Merry Eating Day!

The holidays are here, which means it's time to bloat the twenty extra pounds I normally carry around with me to a seasonally appropriate thirty. It also means massive quantities of food must be prepared in order to provide at least five pounds per plateload, regardless of whether we're talking about a salad plate, a dinner plate, or a dessert plate.

Yesterday (Christmas Eve-Eve) was primary cooking day for our Christmas day celebrations. In two days, we will feed a total of eight people -- the five who live under our roof, plus my parents and Brother Tom. Naturally, then, we browned three pounds of sausage, rolled eight pounds of beef and pork into meatballs and browned them, then tossed all of that browned meaty goodness into a vat of homemade sauce.

Next came cookies. Simplicity was the motto of the day, so we kept it to one kind of cookie -- the ubiquitous peanut butter Kiss cookie -- that could be easily thrown together and baked without distracting too much from the browning of the meatballs and sausage. Fresh from their morning meat-rolling calisthenics, the kids helped roll out four trays of peanut buttery deliciousness, in addition to shucking several dozen Hershey's Kisses.

After a brief break to clean a pan, or seven, it was time to experiment with something new -- cinnamon pumpkin roll with chocolate mascarpone ganache.

I've baked many things, but never a finished cake that had to be rolled. It seemed like an awful lot of work to go through just to create a delivery method for getting pumpkin cake and chocolate ganache to my mouth, but I was game. Besides, Giada de Laurentis and the Food Network wouldn't steer me wrong.

To Giada's credit, both the cake and the ganache are amazingly delectable, however rolling the pumpkin spice cake might not have been my finest culinary hour. I passed the first test, flipping the pan and dropping the cake onto a towel dusted with powdered sugar. Trouble is, my definition of dusting is slightly more aggressive than Giada's. The cake landed with a satisfying plop and shot powdered sugar up and out like a Christmas-tinged mushroom cloud full of elf fairies and pumpkiny aromas. The next bit, actually rolling the cake without breaking, mangling, tearing, shearing, or otherwise causing traumatic damage to said cake, was less messy but much more sketchy. In the end, I manhandled it into something that roughly resembles a rolled cake.

Today continued with more baking. After all, you can't serve seventeen pounds of meat and sauce without homemade Italian bread, and where one loaf might suffice, two certainly will provide that measure of overkill necessary for a proper holiday feast.

Oh, did I mention the cannoli? Yeah, I bought twenty pre-made cannoli shells (half of them covered in chocolate, because they were there) and prepped two pounds of filling so we can stuff them on Christmas day short before we sit down to eat our six-and-a-half pounds of meat, sauce, pasta and bread each. That way, the cannoli can set up in the fridge without getting the shells all soggy. You have to plan ahead for these things, you know.

The end result is that, by the time we tuck the kids into bed tomorrow night, I should have gained almost the entire extra ten pounds. I'll leave a tiny bit of space for that last cookie before bed.



© 2014 Mark Feggeler

Red Sock, Blue Sock

A tribute to Dr. Seuss, or a glimpse of a day in the life of a busy family? You decide. All I know is we had two mismatched socks and my daughter was cranky (really!), so I wrote a poem. I'm warning you now that this isn't a very good poem, but then I never have liked poetry. You can blame Walt Whitman's "Song of Myself" for that. Anyway, here it is:

Red sock, blue sock, one, two, three.

What's up with the day’s laundry?

There’s one sock here where two should be.

Red sock, blue sock, one, two, three.

Sleepy, sleepy, one, two, three.

My daughter’s cranky as can be.

She threw a banana muffin at me.

Sleepy, sleepy, one, two, three.

Inside, outside, one, two, three.

The dog won’t make a poop or pee.

I walked her 'round the block with me.

Inside, outside, one, two, three.

Nagging, nitpick, one, two, three.

The twins are passive aggressively

Sniping at each other incessantly.

Nagging, nitpick, one, two, three.

Red sock, blue sock, one, two, three.

Really  laundry – seriously?

The machine is eating my BVDs!

Red sock, blue sock, one, two, three.

Turn the clock back, one, two, three.

Our daughter looks like a young lady.

She’ll always be a little girl to me.

Turn the clock back, one, two, three.

Check my heart rate, one, two, three.

The dog just scared the heck out of me

By barking at something I cannot see.

Check my heart rate, one, two, three.

Open the window, one, two, three.

The twins’ room smells adolescently,

And now they’re starting to play hockey.

Open the window, one, two, three.

Growing older, one, two, three.

Spend a few moments leisurely

To enjoy the kids before they flee.

Growing older, one, two, three.

© 2014 Mark Feggeler

The Meaning of Youth Hockey

It's hockey season again for the village recreation youth league, which means strapping on pads, tying up those inline skate laces, and giggling about the idea of two twelve-year-old boys wearing athletic supporters.

It means hauling some of the foulest smelling bags of rancid equipment ever created by man or God to and from the outdoor rink in the hopes that no rain falls (or in the case of this year, no snow) to cancel practice.

It means praying someone from the village Parks & Rec office has finally gotten the lights under control so the kids don't end up in blackout conditions before their hour is up.

It means freezing your butt off sitting on ice-cold bleachers and craning your neck to see around all those people who like to stand at the glass completely oblivious to the fact that they themselves are not transparent.

It means hollering when you see the other team getting away with what you think is a clearly visible infraction and cheering when your kids' team gets away with an infraction that you prefer to think of as a high-quality aggressive play, even though in reality you barely understand the rules of the game.

It means yelling at some kid on your sons' team for standing still as a statue while the puck slips away only to realize he's one of your sons.

It means keeping an eye on your dog on those occasions you happen to bring her to the rink to keep her from eating all the loose strips of fat tape and discarded mouth guards she finds under the bleachers.

It means shifting in an instant from casual banter with your friends to screaming like a crazed psychopath when your kid scores, drives down the rink with the puck, makes an amazing pass, blocks an attempt on goal with a swat of his lightening fast reflexes, or robs the other team of a scoring opportunity by smothering the puck with his body.

It means celebrating when your kids' team ties that one team in the league that's stacked with taller, faster kids and led by an aggressive coach who's more interested in winning than teaching sportsmanship.

It means hearing through long-distance phone conversations about how one of your sons scored in the very first game of the season and your other son held the opposing team to a tie with amazing saves through three periods of play.

It means fighting back the tears when you're sitting in a hotel room three-hundred miles from home and your son says "I wish you could have been there, Dad" after their first game of the season.


2014 Mark Feggeler

Da Votion

So, we've taken to reading a daily devotional, courtesy of a book from my sister-in-law.

Somewhere, deep inside me, a snarky little cynic is mocking the routine with derisive laughter, but I'm game for the experiment. My thought is it can't hurt. What's the worst that can happen? Communication and conversation? Even if the conversation inspired by the devotionals focuses only on how ridiculously pollyannaish they are, or how ill-fitting they are to our lives, then they've still achieved their goal of encouraging us to communicate.

For instance, one recent devotional talked about turning off the television and getting involved with our children's lives. I estimate My Lovely Wife and I watch approximately one hour of television a day, and many times we aren't even paying attention to it. On the other hand, this week alone we have marching band practice for Our Daughter, dinner with the grandparents, hockey practice for the boys, 10th grade check-in and fee payment for Our Daughter, back-to-school nights at the high school and elementary school, one dentist appointment, three orthodontist appointments, tailgating on Friday before the marching band's performance at the high school football game, the football game itself, and hanging out with the kids at Sonic after the game. And because my brain is like a sieve, I'm probably forgetting half a dozen other things. All this happens around work, which we're always told is less important than family, but you can't afford any of the things you do with the kids unless you make sure your at-work productivity doesn't suffer.

In other words, the person who wrote the devotional chastising us for watching television instead of interacting with our kids can cram that particular life lesson where the sun don't shine. Maybe that's a little hostile. Don't worry. I'm sure the book has a devotional about anger management.

The funniest thing to me is the bit of scripture leading off each devotional. For some reason the writers of the book really seem to put a whole lot of stock in Ephesians. All I've ever known about the book of Ephesians is that Paul, for someone who lived in the first century AD, had pretty steady access to papyrus and ink. I can't help thinking the Ephesians -- or the Phillipians, or the Galatians, or the Corinthians, or the Romans, or anyone else Paul took a fancy to sending a letter to -- were happy to get his letter but always a little annoyed at being obligated to write back.

    "Look! Another letter from Paul."

    "But we just answered his last one!"

I'm always dubious whether biblical passages used to support a point are applicable if you go back to the Bible and learn for yourself the true context of the passage. Maybe we're not getting the full meaning of the snippet we're being handed.

For instance, here's a brief line from Luke 12:1 -- "Beware of the yeast of the Pharisees..."  If I ignore the fact the entire passage from which I lifted this quote is meant to serve as a warning against hypocrisy, I could end up writing an entire devotional about the soul-rotting dangers of buying matzoh and challah from Jewish religious leaders. In fact, that sounds like a fun false teaching to mess around with next April Fool's Day.

Or how about this entire verse from Hosea 3:1 -- "The Lord said to me again, 'Go, love a woman who has a lover and is an adulteress, just as the Lord loves the people of Israel, though they turn to other gods and love raisin cakes.'"

That one really has me scratching my head, and I doubt even the devotional book writers could manage to work that into any kind of contemporary context. For starters, the whole loving an adulteress thing would never go over well with my mother, and especially with My Lovely Wife. It's a nice offer, but I'll pass.

And what does the Lord have against raisin cakes? I understand the whole "other gods" reference but raisin cakes? I've never cared for raisins in my baked goods and cereal, so I can sympathize, but lumping somebody who occasionally enjoys a nice Irish soda bread with people who've run off and sacrificed lambs to a statue of a golden cow seems a bit extreme.

Actually, we have found a couple of the devotionals from the book to be slightly more relevant to our lives than raisin cakes and yeast. And reading together at night, if even for a few minutes, is proving to be a relaxing experiment I wouldn't mind continuing. Maybe I should write my own book of daily devotions. There must be plenty more inspirational baking references in the Bible...



© 2012 Mark Feggeler

Star Struck!

It was just like that time at Disney World, when My Lovely Wife and kids jumped out of the van and ran to the bathroom because they all had to pee furiously after a nine-hour ride from North Carolina.

Well, okay, it wasn't exactly like it, because no one had to pee and we had driven only an hour north to Raleigh, but you'll see what I mean in a minute.

When they came back from the bathroom that day in Florida, a young woman with a clipboard was following them. She told us we had been chosen, as part of Disney's Year of a Million Dreams, for a free upgrade to Concierge Level at the Grand Floridian Resort. The building required room keys for entry and provided a free breakfast, free evening reception, and even free beer and liquor in the evening. We later researched the value of this gift from the Great Mouse of the Everglades only to find we would have paid well over $1,000 for the luxury.

You must understand, we're not the kind of people who often get smacked in the back of the head with that kind of luck. So, when fate does smile upon us from time to time, we are genuinely taken by surprise and just as genuinely grateful. We get gratefully giddy, in fact, and trip all over ourselves to repeatedly express our gratitude.

Such was the case this past Sunday evening.

We had traveled to Raleigh for an evening performance of the "Mythbusters: Behind the Myths" live stage show. My Lovely Wife and I have watched the Mythbusters on the Discovery Channel ever since the show premiered almost a decade ago. Our children have grown up admiring the antics of the show's stars, Jamie Hyneman and Adam Savage. Now, there they would be, just a hundred feet in front of us on stage. Talk about perfect entertainment for the entire family!

On the way into the theater, the Italian commented on how awesome it would be if we got to meet Jamie and Adam, shake their hands, maybe even talk to them. We made sure he understood that was not going to happen. We were there only to see the show.

After running back out to the van to get our camera after finding out we were allowed to bring them in with us, I heard My Lovely Wife frantically calling my name. A very tall man with a clipboard in his hand and backstage credentials hanging around his neck was standing next to her. She excitedly explained that our boys had been chosen to appear in the show. Would that be okay?

Let's see. Hell, yes!

Will, the young man with the clipboard, led us to the stage left dressing room where Bob, a model of calm efficiency, explained the parts the boys would play in the show and fitted them with eerily lifelike masks of their scientific heroes. The Italian balked at first -- the whiskers scratched his face and the mask made him a little nervous -- but he quickly recovered. The German was thumbs up from the word go.

The five of us watched the first act backstage from the wings which, though exciting, rather limits what one can see and hear. We got the general gist of everything, however, and the cast and crew danced excitedly around us in a neatly choreographed production.

When it came time for the boys to get ready, we headed back to their dressing room and got them fitted in their costumes, complete with matching outfits to those being worn by the Mythbusters. The joke went over with a tremendous laugh from the audience as the boys took the place of Jamie and Adam on stage for a quick sight gag. Adam even got the boys' names right when he introduced them to the crowd.

We got to meet the Mythbusters twice that evening during the intermission, before and after the boys got out of their costumes. A crew member took pictures as the boys and their big sister got autographs and chit-chatted with the two down-to-earth stars of the show.

Jamie and Adam thanked us for letting the boys be in the show, while we tripped over ourselves to thank them for giving our family an experience we will never forget.

© 2012 Mark Feggeler

Straight To Hell

Allow me to begin by pointing out that I am not an overtly religious man.

While I do enjoy church and have no trouble with the concept of organized religion, I'm not the kind to wear my faith on my sleeve. I don't walk around God-Blessing and Praise-Jesusing every cute little child I see, and I'm pretty lapsed when it comes to the idea of prayer. If God is all-knowing, then I don't need to bother sending off some private ethereal text message detailing what I want and why. He already knows.

The problem I have now is the same one I had when I was five years old -- lack of concentration. You could say this is more of a life skill problem than a religious one, but for some reason it stands out more clearly in church.

Perhaps it's because everyone else around me seems so determinedly intent on reciting the Lord's Prayer, or singing that hymn with the ridiculously complex melody. Seriously, what do they think we are, classically trained? Can we at least stick to a single octave so I don't have to modulate between sounding like a lead in the Vienna Boys Choir one minute and that "Oom Poppa Mow Mow" guy from the Oak Ridge Boys the next?

We hadn't even got ten minutes into the service last Sunday when I found my eyes darting around the room, checking for cracked paint, familiar faces, and bad toupees. The Italian, even more distracted than I, was flipping mindlessly through his hymnal when I caught glimpse of a hymn titled "Jesus Took a Towel."

Jesus took a towel?

"Jesus Took a Towel" might be a lovely hymn. It might be the most beautiful, spiritually-inspired verse ever put to music. Angels might sing it in their sleep at the end of their happiest days, but that won't change the fact I kept picturing Jesus poolside at some beachfront resort taking one of those cheap white towels with the broad blue stripe down the middle from a giant rolling bin. Or worse, Jesus nabbed for shoplifting at the home goods department of Walmart.

What, you think Jesus never went shopping?

It must have struck Our Daughter's funny bone similarly when I pointed it out to her, which made me feel a little better about myself. As we stood to sing the first hymn of the morning, I leaned over and whispered to her.

"What hymn are we going to sing now, 'Jesus Bought a Loofah?'"

There was no recovering after that. I'm probably going straight to hell in the fast lane, but if there's no sense of humor in heaven then that suits me just fine.




© 2012 Mark Feggeler

Getting Old(er)

"What are you doing?"

It was a fair question. The Italian was simply going about his day, probably hunting down his elusive iPod or glasses, when he came upon me lying on the floor in my bedroom. My back was pressed down on the carpet while my legs were as straight up the wall as possible, my right leg signicantly more bent than my left.

"I'm stretching out my hamstring," I told him.

He nodded and stared at me for several seconds before asking "Why?"

The honest answer, of course, is I'm getting to the age when simple things -- like crossing your foot under your butt and sitting on it for longer than ten minutes at a time -- can throw your back out for the rest of the week. In this instance, I was coping with the effects of having neglected to stretch either before or after my morning walk on the treadmill, which is what I told him.

"Oh," he said, and wandered away to continue with his life.

After swimming at the pool yesterday, my right shoulder was recovering from the shooting pain that followed the not-too-smart activity of flipping the kids out of their tubes. The boys weren't too bad, but Our Daughter is a full-fledged young adult. Why I thought I could flip her like she was still a 50-pound eight-year-old, I'll never know.

I was stretching my arm in several various poses that seemed to make the shoulder feel better when I noticed the Italian behind me.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

I explained to him how certain simple activities -- like lowering and raising the track of the foldable treadmill -- can cause more discomfort than an hour spent running at full speed on the darned thing. I explained how under certain circumstances, merely pulling a shirt over your head and twisting your arm in just that wrong way can send pins and needles shooting down to your fingertips and make you see stars.

"Oh," he said. I'm pretty sure was shaking his head when he walked away that time. It probably didn't help that I wasn't wearing a shirt.

Then today, while working in my office, I accidentally closed the desk drawer on my finger. I let out a little "ow" and gripped the tip of the pinched finger in my other hand. The Italian came over to see what my minor commotion was all about. He glanced down at my finger and then up at my grimacing face.

"What is it now?" he asked in a slightly disgusted tone.

It's going to be a long summer...



© 2011 Mark Feggeler

Letting Go or Giving Up?

Recent events in our community gave me pause to wonder if I should take on a certain, specific role of responsibility. I won't say what it is, only that it would involve attending many meetings and events throughout the next school year.

The reason for the consideration is that My Lovely Wife and I have definite opinions about what should happen, how it should happen, and who should be doing it. We've recently spent way too much time thinking and talking about all the different things that, in our version of a perfect world, need to be accomplished.

So, I've been toying with the idea of stepping up to put my money where my mouth is. After all, there are few things more irritating than a gutless loudmouth, and I know there have been times in my life when I have been one.

Over the past few days, as my leanings have shifted to and fro, I've had to take as full an account as possible of my existing responsibilities.

Work.
Certainly not more important than family, but I address it first because without my paycheck, I'm not much of a provider. Work requires attention to clients and projects. It requires analysis of trends and predictions of usage. It requires trips to Ohio, DC, Virginia and Maryland, in addition to other states as necessary. I frequently am able to control my schedule, but there are times of inflexibility.

Kids.
We have three. One will enter high school next year and two will be in fourth grade. Every weekend in the fall will be filled with high school marching band activities, and every weekday will be filled with dance class, Boy Scouts, band, school play practice, Girl Scouts, yoga, and playdates. Add band concerts, play performances, and dance recitals and you have a pretty full schedule.

Wife.
I have one. I enjoy spending time with her. I often don't have the ability in the course of a normal day to spend as much time with her as I would like.

Family & Friends.
We have those, too. As opportunities arise to spend time with friends and family, we appreciate being able to take advantage of them. In the past year or two, we have made a concerted effort to participate in more activities with people who, in the past, we might not have made time for. As a result, our social life has improved dramatically, and we feel for the first time in a long time that we have an honest to goodness social network of friends.

Interests.
This is, perhaps, the most selfish part of my argument, but in case you hadn't noticed, I enjoy writing. I've finally arrived at a place in my life that affords me the luxury of time to write. In addition to this blog, which serves as a wonderfully therapeutic means for me to vent the errant thoughts that cloud my mind, I also am 90% complete with the first draft of a novel. In the past two weeks since this recent community event erupted into our lives, I have not completed any writing.

I fully realize that others who choose to lead often sacrifice some, if not all, of these things. For better or for worse, I am not the kind of person who can so readily do the same. Time is fleeting. I have no interest in mourning a lost minute with my family for a transient cause du jour. Trust me, I'm the kind who would.

My conclusion? If I'm not willing to jump in and help lead things down the path I believe they should be taking, then I need to shut my mouth and support the best efforts of those who are. Not so much giving up, I see it more as letting go.



© 2011 Mark Feggeler