Food – Regular Guy

Choose Your Setting

brian — Sat, 12 Mar 2022 17:10:46 +0000

Generally, I embrace change. I feel like some situations cause me to rise to the challenge and make me a better person.

However, getting a new toaster might not be one of those times.

We needed to make this change. I will 100 percent concede that. But I might have more than a few issues with the adjustment.

First of all, Maria bought a stainless steel toaster. She used a gift card she received for Christmas so I really get no say in this part of the matter.

I just know that I will manage to sully the shiny surface with fingerprints without even touching it. i have that kind of effect on things. She has put up with my general untidiness for more than two decades. Will this be the breaking point?

I exaggerate, but it will cause me stress, especially when I will do my best to clean the thing, but not do it as well as she would.

Beyond the whole “it has to stay shiny” thing (which I support), there is the whole matter of learning just what the number settings mean.

Sure, the manual defines what setting to choose for light, medium or dark, but what standard is the person who wrote those directions using?

We did do a test with a frozen English muffin and determined that it needed about three and a half minutes somewhere between 3.5 and 4.5. But I put toast on 2.5 the next day, and it only toasted for less than 2 minutes, barely reaching “light” status.

This is important stuff, people. So please show us some grace as we navigate this important challenge. Just don’t leave any fingerprints.

Generic Issues

brian — Fri, 29 Aug 2014 12:53:42 +0000

More than a decade ago, one of the regional grocery stores called their generic brand “Finast.” Around that time, I secured a new job which included a nice bump in salary.

As Maria and I celebrated, I told her we could now buy “the finest meats and cheeses.” She replied, “Instead of Finast meats and cheeses.”

The joke has hung around our house all this time. I really have nothing against generic brands and often buy them myself. The markup for the name on the box isn’t always worth it.

My wife, however, made a grave miscalculation about that last week. She bought generic Cheez-Its.

To say this caused controversy at home would not accurately capture the situation. There were text messages followed by a long discussion at dinner followed by Facebook posts that allowed friends and family to weigh in on the matter. One of my older sisters taunted us with a picture of a bag of Cheez-Its with the caption “looks like we made it.”

That kind of hurt. I have turned into a little bit of a cheapskate as I have gotten older. I don’t make impulse buys like I used to. When I do, I make sure I am getting a really good discount.

But some things shouldn’t even enter into the conversation when it comes to cutting corners. I mean, if you really have money problems there is absolutely no shame in getting generic cheesy snack crackers.

Thankfully, we don’t have that kind of issue right now. We’re not diving into swimming pools filled with money (well, not yet because I am writing this before Friday’s lottery drawing) like Scrooge McDuck, but we can easily afford the 50-cent difference between the generic and name brand on this item.

When we took this topic to social media, some folks suggested a blind taste test to see if the hubbub about this purchase really mattered. I would have no problem with that. In fact, I bet I would enjoy the generic brand just fine.

Some products transcend the whole name brand vs. generic debate, however. The name defines them.

Cheez-Its falls into this category. So do Oreos. I would argue that Fritos do, but the price difference between the two is pretty stark so I supported my wife buying the generic ones as long as she put them into the name-brand bag to quell any potential uprising.

I also have no problem with generic salsa or salad dressing or other condiments. We eat generic yogurt sometimes, and I regularly eat generic granola bars in the morning at work.

This is a pretty fine line in my mind. While we never reached a consensus on this issue, people pretty much agreed that generics as a whole aren’t bad. It all depends on the product.

For instance, I have no problem with generic soda. When I see a sale on the off-brand stuff, I will sometimes grab a 12-pack or two.

One of my wife’s guilty pleasures is a diet soda in the afternoon. I wonder what would happen if I bought her a generic brand?

On second thought, I don’t know if I want to go down that road. She could retaliate with generic beer.

Looking for a Small Victory

brian — Thu, 21 Nov 2013 13:04:59 +0000

As with many things I do, it seemed like a good idea at the time.

On a grocery store trip a long time ago, my wife brought home an apple-flavored trail mix, granola sort of thing from the bulk food aisle. Since I always think I have the discipline to improve myself, I took a liking to the mixture.

I never completely got hooked, however, so only had the mix periodically. From time to time, I would buy a bag of it for my snack drawer at work, only to get disappointed when I ran out.

When I remembered to get some of this treat sometime last spring, I made sure I wouldn’t run out too soon and bought a large amount. When I got home, I chose a container which could keep all of it so I could simply get small amounts to take to work in order to better ration my supply.

This is probably where I should mention that I don’t always do well with the follow through on things, especially when I don’t have a constant reminder. Since I bought a large bag of the snack on my own and put it in a container that usually sat inside a cupboard, I should have known things would end badly.

That did happen, but I found a silver lining in messing this up. I got a chance to make my wife to ever-so-briefly see my side of things on another issue.

A couple of months ago, Maria went to make pasta salad for an event we planned to attend. For some reason – probably my laziness for not doing the dishes in a timely manner – she ended up using a different pot than she usually did for the noodles.

She had trouble using the lid of this particular pot as she drained the water from the pot. That meant she had to go digging through our cupboards for a colander for the task.

This made me puff out my chest because, in the past, Maria expressed amazement that I wanted to use a colander when I cooked pasta. She expected me to have the dexterity and attention to detail needed to simply hold the lid of the pot at the correct angle to drain water from the pot after cooking.

I have kind of adapted to that, but mainly because it’s a pain in the butt to go find the colander and know that I’m being judged. Plus, I’m not usually allowed to cook much anymore, which is a good thing.

So even though she did it almost under protest, I felt proud that my wife had to use the colander that afternoon. Unfortunately, when she looked for it, she also found the large container filled with apple-flavored trail mix which was, conservatively, four or five months old.

In my world, I’m happy to take the little victories even if they only last for a few moments. I’m just disappointed I couldn’t celebrate with a snack of trail mix.

Jell-O Confession

brian — Mon, 04 Nov 2013 15:14:56 +0000

When I made my confession, I figured I would end up as the bad guy in the scenario. It turns out that I had completely misjudged the situation.

My daughter made a special request for one of my wife’s recent trips to the grocery store. Bridget wanted Jell-O, like any good American kid does. So a four-pack of Jell-O cups ended up in our refrigerator.

As things sometimes happen, they sat there for a few days. She asked for them and got them, but had moved on to other snacks in the house. I totally get it. My brain works that way sometimes too.

When I needed a snack for my lunch at work one day, I spied the fruity treat and decided to open the pack. I knew I might suffer the wrath of an angry teenager, but figured I stood on solid ground here. She had her chance for the first crack at them and passed. Besides, she could easily claim the other three once I had my fix.

I fessed up at dinner that night. I don’t know how the topic came up in conversation, but I figured I would come clean. I got a disapproving look, but have pretty much grown immune to that kind of thing over the past 13 years.

But I had never anticipated what came next. I assured her that I would not eat anymore of the Jell-O, and my wife did the same. But Maria wasn’t feeling any parental guilt. She had a confession of her own.

My wife does not like Jell-O.

We just celebrated our eighteenth anniversary. How does she hold onto a deal-breaker like that for so long? I guess I just assumed that she enjoyed Jell-O like right-minded people everywhere.

Once I found this out, I did the only natural thing. I went to Facebook to bare my soul and gain support from my family and friends. Big mistake.

Apparently, I live amongst people who dislike Jell-O. People jumped to defend Maria’s point of view and let me know their feelings about Jell-O. First a niece. Then a nephew. Even my older sister who is also my godmother. How could they betray me like this? How could they betray Jell-O like this.

Sure, some people defile the tasty gelatin dessert by putting fruit in it or making it into some weird molded form. Taking issue with those things makes perfect sense to me. But I honestly don’t know how anyone can dislike regular old Jello-O.

Plus, as one friend who came to defense pointe dout, you can use Jell-O as a delivery system for adult beverages. How can anyone complain about a food which can do that?

As I am wont to do, I try to look at the bright side of any situation. Even though my wife and I have spent so much time together, we still discover things about each other. I may not understand how she can dislike Jell-O, but I can accept it.

But if she says one bad word about pudding, things could get ugly. A man has to have his principles.

Lettuce Struggle

brian — Tue, 04 Jun 2013 11:32:12 +0000

Every once in a while, I get a hankering to make positive changes in my diet. I take stock of what I have been eating and vow to eat healthier.

Of course, my most recent attempt at this came right after I bought a bunch of mini candy bars on sale to keep in my desk drawer at work. But this is work in progress so I’ll just consider those rewards for a job well done.

Besides trying to cut down on snacks when I get in this frame of mind, I also try and have a healthier lunch. I can pretty much control that since dinner can get crazy with all the running around we do.

The first step in this process involves a head of lettuce. This is also where I make the problems even worse.

I am well known for my aversion to vegetables. Actually, the legend of my aversion outranks the reality these days. I still hate certain ones, but I have expanded the list of ones I will eat drastically as an adult.

I really have no quibble with eating a salad for lunch. I particularly enjoy having a homemade version of a chicken Caesar salad once in a while using chicken breasts I have cooked on the grill.

Unfortunately, I have learned that I don’t know how to properly get the lettuce I want for my salad.

When I made my first salad of the week, I grabbed the head of lettuce in the fridge, ripped off a bunch from the top and went about my merry way. The next day, I did the same thing.

Then I learned I had to pull off a few individual leaves of lettuce, tear them up and eat that for lunch. Apparently, my original way took all the good parts of the lettuce and left the dregs for my wife.

I still don’t understand the problem completely. I mean, if I have to eat healthy, shouldn’t I get all the best parts of the healthy food? Since I got to the lettuce first, don’t I get to choose which parts I want? This did not go over well with the Lettuce Advisory Board in my house.

So I will do better the next time and share the good parts of the romaine. I don’t have to like it though because if I have to make my salad include all the parts of the lettuce, the other problem with healthy eating will get even worse.

The excitement of making a healthy meal peaks in the morning when you are packing your lunch for the day. The mood turns to grudging acceptance by the time noon rolls around.

When that first thought of “Ooooh, it’s almost time for lunch” pops in your head, your brain immediately recalls that a salad awaits. Then it mentally calculates how much money you have in your wallet and whether it’s worth blowing off the salad for the pizza place down the street.

This is truly one of man’s greatest struggles. I don’t know how I manage to keep myself from choosing pizza each and every time. And now I’ll have to do it with some of the bottom of the head of lettuce waiting for me. Life truly is not fair.

Disaster Averted

brian — Tue, 28 May 2013 12:42:05 +0000

When I get ready in the morning, I don’t always connect the dots. I have to get myself cleaned up, get dressed, grab my lunch and grab my coffee before I hit the road.

Oh, and I need to talk to my wife a little bit. All of this takes place at or before 6 a.m. so I can never guarantee complete success.

I still leave my coffee sitting in the kitchen once in a while. Or I completely forget to fill up my travel mug. Those problems sometimes require a detour to grab coffee from a convenience store, but I sometimes don’t notice until I’m so far off the beaten path that I just need to soldier on and get my caffeine in the office.

I have done a better job over the years at not forgetting my lunch because few things ruin a day at the office more than knowing an awesome lunch sits in the fridge at home.

The getting dressed thing usually comes together with no problems. I might forget to wear a belt on occasion, but don’t have that formal of a workplace so that doesn’t matter much.

What does make a difference is when I do all of these things perfectly, but don’t really think about how Option A affects Decision B. I don’t notice those problems until it’s too late, like when I sat down for lunch at my desk a couple of weeks ago.

I had made my lunch the night before, throwing some leftover pasta into a microwaveable container with some sauce and frozen meatballs. That sounded like a delicious option, and I eagerly sat down a little after noon. That’s when I noticed the problem.

I wore a white shirt to work that day. The ramifications of this decision never crossed my mind as I got dressed. As I said, this is before 6 a.m. so I don’t always take the time to think about how much lunch might affect my wardrobe.

Marinara sauce has had a checkered past with my clothing. My wife once made me take off a white button-down I wore to work when I started to sit down at the table for dinner that night. She has seen what can happen.

Stuck at work with no backup wardrobe, I used a little extra care while eating. I paid closer attention to my surroundings as I twirled the pasta and cut the meatballs. In the end, I made it through the whole meal without spilling anything on my chest.

I felt vindicated. I wanted to shout it from the rooftops. I overcame my morning inattention to avoid walking around the entire afternoon with pasta stains on my shirt. I have had to do that before. It’s no fun.

A couple of days later I made a fantastic dinner from leftover taco meat and some tortillas we had in the fridge. As I prepared to sit down and dig in, I took a second glance at the white sweater I put on that morning. I thought for a moment before taking it off.

I tempted fate once that week. I didn’t like the odds of making it through another meal without a disaster.

Popcorn Time Machine

brian — Wed, 20 Feb 2013 13:25:35 +0000

The topic of older technology comes up in our house once in a while. That usually leads to my daughter laughing.

But one thing from a bygone era which does not result in chuckling is the many ways you can make popcorn.

One of our family traditions revolves around making popcorn when we settle in to watch a movie. These nights have increased in frequency lately as we have decided to introduce our tween to some classic films from the 1980s.

Usually, the snack preparation for movie night involved my daughter tossing a bag of popcorn into the microwave, filling up a few baskets, and then taking the one with the most popcorn for herself.

Things changed one night recently when I had other plans on movie night. For some reason, they decided to eschew modern popping technology and make popcorn on the stove. I guess the possibility of tastier popcorn overrode the desire to mock the past.

That led to a discussion about making popcorn when my wife and I were growing up. I said I didn’t really remember stovetop popcorn that much, but I did remember the magic of the air popper. Before I knew it, my wife went down to the basement and brought up the air popper she took to college.

Actually, that does not give the moment the justice it deserves. To say she brought up the popper she brought to college evokes a vision of a lone piece of old machinery sitting in our basement. Oh, no, that couldn’t be the case.

She brought up the popper in the box it came in more than 25 years ago. By the way, her sister bought the item on sale at Jamesway. We know that because her sister, like always, left the tag on the box. And it has stayed there ever since.

We marveled at the simplicity of the design as we removed the popper from the box. The yellow plastic top simply screamed mid-1980s. But we found something even more fascinating than that. The manual only came in one language.

Now I’m no xenophobe so I have no problem with instruction manuals in multiple languages. It just served as a marker of the times when a fairly extensive manual – and why they needed more than a few pages is beyond me – could come in just one language.

But my wife didn’t bring the item up from the basement just so we could laugh at it. We also wanted to laugh at how cool it was to see popcorn begin to shoot out of the top. I always loved that part of the air popper.

So we loaded it up and waited for the fun to happen. The first batch went by without a hitch, but the second one brought one of those great “Oh, no, grab another basket because the popcorn is coming out so fast” moments that only an air popper can provide.

We all survived and really enjoyed our popcorn, which we topped with real melted butter to make the night even more special.

Now I just need to see if I can find that Jiffy Pop stuff to cook on the stove. Now that will be a blast from the past.

Crabcake Confusion

brian — Tue, 23 Oct 2012 17:13:15 +0000

To be honest, I got a little cocky. I can only blame myself.

My wife went away for a few days recently, leaving me in charge of everything – the house, the meals and our daughter. I had complete control.

In the days and weeks leading up to this time, Bridget and I giggled over having the freedom to not put a clip on a bag of cereal of chips, just daring the food to go a little bit stale. In other words, I showed my true maturity level.

When we had the house to ourselves, we didn’t go nearly as crazy as we may have intimated, but we certainly had a little bit of extra fun. We didn’t have many bags we could leave unclipped, but we turned the TV up a little louder than usual and had no regard for normal rules of when the day’s newspaper moved from the dining room table to the recycling pile.

Like you, I am amazed the police never showed up to calm us down.

But one of my guilty pleasures when I have the house to myself is getting an opportunity to cook verboten foods.

My wife has an incredibly sensitive nose. I’m the guy who felt no effects when a new office area of mine at work was receiving no fresh air. A co-worker almost passed out. I just went about my business, thanks to my completely defective sense of smell.

A few things really set Maria off. I have written in the past about her aversion to turkey bacon. She loves the real thing, but the healthier (and admittedly not as tasty) treat smells putrid to her. So when I want some, I have to find a time when I can cook a whole packet with time left over to scrub down and air out the kitchen.

When she returned home, she cursed me for cooking turkey bacon. The only problem was, I didn’t cook any turkey bacon. Lest you think I won this battle, she did kind of bust me because there was an offending smell in the air.

I cooked crab cakes. Delicious, but apparently toxic-smelling, crab cakes.

I really tried to get rid of the odor. My cooking spree took place about 30 hours before she got home. I ran the fan on the range. I opened up the kitchen door and some window. I scrubbed down all areas which might hold the smell.

For God’s sake, I even lit a candle and cooked some foods which might cover the smell to keep me out of trouble.

Like I said, I only have myself to blame. I should have cooked them earlier in her trip. I should have left myself more time to clear the air. I should have baked cookies to mask the scent, like my daughter suggested.

Unfortunately, by the time she proposed that idea, we really didn’t have a window for baking, which is another failure on my part. I thought I could manage everything on my own, but fell way short.

But at least I have a half-dozen crab cakes in the freezer. I hope people at work like the smell when I bring them in for lunch. I’m not trying to warm them up at home.

Taco Time

brian — Wed, 01 Aug 2012 12:46:39 +0000

Sometimes I have trouble focusing. I may have an important problem and can’t figure out the proper solution. I might have a number of projects due at the same time. I also might have friends who disparage foods I like and need to focus on setting them straight.

I don’t know how all of these really started. From my best recollection and sleuthing through my online interactions, it seems as if someone I know posted an article which criticized hard tacos. Someone else agreed. That’s where I had to step in.

I could not stand by and let someone say that hard tacos did not really count as tacos. Why would anyone say something like that?

Sure, soft tacos can minimize the mess, but that doesn’t make their crunchy brethren any less delightful. The mess from hard tacos just gives you something else to eat when you’re done with what remains in the shells, as long as you make sure to let everything dribble onto your plate and not the floor.

I have never looked down at a plate full of stuff which fell out of my tacos and said, “Oh, no! More food? Yuck.” I could see where someone might say, “I like soft tacos more than hard tacos” or “I’ll get my pretty shirt dirty if I eat a hard taco,” but to say they don’t even qualify as tacos? That’s just mean.

One of my favorite comedians has a bit about Mexican food which points out that pretty much all the things we love have the same three ingredients – meat, cheese and tortilla. So who cares if the tortilla in this case is crispy and not soft? How does that disqualify the hard taco as an option?

I spent some time trying to point out many good points to justify my position without using Taco Bell as evidence, but all I did was make myself hungry for tacos on a day when I only had a short time for lunch. I tried to order tacos online from a Chipotle near my office, but I would have to wait an hour to pick up my order. I didn’t want to rub my love of hard tacos in the faces of my friends that bad.

At first, I thought I could contact my wife and set the wheels in motion for tacos for dinner, but that didn’t work either. First of all, we had a few things going on which made a family dinner impossible that night. Plus, she had plans (which she ended up backing out of) to have Mexican for lunch .

There I was on an island, the island claimed by the Society for the Defense of Hard Tacos. And the kitchen was closed.

Lucky for me, the Knights of Columbus – my favorite (and only) social club in town – had tacos that night. I took care of my errands after work, headed over there and chowed down on a few hard tacos. I made sure to let a lot of meat and lettuce fall onto my plate so I could scoop it up in defiance of my friends who put down my choice.

I didn’t even spill any on my white dress shirt. That’s what I call a good day.

Me and My Hamloaf

brian — Tue, 15 May 2012 13:01:18 +0000

When my wife told me we had dinner plans with friends on a Saturday night, I didn’t flinch. In fact, I cheered the development because I like to get out when I can.

We were kid-free on this particular weekend so I really appreciated the idea. A Saturday evening in Dillsburg with Maria’s best friend from college sounded perfect.

A day or so after learning of the short trip, I inquired about the menu. I did so innocently because we were visiting a church campground where her friend has a cottage. The kitchen options are somewhat limited so the meals are pretty simple.

My first clue that something was amiss came when Maria laughed at my question. Then she got a very serious look on her face. I started to see my enjoyable Saturday evening slipping out of my grasp.

Hamloaf. We were having hamloaf for dinner.

Times like this make me wonder if my wife has decided to slowly push me out of the picture. She is quite aware of my feelings on the subject of hamloaf. Not only did she plan a hamloaf dinner for me, but she withheld the information willingly.

When she asked a couple of days later, I had to admit that I did honestly get mad when I heard the news. Then I realized I could just suck it up and deal with things. Plus, I needed a column idea for this week, and hamloaf worked perfectly.

So where does this hamloaf hatred come from? I had actually never eaten the food before the recent dinner. The two words just don’t sound right together. The cook at my fraternity in college made it once, but pretty much everyone skipped the meal on principle because they, like me, fundamentally believe you should not loaf a ham.

That feeling has stuck with me ever since. I had strength in numbers. My pre-conceived notions about hamloaf had to ring true.

But this particular variety of hamloaf, my wife and her friend pointed out, is made by sweet church ladies. It has brown sugar on top. Everyone who eats it loves it.

Like the droning chants of a cult, I heard those sayings in my head as we sat down to eat. Thankfully, my wife brought along mac and cheese so something appealing appeared on the table. I cut off a small slice – OK, half a slice – of the “meat” and said a quick prayer.

No great revelation happened. I didn’t spit out the food in disgust either. I merely confirmed that hamloaf might sound like a great idea to some people, but I have no use for such an idea. Make me a ham sandwich. Cut me off a piece of baked ham. But let’s leave the loafing to meat.

In the end, I’m glad I gave it a try because I can better justify my righteous indignation. Plus, our friend suggested we go out for drinks after dinner, which pretty much makes any meal turn into a good idea in my book. Even one with hamloaf.