Baked Potato Soup
On this cold and wintry day, I’m preparing homemade Baked Potato Soup, one of my favorite comfort foods. I highly recommend you try it sometime.
Now, before you let yourself feel some sort of inadequate next to the wonderment of my ambition, any speculation of culinary skill, or an image of me that includes a cute apron and matching spatula . . . consider the following:
- The idea to make this soup came to me because I noticed that the potatoes in the cupboard were close to growing ears and feet.
- I was pleasantly surprised to find a hunk of onion in the veggie drawer. And it was about the right amount of onion . . . until I finished cutting off all of the dry and/or rubbery bits.
- Instead of bacon, I used turkey bacon. Instead of sour cream, I used yogurt.
Multiple Choice:
I chose the alternatives above because:
A.) I only buy super-nutritive and planet-responsible foods like vegetables grown in natural sunlight while listening to Enya and meat from non-methane-producing cows.
B.) I did not feel like going to the grocery store to get the right things.
- Sharp cheddar cheese is the perfect choice for this recipe. Yep. I chopped up some nearly stiff slices of swiss foraged from the back of the lunchmeat drawer. Then, I tossed in a bit of parmesan that I’m still not sure about.
- Had no chives, so I used parsley and dillweed. Parsley because, you know, it kind of looks like chives. Dillweed because it’s the funniest thing in the spice rack.
- I did not parboil the potatoes. (I’m not 100 percent sure I know what parboil means.) I just dumped everything into a crock pot and turned it on.
- First, I had to go get the crock pot, from where it has been sitting in the basement, just inside the door to the garage, since Thanksgiving.
- Yes, Thanksgiving 2013, and, yes, it was clean. (But these are not unreasonable questions.)
With any luck, when I sit down to eat this, um, variation of Baked Potato Soup, I will not just spit it out with a grimace and a gag. ‘Cause then I’d probably have to get up off the couch to go change this lovely sweat pants and T-shirt ensemble.
Happy Friday. Bon Appétit!
Super Bowl Commercials
Okay, I watch the Super Bowl because I like football. And it annoys me that it has become an advertising show interspersed with a few minutes of football. There was a time when the few commercials run during the big game became a sort of delightful surprise. But, as too often happens when advertisers discover a spark of cool (and misinterpret its appeal), Super Bowl advertising has become an overdone, over-hyped display of the mostly weird.
My 2 million cents.
Bruce Willis Honda Hug Commercial
Hi, we’re Honda. We sell cars. But we spent a trunk load of money on a commercial to say that what’s really important isn’t a car but to watch the Super Bowl with people you care about and give them a hug. Oh, and here are two guys who will make that potentially sincere message feel silly and odd.
T-Mobile (Simple pink background with text.)
“Maybe next year we’ll hire a big celebrity.” Loved it. Brilliant.
Coke/America the Beautiful
I get and like America’s melting pot personality, and I appreciate Coke’s world view. They did it so well with “I’d like to teach the world to sing.” But America the Beautiful? Hmm. For Coke’s global audience, isn’t that a tad rude? And for Coke’s American audience, wasn’t that a little preachy, bordering on unpatriotic?
Bob Dylan for . . . (was it Chevy?)
“Nothing is more American than America”? Huh. Also, nothing is more sliced and bready than sliced bread.
Budweiser Puppy-Horse Commercial
I almost loved it. But I wouldn’t have picked “Puppy Love” as the theme song. (Are the dog and horse “best buds” as the clever tagline says or are they in love?)
Were I the creative director, the friendship between the horse and dog would have brought the farmer and dog breeder together. (Wouldn’t that have been better than, as one friend put it, a carjacking?)
Pistachios
In a word, Wonderful. One of the few ads in which using a celebrity meshes perfectly with their existing advertising campaign. And Colbert was his normal, deadpan hilarious self. (Pistachio!)
Matrix Car Commercial
Today, I am going to turn Nessun Dorma (one of the most beautiful pieces of music ever written) up loud and hope that Pavarotti can help me forget I ever saw/heard this commercial. (Also, interesting, using a song about not knowing a name to run a commercial for which I cannot remember the brand.)
Go Daddy’s Muscle Men Running to Tanning Salon
I thought this one was fun—and a much more appropriate campaign for the Go Daddy target audience than their previous ads aimed at those needing a domain name for a porn site.
Cheerios Little Brother and a Puppy
I still don’t have any idea why people are so upset about the depiction of this mixed race family. But I’m never a fan of portraying children as manipulative little brats who get their way.
Butterfinger Candy Ménage
Saved the worst for last. Creepy concept. Creepy people. And the worlds worst marriage therapist.
P.S. If the name of your candy bar includes the words butt and finger, perhaps you should avoid the deviant sex analogy?
The Scoop
A clean out fever sometimes strikes my Mom. Over the years, I have trained her to wait a tick before tossing or donating, to give me a chance to peruse and scavenge. If I had saved nothing else over the years, I am glad I got my hands on this ice cream scoop.
This is the ice cream scoop my Dad used when we were kids. (Dad is fine by the way; he just got a new scoop.) But this is the one he used when he’d make us special sundaes or ice cream cones. It was an event that made us happy, in part, because, well, it was ice cream but also because serving ice cream was something my Dad got such a kick out of. He’d put joy and creativity into the effort. And he had a system.
I can picture it. Clear as day. My Dad, standing at the kitchen counter, looking down at me, smiling. He’d fill a small cup with warm tap water and dip the scoop in the water before digging into the ice cream, explaining, teaching, sharing a secret, this makes it easier to scoop.
Dad making ice cream sundaes or serving up ice cream cones was a tradition in our house, and everybody who has ever visited has had at least one of them.
There was a time when an ice cream shop up the street went up for sale, and there was talk in the house that maybe he should go into business. I was much too young to understand having a job or being the bread-winner or the risks of small business, but it made me sad that he didn’t do it.
Even very young humans are astute enough to recognize the things that make other people happy and to feel something, even if we don’t yet know the words regret or sacrifice, that feels a little sad, something that is a little less than perfect about being a grown-up.
Flash forward to me as an adult, and this same ice cream scoop reminds me of when my nephew Alex (now a 6-foot-something 16-year-old) was a tiny little human. My brother was in the Navy and his family was in town for a rare visit. We gathered at my Mom and Dad’s house. It was the first time I’d been around Alex that he could talk and walk. He was about 3 years old.
I walked from the dining room to the kitchen with a promise of getting him some ice cream. He came dashing in behind me, saying, “Wait! Wait! I have to tell you something.” I was at the kitchen counter, holding this scoop, looking down at him, smiling.
He told me to get a cup of water. He told me that if I dipped the scoop in the water, the ice cream would be easier to scoop. He added, oh-so-proudly, “That’s how my Dad does it.”
One of my favorite sweet, funny Circle-of-Life moments.
So, yeah, things are just things. But some things, unremarkable, everyday things, are more than utilitarian. They are memory triggers. Every time I use this scoop or even just see it in the utensil drawer, I feel a little jolt of happiness. I also feel a bit covetous and secretly lucky to be the kid who stayed in Pittsburgh and got the best hand-me-downs. This ice cream scoop is a mini-life preserver.
And, that, my friends, is my rationalization. Sometimes, winter doldrums and grown-up worries are easier to bear — if you eat a little ice cream on a Wednesday.
Rooting for Peyton
When it comes to the Super Bowl, it’s more fun to have a horse in the race. This time, mine’s a Bronco.
Let me state right up front that I’m from Pittsburgh, and Terry Bradshaw is and always will be my favorite quarterback of all time, but Peyton Manning is my favorite active QB. And not just this week; I’ve been saying that for years.
Why?
- I like Peyton Manning because he’s a great player who makes for some really exciting football.
- I think he’s hilarious. If you haven’t seen him on Saturday Night Live, google for video. If you haven’t seen his commercials, move out of your cave.
- I like him because he does a lot of work for charity.
- I like him because he is humble and self-deprecating. He’s a good sport.
- I like him because he wears his heart on his sleeve.
- I like him because Tony Dungy likes him.
- I like him because family dinners at the Manning house are rowdy and hilarious but also loving. They hug a lot. They laugh at farts. And post-dinner charades are epic.
Okay. I’ve never actually had dinner with the Mannings. And I can’t back up what are, obviously, my own inferences about a man I’ve never met. But I am also rooting for Peyton Manning because of one undeniable fact: He’ll be in MetLife Stadium on Sunday.
Despite major surgeries – on his neck. Despite lingering nerve damage – in his throwing arm. He’ll be there.
He’ll be there despite a kick in the teeth from the people who knew his work ethic best. Jim Ersay won’t be in East Rutherford on Sunday. But Peyton Manning will be there.
I want the Broncos to win — not just because I’m a Peyton Manning fan but also because it would be a life preserver moment. I’d like to see that, sometimes, that’s how Life works.
I’d like to see perseverance and courage pay off. I’d like to see the odds beaten. I’d like to see Ersay’s kiss-butt public relations dance. I’d like to see the Broncos’ faith rewarded. I’d like to hear their quarterback talk about a great team effort. I’d like to see him have that chance to be gracious and proud and happy.
I’d really like to see the nice guy finish first.
And then go get a Super Bowl ring sized for his middle finger.
Richard Sherman, May I Call You Dick?
I once dropped an enormous F-bomb in the midst of a heated softball game. A reporter and cameraman were not in the stands that day. But my parents were. It is difficult, even now, all these years later, to share what they said to me after the game, but I can tell you, they did not say, “Well, you played well, so we’re still thrilled to be your parents right now.”
True, an amateur softball game cannot compare to an NFL playoff game, but that’s not my point.
When I saw Sherman’s outrageous outburst following Sunday’s NFL playoff, I thought it was surprising (and kind of hilarious). I thought, “Boy-oh-boy-oh, this guy is going to be mortified once he calms down.” And I thought, “The media is going to have a field day with such a blatant display of poor sportsmanship.”
But he isn’t. And they haven’t.
His explanation has been, well, less than apologetic. (“I’m most sorry about the coverage this has received.”) Many are standing up for him. (“That’s the kind of guy I’d want on my team.”) And the Beats commercial featuring him rolling his eyes about his bad image has begun to run more often.
What the heck?
Despite what the talking heads seem to be implying in their coverage of negative reaction among fans, I am not a stupid, single-minded automaton who can’t understand the situation.
Guess what, regular folks know that competition can be emotional, that spirits run high when your adrenalin is pumping. We’re actually quite capable of understanding why Sherman lost his mind. We’re even capable of feeling bad for him that it happened in front of a reporter and a cameraman.
(Oh, and btw, most of us don’t make millions doing what we do, but we all face challenges with far greater consequences than a trophy. Just sayin’.)
Humans — regular or famous — are silly, emotional, passionate, imperfect creatures. We all make mistakes. We take our turn being stupid or angry or mean or thoughtless. But some of us? When we screw up, we acknowledge our mistake and aspire to do better. It’s likely the main reason our species has continued to exist.
Mistakes make us human. Admitting our mistakes and trying to do better makes us lovable. Acting as if you are exempt from the endeavor has the opposite effect.
And that is why people like me will carry on, knowing what’s really important in life, and understanding football quite well enough, thank-you-very-much. For example:
- This Sherman fellow is just one man among fewer than 1,700 players in the football world (and 7 billion people in the real world).
- Sherman is only 25 years old, with time to learn.
- The Seahawks team doctor has stated that Sherman’s aggressive behavior stems from having a tiny penis.
- I shouldn’t have written that last bullet. I need to be a better person.
- Let’s go, Broncos!
Snail Mail My Email 2013
It’s that time of year again. Snail Mail My Email has begun. (Here’s another Life Preservers post about the project: Snail Mail My Email Project.)
For one week only (this week!), the Snail Mail My Email team will take your email, hand-write it, decorate it, and mail it. For free. Want to send a one-of-a-kind letter? Go to the Snail Mail My Email website.
Or think about writing a letter to someone this week!
The Snail Mail My Email project was created in 2011 by artist Ivan Cash. In that first year 234 volunteers collectively sent 10,457 letters to 70 countries in just one month. The project has since transitioned to a week-long annual event held every fall. And it’s going on now.
The project has also been captured in a book, which is for sale on amazon.
Cool Project (that Deserves Support)
Have you seen those antique blue dinner plates? The ones with the complex design and tranquil scenery? Well, there’s a designer in Pittsburgh named Don Moyer who re-draws the pattern–but with a twist. He adds a calamity, like attacking aliens or a pirate ship. Check out some of the images here on Flickr. They’re a hoot!
At this point, Don is trying to raise the money to actually produce one of his Calamityware Dinner Plates as a real plate. He has a project up on KickStarter, a site that helps everyday folks help other everyday folks fund creative projects. You make a pledge to fund the project. If the project doesn’t get completed, you get your money back. You can pledge as little as one dollar, simply as a show of support for this delightful bit of genius. For $25, you’ll get one of the Calamity plates. With flying monkeys. (Flying monkeys!)
This image is not mine. Copyright Don Moyer. I’m just borrowing it so you can see how cool it is!
Check out the Calamityware Dinner Plate KickStarter page here for more info, including a video from Don Moyer explaining the project and all of the details about KickStarter. Consider making a donation. I just did. Because I like to support silliness and creativity in the world. And I want one of these plates!
To make a pledge, you have to create a log in on KickStarter and then pay via amazon.com. If you already have an amazon account, you just use your regular log in. If you do not already have an amazon account, you would need to create one. But the pledge process is really simple. If the project is successful, plates will ship around February 2014.
I do not know Don personally, but he is a friend of a friend, so I feel comfortable vouching for this project. Check it out!
Here’s the Problem. (And a Solution.)
In thinking about the pompous clusterf*ck that is our government these days, I wondered how they can still have a job while not going to work, not managing to a budget, and, generally, behaving so badly. I thought, Surely, there has to be a way to fire these people for such incompetence. Surely, our brilliant Founding Fathers covered this?
Well, no. We the People cannot impeach or fire members of Congress. According to Article 1, Section 5, Clause 2 of The Constitution:
Each House may determine the Rules of its Proceedings, punish its Members for disorderly Behaviour, and, with the Concurrence of two thirds, expel a Member.
For comparison: Allow a large group of teenagers to stay home alone for a four-day weekend, with an unlocked liquor cabinet, a big bowl of pot, a stack of 50s, a swimming pool, three sports cars, a kick-ass sound system, and internet access. When you get home, ask them if they’ve behaved themselves.
Sound ridiculous? Well, what goes on in Washington, D.C., is just as illogical, just as stupid, just as out of control. Our Senators and Representatives can make their own rules and do pretty much anything they want because they can only be fired if they vote to fire each other by a two-thirds majority.
Our current national debt is $16,750,300,206,723.60. (That’s nearly $17 trillion.) (Trillion!) But they can decide (among themselves) to say “That’s okay. No worries.” They decide if they get another raise, get ideal health care, have a private retirement fund outside of Social Security. They decide to take more vacation annually than most of us get in 10 years. They decide to pay for limo service or ride in private jets. They decide if they walk off the job. They decide how much we pay in taxes.
And they can raid that liquor cabinet over and over and over again.
We have only one option. We have only one opportunity to change things. We vote.
Apathetic? Disillusioned? Snap out of it. We are not helpless. We are not trapped. And it is our duty as citizens to do our part.
You can bet your bottom dollar, they are all assuming that, by the time the next election comes along, we’ll have forgotten the preposterousness of the current situation. You know they are relying on voter turnout of around 50 percent. They’ll spend a ridiculous amount of money to continue to promote the myth that there are ginormous, life-altering philosophical differences between the democrats and republicans in office. They’re going to do everything in their power to keep us fighting among ourselves, while the majority of them—the majority who are legally allowed to decide on the consequences of their behavior—slide back into their seat, with a thumbs up across the aisle and a knowing chuckle.
While searching the web for the information about how a Congressman can be removed from office, I came across this site: kickthemallout.com (Kick Them All Out). Sounds like a good idea to me.
Let’s not forget how much they have screwed up. Let’s ignore their example and work together to get something done. For at least the next election cycle, set aside your preference of democrat or republican or whatever. Vote American, and punish their incompetence. Let’s make sure there isn’t a single incumbent who gets to come back for another term. It won’t guarantee a perfect Congress, but it will send a message. It will show our representatives that We the People will not tolerate greed, corrupt ethics, and gross negligence. It will teach them an important lesson: There are consequences for bad behavior.
Welcome Back, Baseball
If you’re an older Pittsburgher, you were kind of spoiled as a kid when it comes to sports. And, beyond the thrill of winning, beyond the community pride, beyond the bragging rights, a part of you forever yearns to relive those days.
Not, as outsiders may think, because you’re part of an obnoxious fan base that always expects to win. But because your love of sports is forever entwined with the past, when:
- Your grandparents (and for some, your parents) were still alive. You learned about sports because they loved sports. You love the Pirates because they loved the Pirates. You watched games together crowded around a small TV or radio. And you miss those days. You miss them more than a World Series appearance.
- Gas stations still had attendants. A man would pump your gas, wipe the windshield, and hand you the latest Pirates give-away, like a drinking glass or a glossy 8×10 of a player.
- If you were lucky as me, you had a big brother who let you and your sister sit in his room, where he used a team photo poster to help you memorize every name and number.
- There was no ebay. Kids lined up to get autographs for the pure joy of having the signature of a player they adored.
- It was nearly impossible to get tickets to Opening Day.
- Team budgets weren’t hamstrung by greed.
- Baseball players were baseball players, part of one team, part of the city where they played the game.
- Pittsburgh wasn’t a small-market town struggling to make payroll. It was your whole world.
Somewhere, in the same brain that now wrestles thoughts of mortgage and clients and deadlines, you still have Manny’s smile, Steve Blass’ leap, the towering-fame/guy-I-could-have-a-beer-with dichotomy of Bill Mazeroski, the grace and heartbreak of Clemente, the grin and grit of Danny Murtaugh, an enduring crush on Richie Hebner, the mustache of Phil Gardner, the crazy arm of Kent Tekulve, the reassuring presence of Willie Stargell.
As we have a tendency to view most of the past from a distance: It was better then.
As we have gotten older, as we have been forced to let go of the ways of childhood, it felt unfair to also be asked to give up Our Team. To handle years of losing. Years of disappoint. Years of expending deep empathy for the young men who tried. Years of watching bright sparks fade away. Years of feeling like hostages to folks who did not appear to share our beliefs, who did not seem to care, who did not behave as if they had a clue about baseball in this town. Even a couple of years when we very nearly lost baseball altogether.
And then.
Changes were made. A cog shifted and the wheel of a plan we had ceased to believe in began to turn. The gate creaked open and in that rush of air, from that collective gasp, a roar went up. A resonating, goose-bumping, awe-inspiring roar in the hearts, in the homes, in the stands, and in the town where the Pittsburgh Pirates play baseball.
Something in each of us came alive again. We believed again. We hoped again. And that’s a fairly miraculous phenomenon, a life preserver for those of us of a certain age. Even if the season didn’t have a movie script ending. The current run may have ended last night, but — for at least a year, and maybe more — baseball returned to the City of Pittsburgh.
A very Pittsburgh-y group of men led by a very Pittsburgh-y coach gave us an awesome gift.
It was not 1992 all over again. It was not the last hard kick in the pants that pushed you into adulthood.
It was something else.
Life Preservers 
Never Tailgate on a Rainy Day – Driving Tips Book
My new book “Never Tailgate on a Rainy Day” welcomes new drivers to the open road with wisdom and humor. Blending useful driving tips, advice, and lessons learned with imagery that captures the adventure of cars and driving, this book tells a new driver, “Be safe. I love you!” A fun and informative gift for teens that parents will appreciate, too.
{Note: I have to thank a friend of mine for writing the above book description for me. Funny how I’ve spent my career helping other people promote themselves and their products, but, when it came to my own, I had trouble putting it into words without feeling as if I were being an obnoxious braggart.}
This book was a labor of love, inspired by my own nephew turning 16. Should you be so inclined, it’s on sale at amazon.com.
A few excerpts:
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February 20, 2014 at 4:25 pm 4 comments