What could be more fun that going to the movies? That's easy - going to the movies with the perfect box of Junior Mints. You may think that all Junior Mints are created equal... but you would be wrong. The test of a really great Junior Mint is when you can set it on your tongue and press your tongue to the roof of your mouth. This action should cause the easy collapse of the Junior Mint and send the creamy freshness from inside the chocolatey coating out into your mouth. It should practically melt in your mouth. What you do NOT want is one that barely budges when you do this. If you have to sink your teeth into it, it's not a Junior Mint - it is a stale impostor, and it should be thrown out.
Now, every box of Junior Mints contains at least one or two impostors, but you're really in trouble if you run into more than that. How can you ensure that your experience with Junior Mints will be a good one? One way to test the box is to pick it up and shake it gently. Doing this should cause a light rattling sound within the box. If there are too many bad seeds, the box will feel heavy and the rattle will sound sluggish, as if they're all melted together into one gooey glob. The key to a fresh Junior Mint is that each one must me nicely encapsulated within the chocolate shell until that magical moment when you press it to the roof of your mouth. Sometimes you'll notice that there is a slight hemorrhage in the mint and the creamy filling has started to ooze out prematurely. When you see this, don't even bother putting it in your mouth. It's too late for that one, and it is assured to be gross and chewy.
Even if you have found the perfect box of fresh Junior Mints, there is still a risk that you will ruin them before the movie is over if you're not careful. Be sure not to hold the box for too long in your hands. That makes the mints snuggle together and melt into the dreaded gooey glob. Take out the mint and then set the box down in a cool place, preferably in the cup holder. This is one of the great things about Junior Mints in a movie - they don't make you thirsty, so you won't be needing a drink. I'm against drinking in movies because what if your bladder gets full? You'll either have to sit there miserable or get up and miss a part of the movie. Anyway, back to avoiding the gooey glob... I recommend giving the box a gentle shake every once in a while to make sure the mints aren't snuggling in there. I'm a fan of snuggling, but that should be left to people and baby animals, not Junior Mints.
One final thing you should know about Junior Mints is where to get them. Sure, you could fork over 4 bucks or so and get a box at the theater. The good thing about this is that you can almost be guaranteed that they will be fresh. But, that's a high price to pay. I used to just stop off at the closest convenient store on my way to the theater. Sadly, many convenient stores have stopped carrying Junior Mints (don't ask me why). Worse still, you won't be able to find them at Kroger anymore, either. For some crazy reason, Kroger carries Junior Caramels (?) but not Junior Mints. Really, I'm a bit speechless about this.
But there's hope! A sweet friend of mine knows of my obsession with Junior Mints and has located them for me at.... drum roll.... Office Depot! Now who would have thought to look there? I'm so excited about this discovery of hers! Thanks, Kellee!
If you have made it to the end of this post, you have earned your Junior Mints diploma. Congratulations! You are now ready for the perfect movie-going experience, with all the rights, privileges, and responsibilities hereto entrusted.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Monday, May 12, 2008
The Memory Keeper's Diet
I have just created a new diet that, surprisingly enough, was inspired by a delicious piece of chocolate cake I had yesterday. It's called the Memory Keeper's Diet and here's how it works:
Day 1: Identify the 10 target foods that are likely to be your downfall while you try to stay on the straight and narrow at mealtime. Brainstorm the best places to eat those target foods. (e.g. French fries at Snuffer's, ice cream at Marble Slab, etc.)
Days 2-11: On each of these 10 critical days of the diet, you seek out those target foods you identified on Day 1, indulging in one target food each day. The key is that you must be fully present while you eat these foods. No talking. You must throw yourself into whatever you are eating, using all of your senses to take it all in.
Day 12 - ???: Now you are on your path to a new body and a new you! Want a piece of cake? Great! Sit down, close your eyes, and relive that delectable piece you enjoyed on Day 7. Got a hankering for cheese fondue? Go back in your memory to Day 3 when the melted goodness coated each bite of toasted bread. Delicious! (and calorie free!)
I will let you know how this goes. I actually skipped Days 2-11 because last week was Teacher Appreciation week and I was able to arrange my schedule to make sure I was always at the school that was having a luncheon that day. (Hey, you've got to take advantage of these things while you can.) That means I had two pieces of cake and a couple of cookies each day after lunch. (C'mon, how often do you have access to a dessert smorgasbord?) I'm thinking of those as my 10 days of indulgence even though it was more like 5 days of out of control sugar rush. So technically, today was Day 12.
It's been a good day. I got an excruciating headache at about 3:00 that I can only attribute to the sugar withdrawal. I sure do have a lot of respect for people who quit real addictions. I have thought of that piece of chocolate cake 7 times today, but I haven't had any sugar. Part of the Memory Keeper's Diet involves replacement behaviors. Yes, thinking of that cake was really great... but it was even better while I was eating a fresh mango. I wanted a glass of wine with dinner, but instead I had some skim milk. It's all about the memories. And the replacement foods.
Go make some memories!
Day 1: Identify the 10 target foods that are likely to be your downfall while you try to stay on the straight and narrow at mealtime. Brainstorm the best places to eat those target foods. (e.g. French fries at Snuffer's, ice cream at Marble Slab, etc.)
Days 2-11: On each of these 10 critical days of the diet, you seek out those target foods you identified on Day 1, indulging in one target food each day. The key is that you must be fully present while you eat these foods. No talking. You must throw yourself into whatever you are eating, using all of your senses to take it all in.
Day 12 - ???: Now you are on your path to a new body and a new you! Want a piece of cake? Great! Sit down, close your eyes, and relive that delectable piece you enjoyed on Day 7. Got a hankering for cheese fondue? Go back in your memory to Day 3 when the melted goodness coated each bite of toasted bread. Delicious! (and calorie free!)
I will let you know how this goes. I actually skipped Days 2-11 because last week was Teacher Appreciation week and I was able to arrange my schedule to make sure I was always at the school that was having a luncheon that day. (Hey, you've got to take advantage of these things while you can.) That means I had two pieces of cake and a couple of cookies each day after lunch. (C'mon, how often do you have access to a dessert smorgasbord?) I'm thinking of those as my 10 days of indulgence even though it was more like 5 days of out of control sugar rush. So technically, today was Day 12.
It's been a good day. I got an excruciating headache at about 3:00 that I can only attribute to the sugar withdrawal. I sure do have a lot of respect for people who quit real addictions. I have thought of that piece of chocolate cake 7 times today, but I haven't had any sugar. Part of the Memory Keeper's Diet involves replacement behaviors. Yes, thinking of that cake was really great... but it was even better while I was eating a fresh mango. I wanted a glass of wine with dinner, but instead I had some skim milk. It's all about the memories. And the replacement foods.
Go make some memories!
Sunday, May 4, 2008
Toe!
That title is meant to be pronounced in the way that Homer says, "Doh!" It's all about the toe right now, ever since a can of bamboo shoots rolled off the counter today while I was unpacking groceries and landed right on my foot. My big toe, to be more specific. I must say, I did a great job of not screaming with the same amount of enthusiasm with which my toe was hurting. Enthusiasm is probably not the right word - more like absolute anguish.
It's been a long time since I've hurt myself that badly, which is saying a lot because I'm quite clumsy and am often running into things. Just a couple of weeks ago I got the crazy idea that I could jump like a track star. Krister was reading in bed and I said, "Hold still and don't be scared, I'm going to jump over you." I proceeded to run at the bed and attempted to clear Krister's legs - vertically. Like Kobe Bryant jumps over the moving car in that commercial. Sometimes I overestimate my own abilities. I still have the bruise on my knee to prove it.
Anyway, so it's always impressive to me how such a small part of the body can cause such an enormous amount of pain. Even though I iced it and limped about the house like a total wuss, it is so swollen than when I hold both feet up next to one another and bend both big toes with the same amount of effort, the good toe disappears from view as it bends and the other one doesn't really go anywhere. It just sits there, fat and red. Not only red - the bottom of my toenail has taken on a deep purple hue. It's beautiful, like a sunset. The big bummer is I've been waiting all weekend to get out in this beautiful weather and go for a run, and I really WAS about to finally do it when this happened. So instead I had a beer and some cookies because I felt sorry for myself.
Toe long, friends!
It's been a long time since I've hurt myself that badly, which is saying a lot because I'm quite clumsy and am often running into things. Just a couple of weeks ago I got the crazy idea that I could jump like a track star. Krister was reading in bed and I said, "Hold still and don't be scared, I'm going to jump over you." I proceeded to run at the bed and attempted to clear Krister's legs - vertically. Like Kobe Bryant jumps over the moving car in that commercial. Sometimes I overestimate my own abilities. I still have the bruise on my knee to prove it.
Anyway, so it's always impressive to me how such a small part of the body can cause such an enormous amount of pain. Even though I iced it and limped about the house like a total wuss, it is so swollen than when I hold both feet up next to one another and bend both big toes with the same amount of effort, the good toe disappears from view as it bends and the other one doesn't really go anywhere. It just sits there, fat and red. Not only red - the bottom of my toenail has taken on a deep purple hue. It's beautiful, like a sunset. The big bummer is I've been waiting all weekend to get out in this beautiful weather and go for a run, and I really WAS about to finally do it when this happened. So instead I had a beer and some cookies because I felt sorry for myself.
Toe long, friends!
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Bitterness for Breakfast and Meatball Karma
Last week I had the honor of presenting at a statewide conference. I was the only one from my district to attend the conference. Luckily, I ran into an old classmate of mine and the group from her district adopted me and let me tag along with them to meals and conference get-togethers so I wouldn't be a total loner. I was thrilled, as I'm not much of an introvert and don't enjoy spending days on end with only my own company (although I did enjoy my alone time at the hotel and found that I could do a wonderful kickline routine in the bathroom with the help of the many mirrors - not even the Rockettes could have done it with more precision!) Anyway, because I had procrastinated in reserving my hotel, the rooms were booked by the time I got around to it and I was thus staying at a Residence Inn by Marriott down the street from the conference hotel. Have any of you ever stayed in one? It was my first time, and it felt a bit like I had invaded a senior citizen's apartment. I kept expecting that at any moment a sweet elderly person would come through the door and stand bewildered wondering who I was and why I was there. Anyway...this is all background information for the two stories I want to tell about my time at the conference. As they often do, these stories both happen to revolve around food.
Story #1: Bitterness for Breakfast
So there I was, the morning of my presentation. I was all dressed up and looking pretty sharp if I do say so myself. I got my materials and headed downstairs in hopes of enjoying a healthful breakfast. (A brief plug for Residence Inn: they have a free breakfast buffet every morning and it is the bee's knees! Waffles, oatmeal, eggs, hash browns, yogurt, fruit, muffins... you get the idea) As I strode into the dining area I glanced down at my watch to discover that it was only 7 minutes 'till 8:00 - the time I had agreed to meet my professor to review our material for the presentation that afternoon. I stood for a moment in a quandary, stuck between my desire for a good breakfast (the conference was to provide breakfast and it promised to be a plethora of stale pastries) and my desire to be punctual. Food vs. punctuality. Two of the things I'm biggest on. Hmmm.... since I was feeling extra professional that day, punctuality won out. I arrived at the agreed upon meeting spot at exactly 8:00, feeling proud of myself for making a good choice. I glanced around the lobby looking for my professor. No sight of him. Knowing that I can't make it without breakfast, I headed over the the stale pastries and waited my turn in line for my empty calories. I settled on a bagel (at least they had cream cheese - everything was going to be okay) and headed back to wait for my professor. There were no utensils provided, so I ended up tearing off a bit of the top part of the bagel to use as a makeshift spreader for the cream cheese. Here's the thing about me: I'm not a picky eater, but I love food too much to not enjoy every bite. Bagels are fine when they're toasted (I would even venture to say that they could be delicious given the right circumstances). But this bagel was untoasted. And DENSE. I glanced down at my watch again. 8:09. Maybe he's waiting for me in a different lobby? I called to make sure I was waiting in the right spot and discovered that he was still getting dressed upstairs in his room. Here's where the bitterness comes in. I did not mind sacrificing my eggs and oatmeal to be on time. I did mind, however, missing my yummy breakfast for no good reason. As I sat gnawing on my bagel and the clock ticked on, I grew more and more agitated. I began to chew to a rhythm, "Could've had oatmeal, could've had oatmeal, could've had oatmeal." I realize oatmeal isn't that exciting, but they had all these special toppings for it - raisins, brown sugar, chopped pecans. It was going to be really cozy. At 8:20 I looked up to see my professor headed my way. Yep - could've had oatmeal. And fruit, and scrambled eggs with syrup, and a glass of milk. But instead I just had bitterness for breakfast.
Story #2: Meatball Karma (don't worry - this one will be shorter!)
So the night before my presentation the officers of the organization hosting the conference threw a meet-and-greet type party in the hotel rooms on the 11th floor. I went with the aforementioned conference friends and made my way around the room. A little wine, a little cheese, a meatball, some 'Lil Smokies from a crockpot - I was livin' it up! Soon I found myself in a conversation with the aforementioned professor. He, too, had indulged in the meatballs and now had meatball sauce spread across his cheek. Not the corner of his mouth - his actual cheek. He kept wiping his mouth with his napkin, but there was no way he was going to fix the cheek smear. I tried to concentrate on what he was saying while debating whether to tell him about the stray sauce. I settled on ignoring it and did my best to focus on his eyes while he spoke.
The next day, I joined my professor for the formal sit-down lunch with several other colleagues from different cities around the state, none of whom I knew. I made small talk while I ate my potatoes and my buttered roll - yay for starchy foods! - and attempted to make my way through a pile of what were, at one time, vegetables. They now resembled something closer to rubber, but with enough salt I was able to get some down. I attempted to be charming and made sure to smile a lot even though I wasn't exactly entertained by the whole event. On my way back to my hotel after lunch, I glanced in the rear view mirror to reapply my lipstick. It was then that I noticed it - a long, skinny piece of very green lettuce stuck to my gums and hanging down over my top teeth. Lettuce from the FIRST course of the very long meal. All that smiling and being charming, and I had been flashing a leafy smile the whole time! Why didn't anyone tell me about this? Why didn't my professor say something? Oh, yeah. Meatball karma.
Story #1: Bitterness for Breakfast
So there I was, the morning of my presentation. I was all dressed up and looking pretty sharp if I do say so myself. I got my materials and headed downstairs in hopes of enjoying a healthful breakfast. (A brief plug for Residence Inn: they have a free breakfast buffet every morning and it is the bee's knees! Waffles, oatmeal, eggs, hash browns, yogurt, fruit, muffins... you get the idea) As I strode into the dining area I glanced down at my watch to discover that it was only 7 minutes 'till 8:00 - the time I had agreed to meet my professor to review our material for the presentation that afternoon. I stood for a moment in a quandary, stuck between my desire for a good breakfast (the conference was to provide breakfast and it promised to be a plethora of stale pastries) and my desire to be punctual. Food vs. punctuality. Two of the things I'm biggest on. Hmmm.... since I was feeling extra professional that day, punctuality won out. I arrived at the agreed upon meeting spot at exactly 8:00, feeling proud of myself for making a good choice. I glanced around the lobby looking for my professor. No sight of him. Knowing that I can't make it without breakfast, I headed over the the stale pastries and waited my turn in line for my empty calories. I settled on a bagel (at least they had cream cheese - everything was going to be okay) and headed back to wait for my professor. There were no utensils provided, so I ended up tearing off a bit of the top part of the bagel to use as a makeshift spreader for the cream cheese. Here's the thing about me: I'm not a picky eater, but I love food too much to not enjoy every bite. Bagels are fine when they're toasted (I would even venture to say that they could be delicious given the right circumstances). But this bagel was untoasted. And DENSE. I glanced down at my watch again. 8:09. Maybe he's waiting for me in a different lobby? I called to make sure I was waiting in the right spot and discovered that he was still getting dressed upstairs in his room. Here's where the bitterness comes in. I did not mind sacrificing my eggs and oatmeal to be on time. I did mind, however, missing my yummy breakfast for no good reason. As I sat gnawing on my bagel and the clock ticked on, I grew more and more agitated. I began to chew to a rhythm, "Could've had oatmeal, could've had oatmeal, could've had oatmeal." I realize oatmeal isn't that exciting, but they had all these special toppings for it - raisins, brown sugar, chopped pecans. It was going to be really cozy. At 8:20 I looked up to see my professor headed my way. Yep - could've had oatmeal. And fruit, and scrambled eggs with syrup, and a glass of milk. But instead I just had bitterness for breakfast.
Story #2: Meatball Karma (don't worry - this one will be shorter!)
So the night before my presentation the officers of the organization hosting the conference threw a meet-and-greet type party in the hotel rooms on the 11th floor. I went with the aforementioned conference friends and made my way around the room. A little wine, a little cheese, a meatball, some 'Lil Smokies from a crockpot - I was livin' it up! Soon I found myself in a conversation with the aforementioned professor. He, too, had indulged in the meatballs and now had meatball sauce spread across his cheek. Not the corner of his mouth - his actual cheek. He kept wiping his mouth with his napkin, but there was no way he was going to fix the cheek smear. I tried to concentrate on what he was saying while debating whether to tell him about the stray sauce. I settled on ignoring it and did my best to focus on his eyes while he spoke.
The next day, I joined my professor for the formal sit-down lunch with several other colleagues from different cities around the state, none of whom I knew. I made small talk while I ate my potatoes and my buttered roll - yay for starchy foods! - and attempted to make my way through a pile of what were, at one time, vegetables. They now resembled something closer to rubber, but with enough salt I was able to get some down. I attempted to be charming and made sure to smile a lot even though I wasn't exactly entertained by the whole event. On my way back to my hotel after lunch, I glanced in the rear view mirror to reapply my lipstick. It was then that I noticed it - a long, skinny piece of very green lettuce stuck to my gums and hanging down over my top teeth. Lettuce from the FIRST course of the very long meal. All that smiling and being charming, and I had been flashing a leafy smile the whole time! Why didn't anyone tell me about this? Why didn't my professor say something? Oh, yeah. Meatball karma.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Sugar Coma
Lately I've been on a personal quest for the perfect chocolate chip cookie, with the help of my dear friend, Allrecipes.com. I cannot even explain the excitement that this website stirs in me (no pun intended!) each time I log on - millions of recipes waiting to be tried and enjoyed, ruined and perfected...a world of possibilities!
There are so many things that can go wrong with a chocolate chip cookie.
When Krister and I were first married I decided to make a batch and somehow I got confused by the butter measurements and used a POUND of butter rather than a cup. When they came out of the oven they were laid flat like roadkill and, when pressed with a fingertip, would actually leave little pools of butter behind, filling the holes like rain fills fossilized dinosaur footprints in the ground. It was tragic. I cried and cried, partly because I felt like an idiot and partly because butter is so darn expensive and I had just wasted a whole box of it for nothing. Sweet Krister didn't want the night to end in defeat, so he whisked me away to the store to get more ingredients and try, try again.
Ever since that butter-laden disaster I have had a personal vendetta against the chocolate chip cookie. I picture the ingredients laughing at me, taunting me, laying in wait to sabotage my efforts. And so I search. I try out recipe after recipe, dedicated to finding that one that will have just the right texture, the right flavor, the one that will be truly worthy of accompanying a big glass of cold milk. Thanks to allrecipes.com, I feel closer than ever to attaining my goal, to claiming the victory over the ever elusive chocolate chip cookie of my dreams. I'm not there yet, but I am making a valiant effort.
My quest continued this afternoon as I tried my hand at a new recipe. Unfortunately I was left unsupervised in the kitchen with a whole bowl of cookie dough. You would think there was heroin in the stuff the way I was downing it. [Disclaimer: I have never even been in the same room with heroin, nor would I recognize it if I were, but I hear it's quite addictive and thus it works well to give you a picture of my inability to exercise self-control in this situation. Don't do drugs, kids.] What is it about cookie dough that is so irresistible? Part of the problem may be the fact that I have no way of measuring how much I've eaten. It's not like cake where I can see a receding line that marks the damage I've done, or like Junior Mints where I can see the delightful morsels disappearing one by one. Cookie dough just sits there innocently, begging you to sneak just one more spoonful, a pinch here, another pinch there.
But like all good things it is not so innocent once you've gone completely overboard. It's not good to feel sick before the first batch of cookies pops out of the oven. It's not good to see your finger swooping toward the bowl to grab another pinch of dough while your thighs are yelling, "Enough already! You're not even giving us a chance!" It's not good to wonder if you'll be able to eat dinner later after all that cookie bingeing. And, it's not good to eat dinner anyway, then follow it up with a couple more cookies and a few scoops of homemade ice cream. That, my friends, is what you call a sugar coma.
There are so many things that can go wrong with a chocolate chip cookie.
When Krister and I were first married I decided to make a batch and somehow I got confused by the butter measurements and used a POUND of butter rather than a cup. When they came out of the oven they were laid flat like roadkill and, when pressed with a fingertip, would actually leave little pools of butter behind, filling the holes like rain fills fossilized dinosaur footprints in the ground. It was tragic. I cried and cried, partly because I felt like an idiot and partly because butter is so darn expensive and I had just wasted a whole box of it for nothing. Sweet Krister didn't want the night to end in defeat, so he whisked me away to the store to get more ingredients and try, try again.
Ever since that butter-laden disaster I have had a personal vendetta against the chocolate chip cookie. I picture the ingredients laughing at me, taunting me, laying in wait to sabotage my efforts. And so I search. I try out recipe after recipe, dedicated to finding that one that will have just the right texture, the right flavor, the one that will be truly worthy of accompanying a big glass of cold milk. Thanks to allrecipes.com, I feel closer than ever to attaining my goal, to claiming the victory over the ever elusive chocolate chip cookie of my dreams. I'm not there yet, but I am making a valiant effort.
My quest continued this afternoon as I tried my hand at a new recipe. Unfortunately I was left unsupervised in the kitchen with a whole bowl of cookie dough. You would think there was heroin in the stuff the way I was downing it. [Disclaimer: I have never even been in the same room with heroin, nor would I recognize it if I were, but I hear it's quite addictive and thus it works well to give you a picture of my inability to exercise self-control in this situation. Don't do drugs, kids.] What is it about cookie dough that is so irresistible? Part of the problem may be the fact that I have no way of measuring how much I've eaten. It's not like cake where I can see a receding line that marks the damage I've done, or like Junior Mints where I can see the delightful morsels disappearing one by one. Cookie dough just sits there innocently, begging you to sneak just one more spoonful, a pinch here, another pinch there.
But like all good things it is not so innocent once you've gone completely overboard. It's not good to feel sick before the first batch of cookies pops out of the oven. It's not good to see your finger swooping toward the bowl to grab another pinch of dough while your thighs are yelling, "Enough already! You're not even giving us a chance!" It's not good to wonder if you'll be able to eat dinner later after all that cookie bingeing. And, it's not good to eat dinner anyway, then follow it up with a couple more cookies and a few scoops of homemade ice cream. That, my friends, is what you call a sugar coma.
Sunday, April 6, 2008
Innocent
Yesterday was one of the best Saturdays I've had in a long time. Krister and I had planned ahead to make it a day of sabbath - we did laundry and cleaned on Friday evening so our weekly chores wouldn't get in the way of our restful day on Saturday. The next morning we slept in, drank hot tea and read in our pajamas (okay, only I did this part - Krister hates hanging out in his pajamas, as he's more of a get-up-and-go type guy), made cinnamon rolls (the easy kind), then got ready and headed to White Rock Lake for a walk and some more reading. We laid out our picnic blanket by the water and lounged with our books in the beautiful spring sunshine while the breeze played with the trees and the ducks flitted across the water before settling on its glassy surface. It was the kind of spring day that makes you feel that all is right with the world. I closed my eyes to drink in the moment - the pace, the air, the sounds of nature swelling around us. Bikers rode past on their morning excursions. A young couple cradled their newborn against the base of a tree nearby. It was lovely.
It wasn't long before more families joined us by the water and the lovely sounds of springtime were replaced by screaming children and raucous noises of every kind. It made me chuckle, as the noise level grew like some practical joke come to ruin our peaceful outing. My romantic Jane Austen notions of spending the morning reading in the sunshine came to a quick close, but I was determined not to let the harried scene steal away my former peacefulness. After all, sabbath is as much a state of mind as it is a circumstance.
We spent the rest of the day enjoying various relaxing activities and then finally turned on the television for some good 'ole basketball. It may be the sabbath, but it's also the Final Four, and something not to be missed in our household. We debated about what do to for dinner and finally settled on some Red, Hot, and Blue. (On a side note, if you've never been there, you really must go and order their sweet tea - your glass is an actual pitcher - it's the real deal.) We decided to forego the sweet tea and get take-out so we could enjoy our ribs in front of the game. On our way back to our house, potato salad in tow, we had an incident that did what the noise at the park had failed to do - rob us of that sabbath feeling.
We were less than a mile away from our house when a truck in the lane next to us began to swerve into our lane, nearly causing an accident. Krister honked at the truck, as I would have (even though I'm not a big honker) and the driver proceeded to gesture at us out his window and yell obscenities. I was a bit taken aback, as he was the one who was swerving around. He sped off in front of us and soon ended up on our left side, still shaking his arm in the air and yelling. It was quickly growing uncomfortable. Anyone who's had a mishap with someone on the road knows that the goal is not to see this person again after the initial encounter. No such luck. By the time we reached the light the truck had crossed back over to the far right hand lane and, as luck would have it, we ended up stopped right next to one another. This is the part that really pushed me over the edge and stole the last ounce of peace I had accumulated from the day's restfulness. The man began leaning out his window and yelling at us. He decided to raise the bar a bit on the obscenities and was now yelling words I've only heard in the worst parts of the worst movies. My body went into fight or flight mode, adrenaline rushing down through my arms, my pulse quickening. Krister and I stared straight ahead in an attempt to ignore him. This proved to be a difficult task, as I desperately wanted to peek to my right and make sure we weren't in any immediate danger. I fully expected that at any moment he would get out of his truck and try to drag me out of the car, or more likely would pull a rifle out from under his seat and aim it straight at us. Not looking was scary. I realize that probably sounds dramatic, but you were not there. You did not feel the rage, the unreasonable anger coming from this man in the old white truck. I think that was what made it so scary - the fact that this man was acting like a crazy person, unpredictable and irrational.
During the few heart-pounding moments that we sat helplessly stopped at the light under a constant barrage of verbal abuse, I suddenly thought of Christ on the day of his crucifixion. Let me immediately state that I am in no way comparing this experience with that of Jesus' last day. It's just that, I have never been in a situation in which I was completely innocent and yet had someone hating me from the depths of their being. The man in the white truck was clearly drunk, he clearly had issues, and he clearly goes through life (or at least that day) angry at the world for whatever reason. I knew that we were not the source of his anger, but simply the latest victims to cross his path. I felt transported in that moment to the scenes at Golgotha, to the angry mobs who mocked Christ, who spat at him and hated him with their ugly, seething anger. Never has one been more innocent and more hated at the same time. What must he have felt during his last hours, watching from his shameful perch as the vile cruelty of sin took on life in his mockers at the foot of the cross? Mercy. "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do." I think Jesus knew that he was not the true source of the anger that day. There are throngs of people out there who are hurting, who feel kicked in the teeth by life and who lash out in anger at a world they can't understand and can't control, a world that hurts too much and loves too little. But Jesus was able to love them even when the pain of sin turned to burning anger in their bellies. I don't know how he did it. My first instinct at that light wasn't to love the man in the white truck. I just wanted to run away. I wanted to sneak around to the passenger side of his truck and let the woman next to him escape, to tell her "you don't have to live like this anymore." I wanted to go back in time and tell his mother to love him a little stronger. But in the next moment, the truck took a right turn and we continued straight ahead, his voice still ringing in my ears.
The other thing ringing in my ears was the voice of the angry mob yelling "Crucify him! Crucify him!" What an awesome savior we have. One who was loving enough to look down on the hatred and feel mercy, one who was powerful enough to crush the grave, to put sin in its place once and for all, to announce to the whole world that the curtain's been torn, the barriers are down, the captives are set free, that grace and mercy have the last word. I'm so thankful that Jesus was brave enough to come around to the passenger side of the truck, to open the door and tell me, "You don't have to live like this anymore."
It wasn't long before more families joined us by the water and the lovely sounds of springtime were replaced by screaming children and raucous noises of every kind. It made me chuckle, as the noise level grew like some practical joke come to ruin our peaceful outing. My romantic Jane Austen notions of spending the morning reading in the sunshine came to a quick close, but I was determined not to let the harried scene steal away my former peacefulness. After all, sabbath is as much a state of mind as it is a circumstance.
We spent the rest of the day enjoying various relaxing activities and then finally turned on the television for some good 'ole basketball. It may be the sabbath, but it's also the Final Four, and something not to be missed in our household. We debated about what do to for dinner and finally settled on some Red, Hot, and Blue. (On a side note, if you've never been there, you really must go and order their sweet tea - your glass is an actual pitcher - it's the real deal.) We decided to forego the sweet tea and get take-out so we could enjoy our ribs in front of the game. On our way back to our house, potato salad in tow, we had an incident that did what the noise at the park had failed to do - rob us of that sabbath feeling.
We were less than a mile away from our house when a truck in the lane next to us began to swerve into our lane, nearly causing an accident. Krister honked at the truck, as I would have (even though I'm not a big honker) and the driver proceeded to gesture at us out his window and yell obscenities. I was a bit taken aback, as he was the one who was swerving around. He sped off in front of us and soon ended up on our left side, still shaking his arm in the air and yelling. It was quickly growing uncomfortable. Anyone who's had a mishap with someone on the road knows that the goal is not to see this person again after the initial encounter. No such luck. By the time we reached the light the truck had crossed back over to the far right hand lane and, as luck would have it, we ended up stopped right next to one another. This is the part that really pushed me over the edge and stole the last ounce of peace I had accumulated from the day's restfulness. The man began leaning out his window and yelling at us. He decided to raise the bar a bit on the obscenities and was now yelling words I've only heard in the worst parts of the worst movies. My body went into fight or flight mode, adrenaline rushing down through my arms, my pulse quickening. Krister and I stared straight ahead in an attempt to ignore him. This proved to be a difficult task, as I desperately wanted to peek to my right and make sure we weren't in any immediate danger. I fully expected that at any moment he would get out of his truck and try to drag me out of the car, or more likely would pull a rifle out from under his seat and aim it straight at us. Not looking was scary. I realize that probably sounds dramatic, but you were not there. You did not feel the rage, the unreasonable anger coming from this man in the old white truck. I think that was what made it so scary - the fact that this man was acting like a crazy person, unpredictable and irrational.
During the few heart-pounding moments that we sat helplessly stopped at the light under a constant barrage of verbal abuse, I suddenly thought of Christ on the day of his crucifixion. Let me immediately state that I am in no way comparing this experience with that of Jesus' last day. It's just that, I have never been in a situation in which I was completely innocent and yet had someone hating me from the depths of their being. The man in the white truck was clearly drunk, he clearly had issues, and he clearly goes through life (or at least that day) angry at the world for whatever reason. I knew that we were not the source of his anger, but simply the latest victims to cross his path. I felt transported in that moment to the scenes at Golgotha, to the angry mobs who mocked Christ, who spat at him and hated him with their ugly, seething anger. Never has one been more innocent and more hated at the same time. What must he have felt during his last hours, watching from his shameful perch as the vile cruelty of sin took on life in his mockers at the foot of the cross? Mercy. "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do." I think Jesus knew that he was not the true source of the anger that day. There are throngs of people out there who are hurting, who feel kicked in the teeth by life and who lash out in anger at a world they can't understand and can't control, a world that hurts too much and loves too little. But Jesus was able to love them even when the pain of sin turned to burning anger in their bellies. I don't know how he did it. My first instinct at that light wasn't to love the man in the white truck. I just wanted to run away. I wanted to sneak around to the passenger side of his truck and let the woman next to him escape, to tell her "you don't have to live like this anymore." I wanted to go back in time and tell his mother to love him a little stronger. But in the next moment, the truck took a right turn and we continued straight ahead, his voice still ringing in my ears.
The other thing ringing in my ears was the voice of the angry mob yelling "Crucify him! Crucify him!" What an awesome savior we have. One who was loving enough to look down on the hatred and feel mercy, one who was powerful enough to crush the grave, to put sin in its place once and for all, to announce to the whole world that the curtain's been torn, the barriers are down, the captives are set free, that grace and mercy have the last word. I'm so thankful that Jesus was brave enough to come around to the passenger side of the truck, to open the door and tell me, "You don't have to live like this anymore."
Friday, March 21, 2008
Ode to an Old Friend
I do not know from whence you came, or of your short-lived past
You searched for a way out in vain, your prison - walls of glass.
You did not find your way to freedom, water, and fresh air
Instead you lay upon my dash and drew your last breath there.
And when at last I noticed you, I was too lazy, far
Too dust you off, dispose of you (I never clean my car).
And so the days turned into months, and months to nigh a year
And always you accompanied me, a constant presence here.
Some days I thought of you as George, and other times as Gus
My withered mascot on the dash all covered up in dust.
I’d think of all your ancestors caught in an amber trap
Their fate much prettier than yours, preserved in golden sap.
Your death was not illustrious; your life, a fragile state
You flew in never knowing that the door would seal your fate.
But in a twist of irony your death preserved you, see?
For how many mosquitoes dwell a year in one’s memory?
We’d never have been friends if you had tried to suck my blood
I surely would have swatted you and washed you off at once
But since you suffocated and your needle ne’er took root
You got to keep me company each day on my commute
And then at last, on this spring day, it finally was time
To clean my car, inside and out, get rid of all the grime.
I did not take it lightly as I held the vacuum up,
And saw you, fragile mascot, disappear with just one suck.
And then my car was clean at last, at least for a small while
But when I looked to where you lay I quickly lost my smile
I know that I will miss your presence laying on my dash
So goodbye, George, goodbye sweet Gus, you’re gone for good – alas!
You searched for a way out in vain, your prison - walls of glass.
You did not find your way to freedom, water, and fresh air
Instead you lay upon my dash and drew your last breath there.
And when at last I noticed you, I was too lazy, far
Too dust you off, dispose of you (I never clean my car).
And so the days turned into months, and months to nigh a year
And always you accompanied me, a constant presence here.
Some days I thought of you as George, and other times as Gus
My withered mascot on the dash all covered up in dust.
I’d think of all your ancestors caught in an amber trap
Their fate much prettier than yours, preserved in golden sap.
Your death was not illustrious; your life, a fragile state
You flew in never knowing that the door would seal your fate.
But in a twist of irony your death preserved you, see?
For how many mosquitoes dwell a year in one’s memory?
We’d never have been friends if you had tried to suck my blood
I surely would have swatted you and washed you off at once
But since you suffocated and your needle ne’er took root
You got to keep me company each day on my commute
And then at last, on this spring day, it finally was time
To clean my car, inside and out, get rid of all the grime.
I did not take it lightly as I held the vacuum up,
And saw you, fragile mascot, disappear with just one suck.
And then my car was clean at last, at least for a small while
But when I looked to where you lay I quickly lost my smile
I know that I will miss your presence laying on my dash
So goodbye, George, goodbye sweet Gus, you’re gone for good – alas!
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