If You Can Name the Object in that Baggie Over there, then Mister, You’re a Better Man than I

My father dropped by my apartment this past Sunday night. Now, I don’t want to sound ungrateful or anything since it was really good to see my dad, but I didn’t have a whole lot of warning to his visit. My parents called Thursday night to let me know that he was stopping by on his way up from Georgia to Maryland. And, as I live in Chapel Hill, North Carolina, I was in a very favorable midway point where he could stop and rest. That and presumably my dad wanted to visit his youngest son whom he hadn’t seen since Christmas.

My dad happens to be a great guy, who is lots of fun to hang out with, so I’m quite lucky in that regard. Well, mostly he’s awesome when he’s not making me do yard work or enlisting my help in cleaning his garage (his power tools produce an ungodly amount of saw dust, trust me). Since he was visiting my at my apartment, which has neither yard nor garage to speak of, I felt relatively safe. But I only had three days to prepare things for a visit, and considering the fact that I’m a bachelor, my apartment isn’t exactly the model of clean living. In fact, I’m pretty sure Martha Stewart would have a coronary episode if she were to ever set eyes on my place. Even her mastery of floral arrangements could do little to improve my ramshackled living style.

Luckily I had plenty of free time on Sunday afternoon so I forced myself to do what under normal circumstances would be unconscionable: I cleaned my apartment. Now I know what you’re thinking, but no, I did not just shove all the cluttered bills and magazines and everything else into my closet. That would have just compounded matters when the next morning I would have the need to dress myself from clothes in said closet. Well, ok, so I shoved some of the clutter into my closet. But most of it I either threw away or found it a proper place. Granted, the “proper place” for most of my muddled crap was the garbage can. Or as it is more formally known as, in the case of my apartment, the garbage corner.

Sure, there had once been a mere garbage can in my kitchen, sitting in the space between the end of my cabinets and the edge of a sofa from the kitchenette (I don’t own a real table or anything even remotely resembling kitchenette or dining room furniture, so I have a sofa instead, and you know what, it works for me). But over time, and through my own sanitary ineptitude, the pile of trash grew beyond the inadequate container that attempted to hold it all. Before long the entire space between the cabinets and the sofa became filled with McDonalds take out bags and DiGiorno’s Pizza boxes. Did I mention I’m a bachelor?

Needless to say, it took several trash bags to rid myself of the curse of the garbage corner. It’s gone for now, but who can say when it will return? And trust me, there is no “if it will return”, it is most definitely a question of “when will it return.” Beyond all of that, I washed some laundry, and did my best to tidy up the place. For most people, that would include cleaning the bathroom. Luckily for me, I keep my bathroom pretty well clean every month. Let all of you single guys out there take note. If you leave your kitchen a mess when a lady caller comes to visit, that’s ok. Girls normally expect a guy to be messy; it’s just in our nature. But when the time comes for her to use your facilities, either to answer the call of nature, or more hopefully, to clean herself up for something a little more intimate, she’s going to be desirous of a cleansed and cleanly bathroom. My theory: keep the restroom cleaned and keep the ladies coming back. Now that’s just a theory, so do with it what you will.

Now my dad’s visit was a pleasant one, if not particularly short. But I’m sure he’ll be stopping by on his way back to Georgia after he finishes with all the preparations needed for my parents to move to Maryland this summer. Though it’ll promise to be another brief stay, I’m looking forward to it. Heck, my apartment is already cleaned, so I don’t have to worry about that this time around.

Though, the one thing that has been worrying me is my refrigerator. There’s nothing wrong with the fridge’s mechanics mind you, it’s just what’s inside the cooling machine that frightens me. I never got around to cleaning the thing out before my dad came to visit, and needless to say, it has been a long, long time since I’ve bothered to rearrange the contents of my fridge. There are things in there that I believe would best lie undisturbed. On the up side, I did manage to toss the three half gallons of milk that had been taking up space inside for varying lengths of time. On a sadder note, I’m quite disappointed that the older cartons of milk never managed to grow legs and save me the trouble by walking out of my apartment. I figured if I waited long enough, it could happen.

So now I have a question for you: What is the approximate shelf life for condiments when stored at chilled temperatures? I only ask because, like most single men, my fridge is not full of real foods like meats, cheeses, breads, fruits, or vegetables (see: The Food Pyramid) but instead, is stocked plentifully with ketchup (both bottled and fast food packet variety), various flavored and yellow mustards, pickled relish, hot sauce, honey, lime juice, mayonnaise, Miracle Whip (why I have both of those I may never know), an assortment of jams, jellies, and fruit preservatives, and the most manly of condiments, Worcestershire sauce. Seriously, besides the fact that no man alive can spell that name correctly without the aid of a cooking dictionary or Google (which coincidentally spells far better than Microsoft Word), there is no practical use for the condiment.

Oh sure, you might use a few drops of the brown sauce for crafting home made hamburgers to set on the grill, or in a recipe for Bloody Mary mix (though I still haven’t found the nerve to force myself to drink tomato juice and vodka …), and I personally use Worcestershire sauce when cooking sloppy Joes, you know, for the nights that I don’t microwave a Hungry Man pre-made TV dinner. Even in its severely limited usage, every man I’ve ever known has had a full bottle of the sauce in his fridge.

Yet my original question remains. How long will these condiments last? Most have been in my fridge since I moved here, which was well over a year ago. Hell, the tub of margarine in the back of the fridge is most likely of the same acquisition date. And I’m pretty sure that can of peanut butter has been in my pantry for even longer. I’m not going to die if I eat anything from in from my fridge or pantry, will I? That’s just the sort of question that would probably keep me up at night, if I didn’t regularly drown my brain cells in fermented beverages. Thank God for alcohol.

It’s probably best that I don’t even go into detail about what’s in my freezer. I mean, I know for a fact that the bag of pre-boiled shrimp has been frozen in there for longer than nine months. Even when completely iced up, food goes bad. Those crab legs probably aren’t edible either. So yeah, I am in a painful need of a total cleansing of my food stocks. Unfortunately, I don’t think I’m quite up to the job. This sounds like woman’s work to me. Now, I don’t say that because I’m a chauvinistic pig (and believe me, I truly am), rather I would much prefer it if some person, who is most decidedly not me, clean up my sullied and over-spoiled edibles.

If you think you’re that person, please contact me immediately. You can be assured that there will be rewards and ample compensation. By which I mean you can eat anything out of my fridge, freezer, or pantry that you want. Seriously help yourself, I won’t be touching any of it any time soon.

The Cadbury Creme Crisis

Yesterday I slipped off into dusky darkness of night for a secretly planned covert mission. The date was April 10th, two days past Easter Sunday. The mission: seek out and acquire discounted Easter candy still sitting on store shelves. Mission status: unconfirmed.

I’m sure you are all aware of the wondrous joys of the varying Easter Day candies out there. There’s everything from sugary peeps to sweet flavored jellybeans to milk chocolate bunnies. But I wasn’t there for any of that. This particular assignment had me looting for the very best in Easter candies. The royalty of the chocolate realm. That’s right, the Cadbury Egg.

There is something regal about the thick chocolate coating and the smooth creamy inside goodness of a Cadbury Crème Egg. It’s chocolate and sugar and… and well that’s pretty much all there is. But what more could you want? As far as I’m concerned Cadbury Eggs are by and large the top of the line not only when it comes to Easter candies, but any kind of confectionary at all. It’s just that damn good.

So now you see why I was lurking around local grocery store yesterday. I need me some sugar-happy awesomeness. And unfortunately, I wasn’t able to feed my sugar addiction. I don’t know if you can tell, but my hands are shaking at the keyboard even now when I type this. The store was out of Cadbury Eggs. The bastards didn’t have any left. Oh sure, they had all sorts of other sugar related sweets, but I didn’t want any of those second rate Easter goodies.

I need to get one thing off my chest right here and now, while I’m still frustrated and unsatisfied enough to think it’s actually important. To be perfectly honest with you, I’m not all that partial to peeps. I mean, seriously, what the hell is up with peeps? I swear the things taste like chalk. They’re supposedly sugar covered marshmallows in interesting shapes, but I always found them to be more of an insult to my digestive system. If I ruled the world, I’d put peeps on a banned list of foods that could never be served. It would be right up there on the list right next to refried beans. Hey, if you grew up with my brother, you wouldn’t want to see refried beans on the table ever again.

Oh, there were plenty of those peeps there at the grocery store, that’s for sure. They were there in assorted colors, shapes, and flavors. Apparently chalk has differently flavors now. There’s regular sugar flavored chalk, chocolate flavored chalk, and some sort of mint flavored chalk as well. Have you noted my complete and utter disdain for what I consider the redheaded step child of Easter candies? Good. Let’s move on then. (I still think they taste like chalk, damn it!)

I realize that Easter is a holy holiday of sorts and all I have so far only talked about candy. That may have something to do with my thriving need for chocolate coated sugar goo, or it may be that I don’t have a whole grasp on this “Easter” thing. Now, I’ve never been a religious person and I don’t go to church. I’m fairly certain this means I’m going to burn in hell for my sins, or whatever equivalent afterlife awaits me. But that’s ok, I’ve more than come to terms with that. Keeping all that in mind, I have come up with my own interpretation of what the true meaning of this Sunday holiday is all about.

So Jesus died on a Friday and they now call that Good Friday. Why someone would deem it necessary to name the day Good Friday to celebrate the torture and death of their lord and savior, I will never know. Easter is supposed to take place on the third day of the death of Jesus whenhe mysteriously rose from the dead, exited his tomb without moving the giant stone covering the door, and began to pass out chocolates and painted eggs to all of the little boys and girls.

Ok, so I know this isn’t 100% correct. Back in 33AD they hadn’t quite discovered chocolate yet. Chances are, the reborn Christ was passing out shoots of sugarcane instead. I think it might be important to note right here that I have never actually read the Bible. I hear it’s a very popular book and has been translated into more languages than any other literate work, but in my defense: it's a really really big book. Can you actually expect me to read that whole thing? Though, I have heard good things about the parts with the smiting and the hailing bits of fire and brimstone and whatnot. Now that does sound like an exciting read.

Maybe Jesus didn’t pass out sugar and colored eggs. Maybe he truely did rise into heaven to join his Father. Or maybe some grave robbers came and stole his body in the intervening time. Honestly, I don’t know, I wasn’t there. And neither were you, so don’t go trying to correct me. What I do know is that about 2000 years ago a man died. His hands were staked into a wooden cross and he was hung up and left to perish. Now, two millennia later, I get to eat Cadbury Crème Eggs in his memory. And for that, I am eternally thankful. That Jesus guy is ok with me.

Of course, right now I am noticeably without my Cadbury Egg in all its gooey goodness and sweet, sugary splendor. That’s ok though. Today is another day. I will reactivate my mission and go on my convert prowl once again for my coveted prize. It’s nearly the same as your kids looking around the yard and the house for hidden eggs on Easter morning. The only perceptible difference is that I’m willing to stab someone in order to get my egg. Nothing matters except the egg. Not sleep, not work, not money nor health. I will get my egg.

As you can see, I’m going slightly mad with the mere thought of it. So I’d best be on my way. Although, it just occurred to me that as of this minute, I crave that damn egg more than I crave sex. And let’s be honest here, as a 23 year old male, sex is an absolute necessity. I guess it’s best not to dwell on that fact. The sooner I get a Cadbury Egg in my mouth, the sooner my desire is satiated.

If you happen to know of a place in the Raleigh-Durham-Chapel Hill area that one might be able to procure said delectable chocolate coated egg, please, don’t hesitate to contact me. I will do anything it takes to get my hands on one, and I do mean anything. (Note: the word “anything” in this context does not actually encompass all forms of conduct. The author reserves the right to define the word “anything” in this context as “sex with a beautiful woman” or “sex with two beautiful women” or “lounging in a large hot tub, drinking extravagant wines, eating only the finest of foods, and smoking a Cuban cigar, while having sex with two beautiful women” whenever he deems fit. The author is also not responsible for any loss of limbs to any bystanders while he is in hunt for the currently elusive Cadbury Crème Egg. Void where prohibited. All rights reserved.)

Aprons Are for Nancy-boys

So I’ve had a little bit of free time lately, and I decided to use it to do something productive. Yesterday was clean up day. I figured, after about three months, it was finally time to clear out the mountain of Wendy’s and Hardee’s take out bags that were piled up on top of my trash can. No seriously, the pile was almost as tall as I was. It was getting to be a chess match between me and the fragile prehistoric mound-like edifice I had built. Will one more bag fit on top without everything toppling over? Can I go one more day without having to take out the garbage? These are the questions that plague my mind daily.

So I loaded everything up into four separate trash bags and took everything out. Yes, four trash bags for a one bedroom apartment. I’m not a dirty man, I’m just lazy. Hey, I take my trash out once every three months, that means I’m being clean enough, right? You know what, do me a favor and don’t answer that.

But yesterday was about oh-so much more than taking out the trash. In fact, my dirty clothes had been building a mound society of their very own. Normally I have to pull the hammer out of my tool box so I can use the claw side of it to rip apart the garments that have become cemented together in my laundry basket. I’m actually surprised that the amount of time and pressure exerted upon my dirty clothes in the laundry basket doesn’t fuse two articles together to form some sort of mutated freak of apparel. Luckily that hasn’t happened. Nor did I have to resort to using tools to separate my clothes. For some strange reason, the laundry basket has remained next to my washing machine since the last time I did clothes instead of returning to my closet where it belongs. Hey, I’m lazy, remember.

So instead, I found a large mound of dirty clothes lying on the floor of my closet blocking me from access to my dresser and whatever else I might need. Normally that would be a bad thing, but it’s been at least six months since I folded and clothes and put them away. I have developed a perfectly intellectual system for my clothing cycles. The smelly wrinkled clothes on the floor are dirty. The wrinkled clothes laying on the futon are clean. And of course, if it’s on the floor and it doesn’t smell, it gets relegated to that grey area where it’s ok to wear as long as I’m not going on a date. Well, it’s probably ok to wear on a date as long as I’m not trying to impress the girl.

So after starting a load of laundry, taking out the trash, and cleaning a few dishes (the nice thing about fast food is that you don’t have too many dishes to worry about) I decided to bake a batch of cookies. See, there’s this recipe for double chocolate cookies that I’ve been meaning to try since I’ve never actually done a pure chocolate cookie recipe before. Hey, I enjoy baking. Now I know what you’re thinking, but this does not make me a woman. Guys can be domestic too you know. So before you start making fun of me, let me just remind you that I’m 6’2”, 190lbs, an avid hockey player, and I could totally beat the crap out of your boyfriend.

I think my forays into the mystic realm of bakeries is well documented. So suffice it to say, I pretty much know what I’m doing. And as luck would have it the cookies turned out rather well. I’m enjoying them at least. It was a pretty small batch I made up so I most likely will not be sending any out to friends, which is a break from my normal routine. I believe in sharing, I’m nice like that. Just like when a friend of mine is dating a girl who has a physically attractive sister/roommate/friend on the rebound, I expect them to share. Like I said, it’s the polite thing to do.

I look back now and I see a much cleaner apartment and I feel an odd sense of accomplishment. Granted, it’s not exactly what most of you would normally call “neat” or “clean.” There’s still junk lying out over the coffee table and who knows what sitting on top of the kitchenette bar (seriously, I’m too afraid to find out). Hey, a there’s only so much domestication a guy can do before the NHL All-Star Skills Competition comes on. And yes, I’m that big of a hockey freak that I watch the skills competition every year. What can I say, I love hockey.

Unfortunately, I won’t be able to watch the All-Star game tonight. It comes on at 8pm Eastern Time and I have my own hockey game to play at 9pm. This game is important too since we have a chance at winning that would put us at 2-2 for the season. That would be huge when you bear in mind that we only had two wins all last season combined. I’m not afraid to admit that we suck. And you know what? I’m ok with that. We’re getting better, and with some luck we could finish this season at .500 or better. That’s the goal at least.

In the meantime I should probably finish what I started yesterday. My apartment still hasn’t been totally cleaned up, but you know what, screw it. I’m too lazy. Besides, what did you expect? If you want to see clean and tidy go call up Martha Stewart. If you want to see an apartment that revolves around pizza, beer, and video games then you’ve come to the right place. Now if you’ll excuse me for a minute, I need to go grab another beer…

As a final note I wanted to give some kudos to ESPN commentator Mike Ditka for being the only person on ESPN (both on TV and on ESPN.com) to pick the Bears (DAA Bears!) to win the NFC Championship game over the New Orleans Saints. I’m sure he had personal reasons for picking the Bears to win, but nevertheless, he was the only one who got it right. The rest of you football journalists should pay attention. Mike Ditka is smarter than you. Oh, and Rex Grossman is still my hero. Laugh at me all you want, but he’s in the Super Bowl and you’re not.

Pork, Chicken, and Steak, Oh My!

Do you want to know what’s been bothering me lately? Ok, I know you don’t care, but I’m going to tell you anyways, because that’s just the kind of man that I am. I’m the kind of man that’s more important than you are, so listen up, and you’d better listen good too. Here’s the thing: I don’t trust vegetarians. I know this is totally random, but bear with me for a few minutes.

I know a few people who are vegetarians, and I’ve been pretty considerate and kind and doing all that understanding crap. But honestly, I just don’t get it. Now don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against vegetables. In fact, I eat vegetables all the time. Hamburgers usually come with lettuce and tomato on them, French fries are made from potatoes, and I usually get onions and green peppers on my Philly cheese-steak. But what is the deal with people who don’t eat meat? Not only is it incredibly tasty and immensely satisfying, but meat provides essential vitamins and nutrients that are hard to find anywhere else. Do you know how many beans you have to eat to get your daily supply of protein and iron? Honestly, I have no idea, but I’m just going to assume that it’s a huge amount, since it’ll make my case just that much stronger.

So why is it that I don’t trust people that don’t eat meat? What have vegetarians ever done to me to make me weary of them? Well, nothing really. I mean, besides the fact that they decided, of their own free will and accord, to not consume the wonderfully meaty and delicious creatures of this planet. I just can’t understand that. I don’t know why someone would voluntarily not eat meat. Think about it, there is just no rational explanation for it, which is why I don’t trust vegetarians. What solid reason is there for passing up on some good old fashioned Carolina barbeque? There is none.

Oh, I know what you’re thinking, that those veggie eating fiends have perfectly rational reasons for not partaking in the most wholesome part of the food pyramid. Let’s take a look at these so called “reasonable explanations” for being a vegetarian. Some of those leaf eaters say its healthier being a vegetarian. They say that meat is too fatty and you’ll gain too much weight and unwanted cholesterol when you eat meat. Well that’s true if all you do is sit on the sofa eating nothing but Taco Bell and watching Dr. Phil. The problem is, these crazy vegetarians are eating their meat all wrong. They should go back to the old fashioned way of eating meat: by hunting wild animals down with nothing but a spear and a knife. Seriously, there’s nothing like a three hour long hunt to work up an appetite, and it helps keep off those unsightly love handles. Just a note though, it’s not considered hunting if you end up eating veal.

Another wacko theory is that the cows we raise for beef produce too much methane which adds to the greenhouse gasses that are destroying our atmosphere. Well, I agree that greenhouse gasses are a problem and that global warming is something we all need to deal with. Although, I’m not sure eating nothing but leafy green vegetables is the way to solve that problem. I mean, think about it. If you left those leafy greens in the ground to grow, instead of eating them, they’d mature and do that photosynthetic thing where they turn greenhouse gasses into energy and emit live affirming oxygen. So to all you vegetarians out there: Thanks for eating up all of our natural filters for greenhouse gasses. Good job.

Some vegetarians will tell you that they don’t eat meat because they love animals and they’d hate to eat the cute, cuddly animals. Now that doesn’t make a lick of sense. In fact, I’d go as far as to say that dog is, in fact, not man’s best friend. The pig is man’s best friend. I mean, look at all the things he does for us: bacon, ham, pork, pork chops, pulled pork… and the list goes on and on. But honestly, it doesn’t matter how cute the animal is, you were born to eat meat. God gave you incisors for a reason, to rip apart the charred flesh of the lesser creatures. So get off your lazy butt and eat some pork. Otherwise God will be mad at you for not using what he gave you.

And what the heck is up with tofu? Why are people trying to replace perfectly good meat with that stuff? They make everything from tofurkey for thanksgiving to tofu-dogs for cookouts. Tofu-dogs? Now who in their right mind would refuse to eat a classic American hotdog? Terrorists, that’s who. Now I’m not saying that the Japanese, who invented tofu and use it in a variety of culinary delights, are terrorists. Far from it. But you know those Americanized flavored varieties of tofu that you see in the grocery store, the ones you’re too afraid to go over and look at because you think all your friends will call you a sissy vegetarian for eating them? Those are made by Al Qaeada. So if you’re eating that flavored tofu, you’re supporting terrorism. You vegetarians make me sick on so many levels.

Now if you’re an astute reader (and since you’re still reading this I can assume that you’re not a vegetarian and therefore you are an astute reader) then you probably noted that I referred to tomatoes as being a vegetable back in the second paragraph. If you missed it, then go back up there and check it out, its ok, I’ll be right here when you get back. So if you’re really astute, and I’m sure you are (unless you’re a vegetarian, in which case I don’t want to associate with you terrorist sympathizers), you’ll note that tomatoes are not a vegetable, but rather a fruit, scientifically speaking, of course. However, I was taught, growing up, that tomatoes were vegetables, but somewhere along the line, someone came in and changed it up on me. I think it was those shifty vegetarians. I don’t have any proof of it, but frankly, I don’t trust them.

I’m still going to call the tomato a vegetable, however. This is because in the US Supreme Court Case, Nix v. Hedden, the highest court in this country declared the tomato a vegetable. You can use all the science and botany you want, but that doesn’t trump the Supreme Court. And I for one will follow the Court’s decision because I’m proud to be an American, unlike those vegetarians.

Now I think you know why I don’t trust vegetarians, and I hope you don’t trust them anymore either. They’re a plague on this country as they descend like a pack of locusts to devour our crops and leave nothing but a barren wasteland behind. I for one will not stand for it. In fact, I’m going to show my patriotism and my love for this wonderful, this free, this brave country, this land of opportunity and liberity… by eating a hotdog.

To Health, Happiness, and Fast Food

I am a bastion of healthiness and wellbeing. I am in tune with my body and everything it needs to survive and flourish. I just thought you might want to know that. Unfortunately, even though I know what my body needs, I don’t always see fit to give it the required nutritional supplements. So basically, I was being facetious in that first sentence. I’m not healthy, I’m actually rather lazy.

I could blame the problem on the fact that there is a Hardee’s and a Wendy’s right down the street from me. Or that there is a Bojangles and a McDonald’s not too far away either. But is it really the fault of fast food companies that I am eating poorly? Yes, it is. Well, actually no it isn’t. It’s just easier to blame it on fast food chains. Otherwise I’d have to blame my problems on myself, and I’m not really all that great at taking responsibility for my own actions.

But really, I think we should start at the beginning. The major problem isn’t the proximity of fast food joints. My problem is that I have yet to go grocery shopping. Seriously, it’s been like a month. One look in my fridge and you can easily confirm that I’m a single guy. Every bachelor has a fridge with several different kinds of condiments, but no real food of any sort. And no, leftover Chinese take-out does not qualify as substantial real food.

So, upon opening my refrigerator door, you will see a bottle of ketchup, a bottle of mustard, a bottle of Worcestershire sauce (and yes, I had to get the bottle out of the fridge in order to spell it properly), some pickled relish, a squeeze tube of mayo, three cans of beer, and about a pint of milk that may or may not have gone bad already. Seriously, I’m afraid to open it and find out. Luckily for me, I cleaned out the fridge, more or less, about a month ago. It’s a good thing too, some of the stuff I had in there was look really, really nasty. It wasn’t exactly what I’d call edible. And of course, the fridge is devoid of any fruits of vegetables whatsoever. This isn’t because I don’t like eating my veggies, it’s that I just don’t trust vegetarians.

I’m pretty sure I’ve spawned new forms of life in the back of my food cooling unit, but I had to throw those in the dumpster. That may sound cruel to you lovers of prokaryotes out there, but let me assure you, I’m only insuring that the fittest forms of mold and bacterial life are allowed to thrive on this planet. And yes, this is important. I know some of you think that mold growing on food is icky and yucky. Well, that may be, but just remember that penicillin is a form of mold. And it was the discovery of penicillin that helped the Allies win World War II. Too bad fungus can’t be awarded the Medal of Honor. So just remember, the next time you take an antibiotic, you’re ingesting good old fashioned mold. Yummy.

So now you know the conundrum that I’m in. I have no food in storage at my house, so if I’m hungry, I have to go elsewhere to get it. Of course, I could go grocery shopping. But that would take valuable time and effort. And of course, I only think to go grocery shopping when I’m hungry. So why would I want to wait to buy food, then take all that time to cook it up when I can go and get something already prepared and ready for me to eat right now? This is why lately I have ended up at Wendy’s drive through window. What can I say? I’m a sucker for the 99 cent menu.

I have to say though, I have been doing one thing lately that is very healthy. I’ve been drinking plenty of water. In fact, it’s about the only thing I drink these days. Occasionally I’ll have some juice or Gatorade (or milk if it hasn’t turned into cottage cheese yet), but the vast majority of the time, its water. The benefits of this are twofold: One, water is cheap, so I don’t waste money on soda’s like I used to. And two, I’m not drinking down empty calories and needless amounts of sugar. I also don’t drink near the amount of caffeine that I used to. Which means now, if I have a Cherry Coke any time after 2pm, it’ll keep me awake pretty much all night.

How healthy can a substance be if it keeps me awake until four in the morning? Well, caffeine is a natural product that is found in over 60 varieties of plants. So it won’t cause you to go blind or deaf like NutraSweet might. The downside is that caffeine acts as a natural pesticide that paralyzes and kills certain insects that feed on these plants. Congratulations! You’re drinking pesticide. Isn’t that just super?

Although caffeine is relatively safe for humans (apparently we can metabolize the compound rather efficiently compared to insects), there are still some unwanted side effects. Prolonged use of caffeine can lead to irritability, anxiety, insomnia, and hyperreflexia (yeah, I have no idea what that is either). Caffeine can also increase the amount of acid in the stomach and therefore can cause peptic ulcers. So yeah, large amounts of naturally occurring pesticide are harmful to you. I’m glad we were able to figure that one out.

Just remember what you read here the next time you down a Red Bull or Mountain Dew. I may be surviving off of Wendy’s Super Value Menu, but at least I don’t have over-caffeinated symptoms. Well, ok, I might be just a slight bit irritable. But that is only because I find about 90% of humanity to be extremely annoying or incredibly ignorant. And ignorant people are annoying. So just remember, if I seem irritable, it’s not because I just chugged an entire two liter bottle of Live Wire Mountain Dew, it’s because you’re an idiot.

But you’ll have to excuse me, I’m getting awfully hungry just sitting here. I think it’s time to go out and pick up some food. Don’t you worry about me though. Even if I succumb to the siren’s song that is the fast food industry, I will still be able to live a healthy life. I plan on working off all of those calories that I consume today. I’m playing football later tonight. No, not the football with the running and the passing and the tackling. I’m talking about video game college football. There’s nothing like laying back in a recliner and playing some good old fashioned hard hitting All American football. Hey, my thumbs can burn off all the calories I need. Honestly, running outdoors is totally overrated.

The Things I Do for Food

Well, Saturday I did the unthinkable: I used a kitchen appliance other than the microwave. I know, I know, there are inherent dangers involved when setting foot in the kitchen with the actual intention of cooking. But I was not daunted. I did not waver. I happen to have renters insurance, so if I end up burning the whole place down, it’s covered. No worries.

Ok, so it’s not like I was going to war, I was only baking cookies. Making cookies from scratch is one of the few things besides micro waving pizza rolls that I excel at. But don’t let the sweet and tasty nature of the cookies fool you, the entire experience was a journey, and not one to be undertaken by the light of heart. However, if you have the fortitude to read onward, I will take you through that journey, step by step, in hopes that someone out there will learn from my endeavors.

First off, I entered the kitchen and was immediately besieged by a foul stench. The source of this noxious odor was already known to me. A pile of dirty dishes sat in my sink looming above me, casting a shadow over my kitchen much as Mount Vesuvius shadowed the ancient Romans. And as the Fates would have it, my dish washer was broken. Well, it’s always been broken, and I just haven’t gotten around to getting it repaired. Washing dishes by hand isn’t that big of a deal, is it?

So I wielded my mighty sponge and extra strength dishwashing detergent and I ambushed the decaying stack of kitchen debris. However, my best efforts were quickly thwarted when the sink refused to drain and it filled to the brink with hot water. But no, I had come too far to turn back at my first set back, so down went my arm into the scalding pool of water. After a few minutes, I managed to clear out all of Tuesday’s Rice-a-Roni Special that was clogging the pipes. As the water level gradually dropped, I breathed a short sigh of relief. Then onward I pressed scrubbing each dish harder than the last and after a considerable amount of time, and no small amount of vigor on my part, all the dishes were cleared from the sink.

With my first foe skillfully removed from the field of battle, I turned to my next opponent. For once, luck was on my side. I had all the necessary ingredients in my pantry for my recipe, which is great because some of the spices I use cost almost $10 for a .9oz container. And that’s just ridiculous.

Sugar, eggs, shorting and other ingredients piled into a large bowl. I prepared my electric mixer for the one specific task its creators forged it for… mixing. Although my mixer is quite capable, I do wish it had more power. I was thinking it would be so much more efficient if I put in a gasoline powered internal combustion engine to replace the underpowered electric motor it currently sports. Think of it, a mixer with 15 horsepower could do some real damage. It could probably be used to make some baked goods as well from time to time.

I hate flour. It’s white, it’s powdery, and it has a tendency to fall all over my kitchen like the first fall of snow in the winter. But flour is needed to make just about everything in the baking world, so there’s no getting around it. Once I opened the flour container, the fine powder erupted out of the top, spewing forth like the blighted ash from a volcano and covering not only my kitchen, but my face as well. I don’t think I’ve ever had a carbonated beverage explode with such ferocity. I hate flour.

Now that my kitchen looks like what I can only imagine is a Columbian drug cartel’s mixing room, I realized something important: I forgot to preheat the oven. So I set the oven to the usual 350 degrees Fahrenheit, and I began to fill up the cookie sheets. Rather than sit around and wait for the oven to heat up, I turned on my TV and watched some playoff hockey. Ah, there is nothing the reaffirms ones manliness like a good game of hockey. Well, maybe a few rounds of Halo 2 on Xbox Live, but since I don’t own an Xbox, hockey it is.

The oven light turned off alerting me that it was time. I pulled down the door to the unholy furnace and was greeted by waves of heat emanating from liquid hot magma. I tossed the first sheet of cookies inside shuddering at the thought of what strange chemical processes were occurring within my new concoction. A bare nine minutes later I pulled the sheet out and replaced it with the next one. What were once shimmering balls of goo were now flat and rigidly solid. I briefly wondered if I had created a new force of malevolence in the world. But one taste test confirmed it: they were thoroughly cooked, but not to the point of getting burnt, and oh so delicious!

Now the smell of death and decay began to pass from my kitchen. It was replaced with the sweet fragrance of ginger and cinnamon (I was making gingersnaps; it’s an old family recipe). But I was not done yet, there was much cleaning to be done. Bits of cookie dough, flour, sugar, and who knows what else were strewn about my kitchen counter, as well as the floor, the walls and even the ceiling. I don’t know how I got stuff on the ceiling, and to be honest, I don’t think I want to know.

I quickly equipped a dish rag in each hand and utilized my “Super Double Fisted Ninja Scrubbing Attack.” You can laugh all you want, but by adding the word “Ninja” to the name, I succeeded in making the technique twice as effective. You should try it out sometime.

So, two periods after I had set out on my journey (approximately 40 minutes plus TV timeouts), I had reached the end. The cookies were done and sealed away, the kitchen was clean, and I had my revenge that I had sought for so long. Ok, so there wasn’t really any “revenge” going on, I just thought it would go along with the rest of the epic journey motif. Therefore, until I again must hazard the strange and monstrous appliances that haunt my kitchen, I will leave you with this one bit of advice… I hate flour