Cooking is such a gift, isn't it? People that really enjoy cooking are usually pretty cool. They know which foods work together, how to prepare meat, vegetables, what seasonings go good with this or that. They experiment, and are successful at the effort. That's so nice. They smile while they cook, perhaps enjoy some wine, listen to music. It's good to cook.
My children asked me for a snack last night. After the third request I realized they had not had dinner, their mother was out, and I was 'on' for dinner. Oops. The first thing I did was to pour myself another glass of wine to begin the exploration of the kitchen. Liam wanted to help of course, as he is a natural cook. We debated the merits of a few entrees then settled in on my normal culinary expression: macaroni and cheese. To enhance this quality dining we choose hot dogs to be sliced and added to the processed cheese mix and cardboard fresh macaroni. I gingerly placed the franks on a small plate waiting for the water to boil then caught a few minutes of something on the television with the boys. Then it happened - as I return to the kitchen I happened upon a very guilty looking dog, one empty clean white plate, and three missing hotdogs.
Zeke, the Menace, slithered sheepishly low to the ground. It's at these times - caught red handed - that I can pronounce the word 'NO' in my deepest longest dog-tone and get the best guilt-stricken body language out of him. I followed that up with a great big 'BAD DOG' then sent him to the back yard to contemplate his shameful actions.
Liam loved it. He laughed and smiled his cute kid smile then we went about cutting the remaining hotdogs for our exemplary dinner.
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Sunday, July 10, 2011
Muncie 70.3 Ironman
I should have skipped it. Should have just stayed home, watered my yard, drank beer, maybe hit a Crossfit class, but instead I packed up my bike and all the other necessary gear and drove down to Muncie for a half-Ironman distance triathlon yesterday (1.2 mile swim, 56 mile bike, 13.1 run).
This was the third time I've competed in this event. I had a fairly decent swim, strong bike, and a horrible run.
It was a race I'll not soon forget. Lots of lessons learned - like 'don't forget your socks', 'don't forget all your toiletries, including your contact lenses and have to swim blind ', and lastly 'if you are going to do a half-Ironman distance triathlon you should train for the run'. As I walked vast stretches of the run coarse in pain from my under-trained ligaments I thought how supportive I was being for my fellow triathlete's as they ran past me. I imagined them thinking "At least I'm not walking", "look at that poor guy", "I trained therefore I'm running - that poor soul didn't train and he's walking". General thoughts like that kept my spirits up - I found solace in the psychological benefit I was giving others. The mile marker signs became like an oassis in the dessert. The sun was baking my mind and body, but one must carry on. Muncie turned into the Sahara for me. It was a mental test more than anything, because my body was still at home sitting on the couch flipping channels.
I finished. And then I found a shady spot to sit for a moment. After a while I picked myself up and starting walking to transition to get my bike and head for home. I passed the medical tent and saw all the people getting IV's, their blood pressure checked, some dude was being brought in from the course on a stretcher fresh out of the ambulance. They didn't train much either I guess.
This was the third time I've competed in this event. I had a fairly decent swim, strong bike, and a horrible run.
It was a race I'll not soon forget. Lots of lessons learned - like 'don't forget your socks', 'don't forget all your toiletries, including your contact lenses and have to swim blind ', and lastly 'if you are going to do a half-Ironman distance triathlon you should train for the run'. As I walked vast stretches of the run coarse in pain from my under-trained ligaments I thought how supportive I was being for my fellow triathlete's as they ran past me. I imagined them thinking "At least I'm not walking", "look at that poor guy", "I trained therefore I'm running - that poor soul didn't train and he's walking". General thoughts like that kept my spirits up - I found solace in the psychological benefit I was giving others. The mile marker signs became like an oassis in the dessert. The sun was baking my mind and body, but one must carry on. Muncie turned into the Sahara for me. It was a mental test more than anything, because my body was still at home sitting on the couch flipping channels.
I finished. And then I found a shady spot to sit for a moment. After a while I picked myself up and starting walking to transition to get my bike and head for home. I passed the medical tent and saw all the people getting IV's, their blood pressure checked, some dude was being brought in from the course on a stretcher fresh out of the ambulance. They didn't train much either I guess.
Sunday, July 3, 2011
Finn's big moment
I have two children. They are both perfect of course in everyway. Ages ten and eight are beautiful years. Not to slight Liam in the least (the eldest) I have to get in writing what I'm seeing with Finn in the last two weeks. Finlay being his official first name. A good Irish lad.
The boys signed up for Little League again this year. I never played baseball when I was a kid. Mainly due to the contact a throw from my father once made to my forehead. I was just never that good at sports involving a ball. So when my kids wanted baseball a few years ago I was a little reluctant. Even baseball guys in high-school and college were are kind of full of themselves...keep in mind this is spoken from a timid swimmers perspective so what does that matter? Little league is a commitment. Lots of games that take forever, lots of practices in the cold and wind and then later the burning sun. It's a parenting test at times after working all day then immediately running to the ball diamond, skipping your workout, eating a hot-dog from a concession stand and getting home at 9:00pm. Then homework and baths no less. This year it all paid off.
I could go into a tremendous thrilling build-up of how Finn's championship game last week got to the point where he was the last batter at the plate in extra innings, behind by one run, with two outs on the board and two little leaguers on base but I would have to write all morning. There were a few miracles on the field that tied the game in one inning from a five run deficit. Kevin Costner could have been in the stands for all I know. I found myself high-fiving parents in the stands I hadn't really talked to all season that inning.
So, there we were, one run down. The championship game about to be lost, two outs. And Finn was up at bat. I've never followed baseball. Never throught about how tight the situation can get until it struck me as I watched my little boy walk out to the plate (I should qualify that - he is my little boy - but stands nearly 12 inches taller than all the other little boys on the team). I noticed that everyone was yelling to Finn. Coaches and parents alike with all sorts of heart felt advice. I just wanted to whisper in his ear to block it all out, be calm, and hit that ball as hard as you can. But I could tell by the look on his face that he could feel the pressure. All season long he had been the best hitter, or one of the best, and he had become expected to hit. I thought how devastating the rest of the afternoon could be after these pitches or how grand life could be with this triumphant children memory safely in mind forever. He always watches the first pitch, they call it a ball if you don't swing at the 8 year old level. Next he swung with all his might, a beautiful swing, but a strike. Next pitch he did it again, strike. "Oh God", I thought "please don't swing again"...so I got off the bleachers and yelled to him from the fence to watch another ball come in like all the other screaming voices. Next, ball. So there he stood with two strikes, two balls, two outs, and two men on base.
There are pure moments of joy in life. Finn Brooks killed the ball that came his way on his third swing. Sent it far into the left field...then he ran like an angel all the way around the bases for an in-field home run winning the game by two runs. It was a beautiful thing. I was so happy for him, and proud. He stood grinning from ear-to-ear with trophy in-hand saying 'Thank you' to all the congratulations. My good little boy.
The boys signed up for Little League again this year. I never played baseball when I was a kid. Mainly due to the contact a throw from my father once made to my forehead. I was just never that good at sports involving a ball. So when my kids wanted baseball a few years ago I was a little reluctant. Even baseball guys in high-school and college were are kind of full of themselves...keep in mind this is spoken from a timid swimmers perspective so what does that matter? Little league is a commitment. Lots of games that take forever, lots of practices in the cold and wind and then later the burning sun. It's a parenting test at times after working all day then immediately running to the ball diamond, skipping your workout, eating a hot-dog from a concession stand and getting home at 9:00pm. Then homework and baths no less. This year it all paid off.
I could go into a tremendous thrilling build-up of how Finn's championship game last week got to the point where he was the last batter at the plate in extra innings, behind by one run, with two outs on the board and two little leaguers on base but I would have to write all morning. There were a few miracles on the field that tied the game in one inning from a five run deficit. Kevin Costner could have been in the stands for all I know. I found myself high-fiving parents in the stands I hadn't really talked to all season that inning.
So, there we were, one run down. The championship game about to be lost, two outs. And Finn was up at bat. I've never followed baseball. Never throught about how tight the situation can get until it struck me as I watched my little boy walk out to the plate (I should qualify that - he is my little boy - but stands nearly 12 inches taller than all the other little boys on the team). I noticed that everyone was yelling to Finn. Coaches and parents alike with all sorts of heart felt advice. I just wanted to whisper in his ear to block it all out, be calm, and hit that ball as hard as you can. But I could tell by the look on his face that he could feel the pressure. All season long he had been the best hitter, or one of the best, and he had become expected to hit. I thought how devastating the rest of the afternoon could be after these pitches or how grand life could be with this triumphant children memory safely in mind forever. He always watches the first pitch, they call it a ball if you don't swing at the 8 year old level. Next he swung with all his might, a beautiful swing, but a strike. Next pitch he did it again, strike. "Oh God", I thought "please don't swing again"...so I got off the bleachers and yelled to him from the fence to watch another ball come in like all the other screaming voices. Next, ball. So there he stood with two strikes, two balls, two outs, and two men on base.
There are pure moments of joy in life. Finn Brooks killed the ball that came his way on his third swing. Sent it far into the left field...then he ran like an angel all the way around the bases for an in-field home run winning the game by two runs. It was a beautiful thing. I was so happy for him, and proud. He stood grinning from ear-to-ear with trophy in-hand saying 'Thank you' to all the congratulations. My good little boy.
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