until Pip started eating pine cones, then marbles, a crayon or two, rocks and sometimes she would eat her food.  Often times we would hear the kids scream out from the back yard.

“Pip!  Stop eating that!”

No wonder she was roaming the neighborhood.  She probably had eaten her master’s house key for the last time and gotten a one-way ticket out the front door.  Terriers have wide mouths too so unlike more civilized species of dog with those long snouts; a Boston like Pip can cram something ridiculously large into her mouth.  And that large mouth provides an enormous echo chamber for all of those wet chewing and licking noises that she is intent on delivering.  Slurp, slurp, slurp, slurp….

“Pip!  Stop licking!”

She picks her head up and briefly looks around.  “Was someone calling my name?” Then she returns to her chore.  Slurp, slurp, slurp, slurp…

Years ago I watched her digging in the yard.  She scratched then sniffed the dirt, dug some more, sniffed, dug a little deeper then sniffed again, dug a bit deeper and sniffed again then satisfied she found she found what she was looking for, took a big bite of soft dirt, looked up at the sky in triumph and swallowed.

“Pip!  Stop eating that!”

Now that she’s in her twilight, she doesn’t get out much.  It’s hard to take her on anything but a short walk but we still try.  She spends a lot of time trying to jump up on our bed then trying to muscle up the courage to jump back down.  And she spends a lot of time licking.

Moving is complicated for me.  My left leg is heavily bandaged and occasionally I’m attached to an orthopedic chiller, a little ice chest with a water line running to an insulated pad on my knee.  If I want to get out of bed I have to turn that thing off, disconnect the water line, swing my immobile left leg out then grip my walker or crutches and only then am I ready to hobble through the house.

It’s no use, Pip doesn’t hear me and she’s not stopping.  Slurp, slurp, slurp, slurp…  I go through the process of getting out of bed then grip the walker, stand up and make my way to the bedroom door.  Pip jumps up and looks around but doesn’t realize it’s me until she bumps into me.  The tension subsides, I reach down to scratch her neck and she contentedly tucks her ears back.  I look around then head to my recliner, carefully settle in then thumb through “The Great Gatsby” to find my bookmark.  Pip bends herself next to the aluminum legs of the walker and settles down.  A few minutes later she decides the aluminum needs to be cleaned.

“Slurp, slurp, slurp, slurp, slurp.”

“Pip!  Will you stop licking that!”

Startled, Pip cowers then looks over her shoulder at me as she bumps her way to the cat box.  I look up at the clock, only four more hours until Amy is home.

pipper

Categories: Dogs, Family, Foraging, My Amy, Quiet | 5 Comments

Random Facts

Posted on January 12, 2013 by ChefJohn

As requested by my friend and fellow author, KJ Waters.

 

I’ve had one ambulance ride and they didn’t even turn on the lights or sirens.

I can remember pulling a chair up to the kitchen counter to help Mom cook.

If there’s nasty weather (tornado watch/warning) in the evening’s forecast, I’ll go to bed with a nice pair of clothes handy.  In case the house gets destroyed and I end up on TV at two am, at least I’ll look good.

I’ve gone 55 miles an hour on a bicycle, on a flat road.

Although I took up cycling in the late ‘80s, I never cared for Lance Armstrong.

As a Boy Scout, I learned how to cook cat’s tails, acorns and elderberries.

I applied for the Executive Chef’s position at the White House right after Bill Clinton got in office.

I often consider running for office on a county or city level.

As a kid, I threw up in the White House, while on a guided tour.

My wife often jokes about a pill that would lower my testosterone.

I learned how to waltz when I was a senior in high school.

At a Brian Setzer concert I got up and danced with an elderly woman (a resident of the retirement community I worked for) when Setzer’s orchestra launched into Jump, Jive and Wail.  Security had to ask us three times to sit down; “You kids get back in your seats!”

My wife still gives me goose bumps.

Categories: Cycling, Family, Food, Good Friends, My Amy | 2 Comments

Council Shall Come to Order

Posted on January 9, 2013 by ChefJohn

Inspired by recent events in my town of Simpsonville and with plenty of time on my hands; I imagined that I was the Mayor of Simpsonville and my first city council meeting took place in my bedroom, while I was still recuperating.  With a little inspiration from my aching left knee, our city council’s minutes from December 11, 2012, and my friend Taft Matney, I think my first meeting could go like this:

 

“Thank you all for being here today.” I said while sitting up in my bed. “For this first city council of Simpsonville meeting under the Malik administration, just try and make yourselves comfortable and please, no jokes about my knee or my walker.  I’d like to introduce my assistant just for this evening, Taft Matney whom you may know already.  Mr. Matney, would you please call the roll?”

“Certainly Mr. Mayor, Mr. Hooch?”

“Here”

“Mr. Barndoor?”

“Here”

“God?”

“Here”

“Mr. Taggert”

“Here”

“Brent Musburger?”

“Here”

“Miss Simpsonville?”

“Here sirs”

“Mrs. Kash?”

“Here”

“I’d like to start with a short prayer, would you all mind if we hold hands, maybe everyone can just circle around my bed here.”

Mr. Taggert was puzzled.  “We ain’t supposed to pray, I think it’s cuz we might offend someone somewhere.”

God put his hands on his hips and glared at us then stated, “Well today we’re making an exception, if anyone’s offended then, by Me, we can just take it outside, capish?”

Heads sheepishly looked away as everyone mumbled their acceptance.  Brent Musburger pushed his way next to Miss Simpsonville, reached for her hand and smiled greedily.  God took Brent’s other hand, shook his head then turned to Brent.

“Mr. Musburger, I think you should switch places with Mr. Hooch please and do it quickly sir, my anger burns hot.”

Brent’s pulse quickened as he saw the fire in God’s eyes; he dropped Miss Simpsonville’s lithe fingers then quickly switched places.  God winked at Miss Simpsonville then whispered “I haven’t smote anyone in weeks; it’s a new anger management technique I’ve been working on.”

I coughed enough to get God’s attention then asked if anyone would like to lead us in prayer.  All eyes turned to God who shook his head no.  “Seriously, that’s always uncomfortable for me, anyway I think Malik should do it, it’s his bedroom.”

I exhaled then asked if everyone would bow their heads.

“Oh heavenly Father!”

“Hey you don’t have to yell” said God. “I’m right here.”

“Oh, um sorry Father.”  I lowered my voice.  “Dear God…”  I glanced up to see if God was looking at me.  “Thank you for all the many blessings of this town and this world and I ask for patience, wisdom and a sense of humor for all of us for the next hour and beyond.”

“You’re gonna need it” God mumbled under his breath.

My bedroom resonated with a simultaneous Amen.  As everyone looked about for a seat Musburger sidled to Miss Simpsonville then sat down on the peach crate in the corner.  “So, you’re a beauty queen?  I’m not surprised…”

From my black Ottoman God threw his hands up and fussed, “Musburger!  This side of the room please!”  Brent scurried across the floor and took a spot next to God. I continued.

“Mr. Matney, the first order of business?”

“Well Mr. Mayor, we should start with the monthly reports…”

The councilmen quickly exclaimed “No questions!”

I was jolted.

“Is it your knee hurting Mr. Mayor?” Miss Simpsonville quizzed with a look of compassion.

“No questions about what?” I asked.  Mr. Taggert caught my eye.

“The monthly reports, Mr. Mayor, we uh, just don’t have any questions, see?”

“Uh-huh.” I bit my lip then turned back to Taft.  “Mr. Matney, please continue.”

“If I go by the previous administration’s schedule from December it reads police station water fountain, discussion on a new football field, details on the city’s retreat to Newberry this February, an update from the Garden Club, a report regarding the Miss Simpsonville pageant, the Christmas parade and Christmas at the park both of which we can skip then the police department’s ticket and citation count, collision count, update on our surplus sale, street repair report and an update from our finance and sewer committees.”

I furrowed my brow and looked at the council members.

“So we’re supposed to discuss the water fountain and the garden club prior to the real meaty stuff such as the finance committee report?”

“Yes Mr. Mayor” answered Hooch. “See we wouldn’t our guests such as Miss Simpsonville here to have to sit through all those dull issues like a sewer report.”

I caught Taft’s eye and shook my head, he agreed.  “I feel the same way Mr. Mayor, if we’re going to have guests that want to get in front of Council then why shouldn’t they have to listen to the sewer report?  It’s their city, too.”

“All in favor?” I asked.

“Ooh!  I am!” said a delighted Miss Simpsonville

“Good enough for me, from now on the city business takes precedence over the interest of our one time guests; you may have a seat, young lady.”

Musburger patted the floor next to him, inviting the right hand of God to clamp down on his shoulder.

“Ouch, OK you’re hurting me now, oh Jesus that hurts.”  God rolled his eyes.  The veins in his hands popped from the pressure he applied.  “OK, ouch, ouch, sorry about that, I didn’t mean to take anyone’s name in vain.  Mr. Mayor, why don’t we carry on?”

God looked at me and nodded his head slightly.

“Mr. Matney, I do believe-”

“So I need to wait for how long then to discuss the police station’s water fountain?”

“Oy vey!” exclaimed God.

“But God, don’t get upset but these folks been trying to get the water fountain fixed for months and it keeps getting discussed but nothing happens. Why hasn’t it been done?”

“Mrs. Kash, don’t you want to wait your turn?  Please?”

“Forgive me Mr. Mayor but—“

God cleared his throat and offered, “My department, not the mayor’s, but please carry on.”

Mrs. Kash flushed with embarrassment and put her bejeweled hand to her mouth.  “Oh Dear Lord I can’t believe I said that!”

In the history of throat clearing noises, the one created by God at that moment in time would have set new standards of effectiveness; that is if anyone had ever bothered to record the effectiveness of such noises.  Mrs. Kash, realizing her sin, immediately passed out, her limp body headed towards my swollen knee. I grabbed the sheets and desperately tried to pull myself out of the way but there was little friction between my gym shorts and the 200 count cotton sheets.  Taft gasped and Brent hollered “Look out!”  My bed effortlessly slid towards the wall allowing Mrs. Kash to thud to the floor.

God winced.  “Oh, that’s gonna leave a bruise” He said to no one in particular.  Taft turned to him with a look of question.

“Hey she missed the mayor’s knee, right?”

I exhaled a sigh of relief and smiled.  “Thank you, Father.”

Taft and Hooch went down to the floor to revive Mrs. Kash, Barndoor found some ice in my kitchen while I asked Taggert about the water fountain, maybe we could get this solved before she came around.

“Well we’ve got two fountains; I wonder which one she means?”

“Well Mr. Taggert, describe these fountains to me.”

“Well sir, one’s inside the station and the police officers use it but it’s been broken for a while; we’ve got a water service and a bubbler with those five gallon jugs.  On the outside of the station we’ve got one of those old school yard jobs and that thing’s a mess.  We need to yank it off but we get a lot of kids walking past looking for a drink so we let them use the bubbler inside but that water ain’t cheap.”

I took a deep breath and thought for a second.

“So Mr. Barndoor, who’s your favorite plumber?”
Oh that’d be EFG Plumbing, Craig’s the man”

“OK then let’s call Craig right now and tell him in exchange for yanking out both fountains, repairing their foundations and replacing only the fountain on the outside that he is now the official plumber of the city of Simpsonville for the next 60 days.  I’ll have Richard put a link to his website on the city’s page and he can put up a sign over the outdoor fountain that says graciously provided by EFG Plumbing.  All in favor?”

Mrs. Kash was coming around; God had an ice pack on her forehead, he held her hand and asked if she was OK.  He removed the ice pack then wiped her forehead with his thumb, the bump that had started to form just as suddenly vanished.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I feel fine, I uh, feel wonderful in fact.”

God and Taft lifted Mrs. Kash off the floor.  Musburger decided to help by brushing off her backside, drawing the hottest of glares from God.

“Mrs. Kash, we have good news, while you were away Mr. Matney and Mr. Taggert solved your fountain issue, so perhaps you’d like to call it a night?”

“Oh my, well thank you Mr. Mayor, thank you all so much, I don’t know what to say.  I do believe I would like to take an early leave but there is the matter of the City’s retreat, I really wanted to make a presentation on that, it’s going to be here before you know it, right?”

God nodded and looked my way.  “She does have a point Mr. Mayor.”

The rest of the attendees nodded in agreement and gave their attention to Mrs. Kash who drew in a slow breath and fluffed her hair.

“Tonight has been so interesting Mr. Mayor, perhaps the most memorable city council meeting yet.”  Mrs. Kash drew in a deep breath and straightened her broach.  “Our retreat will be at the Newberry Opera House and it’s a two day affair.  Everyone is welcome to attend.  Sign up early because you won’t want to miss the activities we have planned, we’re gonna go fishing and take a tour of the Peterson Dairy, that’s if the weather holds.”  I glanced towards God and he winked assuredly. “And that night we have dinner followed by Porgy and Bess at the Opera House.  When you sign up online we would appreciate it if you would make your selection early, steak, chicken or fish.  Now if everyone will excuse me, the night is young.”

Mrs. Kash smiled and made her way to the front door.  Musburger jumped up and followed her, offering to walk her to her car drawing yet more ire from the Lord. “Duty calls gentlemen.”

Taft swept his arm out and smiled, “By all means Father.”

God strode out of my bedroom and as he crossed the threshold he advised us to get the chicken.  The front door opened and closed.  Miss Simpsonville stood up and smiled as she also took her leave.

“Mr. Mayor, thank you for a delightful evening and I believe I can just put everything into a power point and email it to you, would that be OK?”

My bedroom cracked from a blinding flash of lightning and the house shook immediately with a tremendous rumble as if being shook by the hand of God, which was entirely possible given the night’s guests.

Everyone standing threw themselves on the floor.  As the rumble subsided, they slowly picked themselves up.  Miss Simpsonville was clutching her heart as she tried to catch her breath.  Taft stood up and brushed himself off and mumbled something about the lack of a housekeeper.

“I am not going out in that storm” gasped Miss Simpsonville.

Taggert, Hooch and Barndoor all laughed heartily.  Taft offered Miss Simpsonville his right arm then patted her hand as she wrapped her left arm through his right elbow.  He turned to me and winked then confided to her.

“Actually I believe you’re perfectly safe outside.”

Categories: Comedy, Good Friends, Religion, Satire | 5 Comments

My 2nd Liebster Award

Posted on January 6, 2013 by ChefJohn

This one comes courtesy of my good friend KJ Waters.  KJ is the author of the upcoming mystery Stealing Time.  The Liebster is an informal award given to a blogger/writer as a sign of admiration and it comes with a significant cash award.  KJ has promised me that my check is in the mail.

liebster award

1 What is your favorite movie and why?

That’s a tough question but maybe “Patton.”  George Patton was the only general that the German military actually feared but he was misunderstood by our government and our own press corps often took advantage of his political incorrectness yet without him the war in Europe could have been much different.  George C. Scott’s portrayal of this greatest Army general of the second world war won him an Oscar; which he turned down.

 2. Who is your favorite author and why?

William Faulkner.  I’m from Louisiana and majored in English, who else is there?

 3. What is the concept behind your blog?

For years I used to tell stories to myself; I would concoct a narrative just based on the tiniest of elements: a short introduction, the honk of a horn, the sound a bicycle’s tire makes at 25 mph.  And now I have a place for those stories.

4. What is your favorite meal?

I love crayfish from Louisiana, boiled with Zatarain’s and a cold Abita beer

5. What would you describe as your biggest personal accomplishment?

Marrying my Amy.  She is quite special and we’ve been married for 25 and a half years.

6. Why are you so awesome? I ask this because I chose you, I think you’re pretty fab.

I have a very vivid imagination.

 7. What is your favorite household appliance and why?

Our Kitchen Aid stand mixer.  I bake a lot and love our mixer.  Our Aero Latte coffee frother is a close second.

 8. Boxers or briefs:

Boxer style briefs

9. What is your favorite holiday and why?

Easter.  The resurrection of Jesus Christ is the most significant event in all of Christianity

10. What is your favorite restaurant? Why? 

Gramercy Tavern in NY.  Come with me on our next visit and you’ll see why.

 11. Which question above was the hardest to answer? Why? 

I have a lot of favorite movies; The Right Stuff, Hoosiers, Sound of Music, Elf, The Best Years of Our Lives, Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, The Dish Mary Poppins, Shawshank Redemption, The Devil’s Brigade, Young Frankenstein,What Did you Do in the War, Daddy…and on and on.

 

And now to pass the Liebster Award on I nominate some of my personal favorite cooks and writers:

Jenni Field, “The Online Pastry Chef”

Marina Sbrochi, “Stop Looking for a Husband”

Marilyn Warner, “Things I Want to tell My Mother”

Cheryl Bennett, “Pook’s Pantry”

Lisa Ondrovic, “It All Started with an Easy Bake Oven”

Nichole Livengood, “The Gap Creek Gourmet”

Angie Tillman, “Phickle’s Pickles”

So my friends it’s now your turn to pass on the award to some worthy friends and of course, your check is in the mail.

 

 

Categories: Family, Friends, Good Friends, July 4th, My Amy, Salt Water Beach, Uncategorized | Leave a comment

So How Did You Hurt Your Knee?

Posted on January 4, 2013 by ChefJohn

“Don’t go in there John!   The propane tanks are going to go off!”

I hesitated.  Yeah, yeah, tell me all about the propane tanks now, some photographer he was.  The window panes shattered as the fire leaped from the building yet through the crackle of flames I distinctly heard the panicked “meows” from dozens of terrified kittens.

“I need your towel, Kate.”  Miss Upton jerked the towel from her bikini’ed body and wrapped it snugly around my shoulders.

“Save the kittens, John.” She pleaded.

She leaned in to kiss me on the cheek but I dashed away, time was much too precious to waste and I was a happily married man. I raced up the steps of the Kate’s Home for Homeless Kittens, gripped the rail, lifted my body, pointed my feet at the door and threw the weight of my body at the door.  The frame splintered and the door crashed to the floor of the office with me landing in a heap.  I picked myself up, covered my head with the towel and though the air was heavy with soot and toxic fumes, the heavenly aroma of that towel was delicious.  I ran through the office stopping to pick up an enormous goldfish tank.  “Come on before you’re bouillabaisse.”  I kicked open the door labeled “Homeless Kitties” and my heart sank.  There were two cages, each measuring four feet across and five feet high and each held at least a dozen frightened kittens.  The flames snapped towards me. There was time for one trip out of this burning building and I had to make a choice, which cage of kittens would it be?

Kate screamed from the lawn.  I glanced out the window and saw her with the garden hose.  “There’s no water pressure!  I guess we used it all up with the wet t-shirt photo shoot.”

I shook my head and mumbled sarcastically, “I guess so.”  The kittens screamed, their alarmed voices sounding like, well, like terrified kittens that were trapped in a fire.  I bent down and lifted the cage.  It was an easy 150 pounds owing to the hand-dug kitty litter that Miss Upton prefers.  No sooner had I lifted the one cage did the kittens in the other cage scream out for mercy.  Damnit!  The flames leaped out from the drywall so I quickly lifted the solitary fish out of the tank, placed it under my tongue then tossed the water on the drywall, buying myself a few seconds.  I gripped the first cage of kittens and placed it on top of the other cage, yanked off my belt and strapped the cages together.  I inhaled deeply, squatted down, gripped the scorching hot cage on the bottom and lifted it waist high then tried to remember which way was out.  I turned for what I thought was the door then realized the smoke was so thick I might not find my way.  I took a step forward and to the right and the kittens screeched out, sounding like a Banshee at midnight.  I stopped, turned to the left, took a step forward and the kittens purred so I took another step then another.  My quads, pecs and deltoids were burning from the strain, and I was certain that carrying all this weight would possibly leave me with permanent muscle or bone damage.  I desperately wanted to draw a deep breath but the room was filled with the toxic smoke of burning bikinis and size two sundresses.  Just a few more steps; as I neared the door I heard Kate’s voice call out “This way John!”  I tumbled out the front door and sprawled across the grass.  The cages popped open and dozens of grateful kittens ran right to Kate.  She gathered them into her bosom and tried to kiss every one of them.  I choked, coughed then rolled over.  The nausea washed over me just like a salt water wave dousing a discarded bikini on a Caribbean beach.  I fought it off, breathed deep then passed out.

“John!” Kate screamed.  “Oh no!  John are you OK?!”  She gently put the kittens down and rushed to my side, cradled my head then listened for the beat of my heart.  The fire department pulled up, lights flashing and sirens wailing.  Kate wet her lips, tilted my head back and drew in a deep breath.  The kittens mewed incessantly.  I opened my eyes then reached for her hand.  “I think it’s just a stress fracture.”  I gasped.  “On my left femur, at the knee.”

Her eyes twinkled as the firemen raced past dragging their hoses and axes and offering their apologies.  I coughed again and the goldfish popped out.

“Oh Goldie!  You saved Goldie too!”

A handful of kittens climbed over me, their sandpaper tongues enthusiastically licking me in thanks.

“So you don’t need mouth to mouth resuscitation, John?”

“No ma’am.”  I rolled onto my back and coughed.  “Just an orthopedic surgeon.”

 

Categories: Comedy, My Amy, Satire | 13 Comments

A Christmas Present

Posted on December 30, 2012 by ChefJohn

Mary Katherine was petrified and she wasn’t going anywhere.

“Mary Katherine, your team needs you, come on sweetheart, I know you can do this.”  She shook her head no.  She was wringing her hands and beads of sweat had bubbled up on her forehead and upper lip.  Yet I was certain that if she would just get out on the court she would be fine.  I smiled and patted her hand.  “OK sweetheart, maybe a bit later.”

Six weeks prior Mary Katherine had showed up for her first practice with our church league girls’ basketball team.  Although she had never played the game before she’d done well on her soccer team and was a competitive swimmer.  She was the daughter of very good friends of ours and her father had confided in me that she will likely be nervous about getting on the court but she’s a good athlete.  After a few practices Mary Katherine was handling the ball reasonably well and had picked up the mechanics of shooting.  She was listening.  And even better, she practiced at home.  By the time our first game rolled around she knew the game and her responsibilities on the court.  She certainly wasn’t going to be a point guard any time soon but she understood defense, kept her eyes up, and could shoot and pass as well as some of the girls in their third year of playing.  Yet all the practice in the world cannot prepare a ten year-old for their first basketball game in such a confined space.  During practice a gym can be enormous; nine little girls may feel as if they’re in a castle with those soaring ceilings, gargantuan windows, gaping doors and massive light fixtures.  At game time however, a gym can be downright claustrophobic.  That castle shrinks dramatically when stuffed with two full teams, whistling referees, cheering parents, screaming friends and players waiting for the next game.  And unlike in soccer, everyone is crammed right to the edge of the playing surface.  As we took our seats on the bench, the tension on Mary Katherine’s face was clear so I made the decision to start her.  My assistant agreed; let’s get her out there right now.  When we huddled up and she heard the line-up, she shook her head no.  Her teammates encouraged her but she was petrified and was so nervous I was afraid she may throw up or burst into tears so I relented.  As the game went on her teammates took turns asking her to go in, all to no avail.  When the final whistle blew, I smiled and told her she would be ready at the next game.  On the way home I asked my daughter Holly if she had any ideas.

At our next game I pulled my starting forwards, Rebecca and Holly, aside.  Just prior to the start of a game, the teams gather around center court, hold hands and say a short prayer.  I asked Rebecca to stand on one side of Mary Katherine and Holly on the other.  The team thought Holly would start as small forward but immediately after the prayer Holly squeezed Mary Katherine’s hand, told her she was ready then ran off the court while Rebecca held tight.  Mary Katherine was visibly shocked.  Rebecca offered encouragement.

“Stay opposite me on the court and you’ll be fine, OK?”  Mary Katherine hesitantly nodded then turned to me with a look of betrayal.  I smiled and clapped for her.  The referee held the ball for the tip-off and off we went.  As the teams went at it, all of the lessons learned in practice fell into place and Mary Katherine was soon comfortable and playing hard.  She ran, blocked, passed the ball to the open player and even set a pick.  She did have an opportunity to shoot but passed the ball away after taking a look at the goal.  When the quarter ended she ran off the court smiling as big as only a little girl can.  In the next game she was eager to go in and I reminded her not to be afraid to miss.  “I don’t care if you miss so long as you take the shot.”  When she got her opportunity she cut from the wing to the outside edge of the shooting lane, took a pass from the guard, turned to the goal and shot.  By her stance I knew that ball was going to drop.  At that age girls need to use their entire body to get the ball to the goal and she did exactly that.

Point your feet, knees and shoulder at the goal, come up straight and don’t let go of the ball until it’s over your head and you can see the goal.  Push the ball away with the fingertips of your shooting hand then pretend to drop your fingertips into the net.

The net snapped as the ball moved through, her teammates and family erupted and Mary Katherine practically skipped down court as she took up her defensive position.  Did we win that game?  Honestly I don’t remember but I can still see the smile on that little girl’s face.  The hug she gave me at the end of the game almost knocked me down.

Mary Katherine and her family moved away the following year.  They were recently in town visiting family over the Christmas holiday and we were all able to get together.  She’s practically a young woman now; she beamed when she saw me then offered me a hug. Although she’s in eighth grade, she’s running track on a high school level and doing very well.  When I quizzed her on her favorite track discipline she smiled and counted off the events.

“I can do anything.”  She confidently replied.  “I like the 100, 200, 400, all the relays and even the long jump, whatever the coach asks I’ll do.  The meets are so big and last so long but they’re a lot of fun and I just love it.”  And she still knows how to smile.

MKJ

Categories: basketball, Family, Good Friends, Parenting | 2 Comments

Thankful

Posted on December 24, 2012 by ChefJohn

For my beautiful wife of 25 years.

For my two kids, even though they’re both presently teenagers and at times bear more resemblance to the Martian visitors in Mars Attacks!  Both of them have the ability to be kind, understanding, courteous and thankful–just not on the same day.

For my extended family.

For my many friends both here in Greenville and across the world.

The basketball team that I coach.

For my Church and the schools where my kids are learning to be responsible adults that will someday earn a living thereby supporting themselves, though that occasionally feels like a dream.

For beautiful sunrises, chocolate souffle, the smile of a pretty girl, music, the ability to work up a sweat, summer tomatoes, great writers, reading glasses, yeast-risen bread, poetry, the surgeon that will very soon fix my knee, bacon, bubble bath, Kathryn, farm fresh eggs and Champagne.

For the many gifts that my Creator has lovingly bestowed upon me.

For the people that have trusted in me to deliver a project or proposal.

For the many favors that have been granted to me and my family.

Merry Christmas!

 

Categories: Bacon, Family, Good Friends, Merry Christmas, My Amy, Religion, Wine, Yeast | 8 Comments

Sharon, will you go out with me?

Posted on December 18, 2012 by ChefJohn

 

It took me twenty minutes to make the ten minute drive to the bank.  My palms were sweating and my heart was racing as I finally came to a stop at the drive through.  Sharon waved and smiled, pulled the microphone close and said “Hi John.”  I fumbled with the metal cylinder, inserted my deposit and a brazen note that said “Will you go out with me?” then hit the green button.  I took a deep breath and waited.

Sharon was a year older than me, a senior in high school when I was a junior.  She was clever, polite and oh so pretty.  During English class I would often glance her way hoping that she would do the same but she was usually paying attention.  We exchanged pleasantries and opinions of certain authors or books but it never went beyond that.  She was dating a football player, an ill-mannered one at that.  One that was quick to belittle, mock or threaten anyone he didn’t approve of, especially when that person was complimented by the English teacher.

“Mr. Malik, your essay on F. Scott Fitzgerald was exemplary.”  Cue the sneers, eye rolls and crude sexual pantomimes from the football player.  Sharon though, would turn to me and smile.  What on earth did she see in this guy?  That summer I heard that she had finally broken up with him.  Two weeks later she started working at my local bank, as a teller in the drive through window.  The time had come but I couldn’t just walk in and ask her out. When asking a girl out, timing and technique were critical.  What may have worked for Robin wasn’t going to work for Sharon.

And now, many years later, I find myself in that same metaphorical boat.  I’m looking for an agent for my novel and damn if I don’t feel like I’m 16 all over again.  The process and emotions are so eerily similar.  I plot, plan and carefully script the query to my novel hoping that the object of my desire will say yes please, show me a bit more.

“I’d love to take a ride in your car, yes John; I’ve dumped that ill-mannered football player and I’m looking for a sensitive, clever, athletic type just like yourself.”  I know she’s out there.  I’ve met plenty through my online dating ritual.  I open up their websites and read their mini bios.  “My name is Janice, I absolutely adore books and I’m on the lookout for a heroic, well-muscled and well-equipped fireman to spark a steamy, contemporary romance.”   Nope, she won’t do so it’s onto the next agent, then the next one then one more until I come across Rebecca, and she looks very promising.  Her photo was taken at a fresh market, cases of apples just off her right shoulder.  Hhhmmm…she likes to cook, she mentions a few of her favorite cookbooks and she’s looking for a well-crafted love story.  Now we’re getting somewhere.  I look over my query letters.  I have several so I send her the one that mentions chocolate cake and doughnuts and point out that I’m a chef that has written a love story.  I just know her eyes will bloom and her heart may skip a beat.

“He’s a chef that’s written a love story– Oh my!”   She’s going to love me, I just know it.  I’m certain she’ll say yes; I’d like to see more.  But weeks later she says “no” then I’m 16 all over again.  I’m crushed; we were perfect for one another so why did she say no?   What was it about me that she didn’t like?  Is it because my novel is set in a retirement community or perhaps because I used the word Alzheimer’s?  Or maybe she was really looking for a football player and not a chef.   The scenarios tumble through my conscious until it’s time to move on.  And unlike in high school there’s no best friend to relay her reasoning; you’ve just got to shrug it off and move forward.  It’s back to the search, looking for agents that have represented authors in my genre.  Just like in the game of love, this requires persistence.  I’ll get there, I know I will.

My heart was pounding and the bile rose up from the pit of my stomach.  Sharon opened the metal cylinder and went about her routine of making yet another deposit.  Then she saw my note and looked at me–and laughed.  She covered her mouth with her right hand and laughed.  Damnit!  My heart sank.  She caught my eye through the bullet-proof glass, smiled that gorgeous smile of hers, reached for her microphone and said “Yes, John.”

 

Categories: Doughnuts for Amy, Literary Agents, Retirement | 7 Comments

A Review of Lowcountry Boil

Posted on December 9, 2012 by ChefJohn

Are you looking for a clever murder mystery?  One with a unique sense of place and enough quirky characters to make the cast of The Big Bang Theory take notice. Can you deal with a ghost as a central character? And I don’t mean a ghost in the traditional sense, one that fades in and out on a whisper and holds the same mass as the aromatic vapors of a warm chicken pot pie.  Nope.  This ghost comes and goes when summoned, holds conversations with a dear friend and plays an integral part in a tightly knit crime drama.  If you can let yourself go long enough to enjoy the preposterousness of the ghost of a 17 year-old sworn to protect the fictional island of Stella Maris, just north of Charleston, SC, then you’re going to love Lowcountry Boil, the debut novel of Susan M. Boyer.

Elizabeth Talbot, Liz to her family and friends is a private investigator in Greenville, SC.  Greenville is the practical, earnest and diligent sister city to the old-world sultriness of its shore-bound cousin, Charleston.  Liz has left her family’s salt water history to make her own path in Greenville.  She’s a private investigator that has partnered with her ex-husband’s brother and has made her own way in life, far from the ocean’s tides and familial opportunities.  She doesn’t plan on moving home until her brother Blake, the police chief of Stella Maris, informs her that their recently deceased grandmother didn’t die from a fall but was murdered on the steps of her Lowcountry beach home.  Liz doesn’t hesitate; she packs her car, stuffs her 9mm handgun into her designer handbag, plops her dog into the right seat and heads down the highway intent on bringing the murderer to justice.  In no time Liz has her manicured hands full trying to juggle her brother, her ex-husband, an ex-lover, her mom’s chicken and dumplings as well as her ghostly high school friend, Colleen.

She moves into her grandmother’s house, renews old friendships and digs up more than a few juicy family secrets that at times border on the ludicrous.  That is, unless you’ve lived in Charleston and heard the whispers, been privy to the tales of fraud and degeneracy and read the headlines of yet one more act of greed and corruption that has taken place just in one family.  What is it about the tug and pull of salt-water tides that cause a brother to turn on a brother or a family to murder one of its own?

Mrs. Boyer has cooked up a clever mystery full of felonious real-estate developers, long festering family wounds, moonlight skinny dips and pimento cheese.  It’s a simmering gumbo of a story full of spice, salt, heat and shrimp.  She had me guessing, detouring for a few laughs then doubling back for another clue right until the last chapter.

Lowcountry Boil was published by Henery Press in September of 2012.

 

Categories: Great Books, Salt Water Beach | 2 Comments

15

Posted on November 26, 2012 by ChefJohn

 

Father and son, both shirtless, we stood in front of the mirror, razors in hand.  He carefully mimicked my actions as we applied a thin sheen of Gillette’s best before he hefted the razor suspiciously.

“You don’t need to rush this,” I offered.  “These blades may be incredibly thin but they’re unimaginably sharp.  So take your time.”

His dark brown eyes and muscular frame belied his years.  Is he really only 15?  The past year he’s put on 20 pounds, maybe more.  Football, wrestling and his high school work load have molded him, softened some of his impetuous edges.  He openly discusses the future and his chances of attending the Naval Academy.  He’s self-aware, considerate and thoughtful even though he’s still prone to the occasional burst of ridiculous irrationality.

“Like this son, draw the blade straight up, slowly though.”

I see him as a toddler, running to me in his bare feet, he’s laughing as he climbs into my lap, twists his bare feet to me and asks, “dickle mine deets daddy.”

He carefully drew the razor up the length of his neck leaving a path through the cream then twisted the razor under running water, his eyes followed my hand as I slipped the blade across my cheek.   “Puff your cheeks out, just a bit, this helps even out the contours and you’ll get a smoother finish.”  The bruises from his last game are almost healed.  I lift my chin and he followed suit as the razor glided across the scar left by his first real bicycle ride.  The blood flowed freely out of that cut as I applied pressure and comforted him on the sidewalk.

“Pay attention OK.  You should always be ready to kiss a girl.”  He listened intently.  “Your mother, grandmother, girlfriend or aunt; doesn’t matter which girl but you should be smooth as possible around your lips.  Women will notice a scruffy kiss, they may not flinch but they might not enjoy it either.  Ah, but when they pull you close and their cheek lightly brushes against yours and your skin is smooth and supple.”  I briefly closed my eyes and slowly inhaled.  His eyes moved back to his reflection as the blade hesitantly navigated the valley between his upper lip and nose.

“And you never know how important that kiss may be.”  He nodded in agreement. “Now turn the blade sideways and gently draw it across the corner of your mouth, very carefully.”  He watched me, then followed suit.

“Dad, have you ever shaved with a straight razor?”

I hesitated.

“Well yeah, in Manhattan, I stopped in at this salon.”  I looked at him carefully.  “This gorgeous woman gently shaved me with an antique Roberson straight blade.  It only lasted a few minutes but it was so memorable.  She ran the back of her fingers across my cheek when she was done; to make sure I was smooth.”  I gently nodded and turned to him.  “You should be so lucky.”

He drew the razor across his chin one last time.

“Now don’t wash the shaving cream off, just wipe it off with a clean towel.  A good shaving cream is full of conditioners and aromas so you want that to stay on.”

He ran the back of his fingers across his cheek then turned to me and smiled.  Happy Birthday son.

 

Categories: Family, Men being men, My Amy, What's really important | 5 Comments