Browsing Archives for January, 2008
The votes haven't been counted yet, but this year's NetShops chili cook-off was a smash hit across the taste buds. Considering the logistics involved in preparing, transporting, and heating chili to optimum contest temperatures, 13 teeming crock pots is a very respectable turnout.
Entries in traditional, non-traditional, and spicy categories were judged according to aroma, flavor, consistency, and heat. The traditional chilies combined robust smokiness from meat and chili peppers, sweet tanginess from tomatoes and onions, and a balanced succulence from slow, patient cooking. Non-traditional entries showcased exotic flavors such as stout beer, rosé wine, dark chocolate, zucchini, garbanzo beans, and venison, just to name a few. Spicy entries sent some judges outdoors for mouthfuls of snow.
We'll have to wait a little longer to find out who will be decorated with the prestigious NetShops chili-pepper leis. But somehow I think the real winners, lingering over every bite and enthusiastically going back for seconds and thirds, were the judges themselves.
The best part is that there were plenty of samples to go around. No one walked away cool-mouthed and empty-handed. Now it's just a matter of coaxing our judges back inside to tally the ballots.
I fully understand that this is not a weather blog, but get this: It was 56 degrees Fahrenheit yesterday. Today things bottomed out at -5. That's a 60-degree difference before wind chill is factored in. I don't even want to tell you that with 35 mph winds, the wind chill was -34 degrees. This is the sort of swing that would make Tarzan waffle.
Temperatures this low were conceivable to me only theoretically- like how being adrift in outer space might feel. That was until I dutifully took the trash and recycling to the curb early this morning.
I will not insult your intelligence by telling you it was cold. Rather, I will put things in perspective by sharing with you that mid-latitudinal Mars has an average summer daytime temperature of around 32 degrees. In other words, this morning in Omaha was about 70 degrees colder than an analogous point on Mars. Colder than a Martian summer? You heard it here first.
I realize it's still January and that we should expect the abrupt changes in weather that come with having a continental climate, but seriously. This is getting ridiculous.
Hopefully things are warmer in your neck of the woods. If not, please allow me to direct you to our vast selection of electric fireplaces, gas logs, and fur boots, to see you through to spring thaw. For our fortunate friends in more temperate regions, stoke your fire pits, crank up your patio heaters, and please get out there and enjoy the outdoors on our behalf. The rest of us can't wait to join you.
I am not handy. My deficiencies in this regard, however, do not stop me from attempting repair and remodeling work as often they should. Take, for example, my home office project.
Over the past several weeks (OK, months), I have been converting an unfinished basement room into what I hope will one day resemble an office. I began by investing in some tools and a toolbox. The fact that my entire tool stock before this endeavor consisted of a Phillips head screwdriver and a staple gun should offer some indication of my qualifications.
Yet slowly and through several thoroughly embarrassing failed attempts, including walling over the door frame and nearly permanently sealing myself inside, I have managed to frame, insulate, hang dry wall, and apply paint successfully. Admittedly, the walls exhibit a sort of fun-house curvature that was not part of the original design, but who says walls are supposed to be straight? I’m sure the Oval Office was a similar agreeable accident.
Now I need only to lay carpet and install baseboards and molding, and it will be time for furnishing. So forgive me if I happen to spend an inordinate amount of time performing quality analysis on sites like FilingCabinets.com, ComputerDesks.com, and MoreOffceFurniture.com this afternoon. I've got to make my new space look like an office somehow.
I would like to think it's still too early to think about Valentine's Day. But when the relentless advance of red, pink, and white has made it as far as our Friday office doughnuts, it's probably time to get it in gear. Goodness knows my home will not be a happy place if I again fail to make early reservations and end up dining with my beloved at my favorite sports bar.
It's no stretch for me to admit that I have no soft spot for Valentine's Day. Isn't true romance spontaneous and impulsive, something that refuses to be penciled in on a numbered grid? I’d like to think so. But romance is a two-way street. And if my better half has it scheduled in her Filofax, I'm in no position to argue.
At least this year I've got a failsafe plan. With the future delivery feature on GiftBaskets.com, I can choose from loads of fancy-pants Valentine's gift baskets loaded with chocolate-covered strawberries, cookies, wine, and even flowers; place my order; and have it delivered on Feb. 14. As long as I remember to order, future delivery ensures I won't forget.
This way, I won't be in completely the doghouse on Valentine's Day when I offer her my last buffalo wing and challenge her to a game of darts.
Yesterday's blog brought talk of daschunds in dog strollers. The imagery involved was rife with small-dog cuteness, but perhaps it was a bit too anthropomorphic for some. Therefore, for the sake of balance and normalcy, I shall place a baby in a proper baby stroller for today's post. However, our scene and some of our players shall remain the same.
Back on the disc golf course, my brother and I this time are with his four-month-old son. Above hangs a cloudless sky as temperatures hover agreeably in the mid-60s. (Wielding my creative license, I've fast-forwarded to early spring, giving all a well-deserved reprieve from the wintry gloom.) The mood is buoyant and care-free. My apple-cheeked nephew is strapped securely in the five-point harness of his Chicco umbrella stroller. Our discs are stowed conveniently in the storage compartment below the stroller's seat, tucked neatly behind a manly diaper bag.
This stroller is living up to its billing. The front-end suspension manages the ground's undulations with ease. Swivel wheels provide precise maneuverability. My brother engages the safety brake and steps away for a crucial putt. Beneath the cool shade of the umbrella canopy, the little one laughs knowingly as his father's errant shot flies wide right. I think this is the beginning of a beautiful nephew-uncle-ship.
My brother has two miniature dachshunds. Non-dog aficionados will recognize them as wiener dogs. These two adorable, furry sausages on legs are typically quite a joy when we take them along for rounds of disc golf.
It's prudent at this point to offer a brief explanation of disc golf for the uninitiated. One throws a flying disc from a tee box toward a basket positioned in the distance. The Professional Disc Golf Association offers this illuminating gem: "The object of the game is to traverse a course from beginning to end in the fewest number of throws of the disc."
It is the greatest game ever.
This is not only because I can throw a disc substantially farther than I can hit a golf ball (that's not saying much), but also because, unlike golf, most courses are free to play. If that weren't enough, it is apparently perfectly acceptable to bring dogs along for the round so long as they are on leashes.
Back to the dachshunds. I am compelled to admit that these harmless, well-mannered dogs are often afforded the pleasure of roaming unleashed. Even in cold weather, they bound merrily over hill and dale, frolic among squirrels and rabbits, and dig curiously at their leisure. It is a veritable delight to behold. Unfortunately, not all is well in mini-dachshund-ville when three inches of snow lie on the ground.
This has been the case here of late, yet my brother and I have ventured out undaunted. For our intrepid spirit we were rewarded with the pleasure of carrying his dogs for the duration of our round. Wiener dogs, you see, sink fast in measurable snow.
This posed a problem for future snowy outings, but a solution presented itself today in the form of a pet stroller. I had long-thought pet strollers to be pet accessories for accessory pets. Tipping the scales at around 10 lbs. apiece, my brother's dachshunds may qualify, but at least this stroller is purely for practical use.
A stroller ride may bruise the egos of young Rock Strongo and Knuckles Von Smash, but it's not like slithering around on a blanket of snow does much for them either. Oh, well. At least this way they can still get out, get some fresh air, and get back home to their cozy dog beds. And ultimately, that's what winter outings are all about.
This weekend, as I considered the quiet comfort and pleasure I derive from my trusty driving moccasins, it occurred to me in a flash that the last shred of youth's edgy hipness had abandoned me. I'm not saying it's time to shelve my leather jacket and jeans and submit to the itchy warmth of wool cardigans and polyester pants, but that day seems ever closer.
Relentless cold left me happily holed up on Saturday, save for a daring solo expedition to the supermarket for wine and chocolate. As I bundled up and gathered provisions for my journey (coffee, biscotti, crossword puzzles), the thought of slipping my feet into the clunky, frozen winter boots I'd left outside the door after shoveling was dispiriting enough to give me pause. Perhaps I should forego my foolhardy venture into the frigid void and manage without an evening of decadence.
It was then as though my moccasins spoke. They would accompany me on my journey! Fur-lined, traction-soled, and already wrapped snugly around my feet, their bold yet modest confidence was just the heartening presence I needed.
And so we embarked. Together, we confidently navigated treacherous ice, drifting snow, scathing winds, and a glacial checkout, my feet kept toasty all the while.
Home again, I thought, "Must it be age that brings on an affinity for slippers?" Perhaps not. I suppose an appreciation for quality moccasins so early in life can be attributed to wisdom beyond years. Yes, that must be it. Now where’s my afghan?