Dear Friends, Family, Loved Ones, Loyal Blog Readers & Other Riffraff:
I am incredibly happy to announce that I’ve written a book! Just for you! Just in time for Christmas!
My debut book – Faith, Fatherhood & Food – is now available on Amazon. You can find it right here.
I am truly grateful for all of you who have offered words of encouragement over the years. From “If you wrote a book, I would probably read it” to “You’re an idiot if you don’t write a book” – all of these flattering words have landed right on my heart and inspired me.
This is a book of personal essays - comprised of many of these very blog posts found here, over the years - plus a handful of new ones written specifically for this publication. I really am excited to share them.
I have self-published on Amazon – which means that people will only know about it if you or I tell them about it. So, if you like it – or think you will like it – here’s what you can do:
1. Tell your friends about it!
2. Buy a copy for all your friends!
3. Leave a glowing review on Amazon!
4. … that about it, I guess.
If you don’t like it, here’s what you can do:
1. Go pound sand.
If you've read my blog and enjoyed these stories or meandering thoughts over the last decade or more, then you will absolutely enjoy the book. In fact, you'll have read most of it already! Think of it! Cracking open a book and being able to tell people, "I've read most of it already." They will think you are a speed-reader and super cosmopolitan!
Thank you, again. For reading, for visiting, for checking in from time to time. I haven't decided yet if I will shut down my blog entirely, or leave it up. I don't write as often as I used to - but it's nice to have a place to do it if I do feel like it. It is a privilege to write for an audience who gives you the benefit of the doubt.
The rumors are true, you guys. This summer, the Craig family pulled off a Griswold-worthy cross-country trip across this-here land of the free and home of the highway-bathroom stops! And it was glorious.
It all started when Katie’s parents declared they wanted to hold a family reunion. We’re fans of family reunions and of our families, in particular, so we were in. Then, they doubled-down by suggesting that since we are all spread out across the fruited planes and purple mountains (Katie being one of 10 children), that we should meet in the middle.
Kansas.
Which begs the question: Is Kansas … is that … is Kansas the middle? I’m pretty sure no. I’m pretty sure Hawaii is the middle. But then we crunched some numbers and turns out that if you’re going by budgets and expenses, Kansas is for sure the middle.
Then we decided that if we were going to drive all the way to Kansas, we should just make this trip – how the kids of 2014 say – epic. Yessir, we decided to go all the way! From sea to shining sea, baby!
Mostly.
If you're counting the Great Salt Lake as a sea, then yep! From Utah to Boston, Massachusetts!
For those of you keeping score at home, Katie and I have 8 children. (If you’re really a baller, then you know that one of our children is serving an LDS mission in Brazil and was not available for this road trip. But he’ll be available in 16 months, ladies…)
Anyway, the 9 of us piled into our 12-passenger van (alias: Big Red) and drove off into the sunset! Then we realized that was the wrong direction, so we turned that bus around and drove east! Like the old saying, “Go east, young man!”
We took 3 weeks, covered 17 states, and racked up 6,270 miles.
We made 8 lip sync videos. Technically, we made nine. But we never posted this one.
We saw lots, my friends. Lots. The landscapes, the cultures, the people, the foods. But not everything. And that was maddening to me. It was like ordering a sampler plate. You know how when you are eating a sampler plate and you’re like, “Well, that was the right amount of stuffed potato skins (Hershey, PA), but I could have easily eaten an entire dinner of those sliders (Washington DC).” It was like that. We were in New York for precisely 10 hours. TEN HOURS. Sure, we saw Lady Liberty and walked the Brooklyn Bridge and played in Central Park. But is that enough? (It’s not. It’s like one and half sliders.) But I think we really nailed some cities. Have you EXPERIENCED the St. Louis City Museum? (Answer: You haven’t, and you should be ashamed.) We embraced Washington DC. High-fived Boston. And gave Philadelphia a sporty bum-smack. But some places, like Chicago, demanded more of our attention. And we just couldn’t fit everything in, or we’d still be out there. I even saw a billboard in Iowa that said, “Next Exit: Ride a boat pulled by mules.” And I thought to myself, “YES. That’s precisely what I want to do!” But time mocked us right to our faces.
But, perhaps most importantly, you don’t drive across America the Beautiful without learning a few things. Here are a few nuggets from this trip:
1. Our van fits in parking garages with a minimum 6’8 clearance. Not 6’6, not 6’7. We learned this the hard way at a garage in Washington DC. Worst. Sound. Ever. The good news is that we’ve traveled in this van for 7 years, with 8 children, on road-trips, eating countless meals, and nobody but nobody is interested in buying this used van from us. We clearly do not care what it looks like. We’ll just continue to abuse it until it refuses to run anymore. Which, if it were a person, and that person were me, that would have been 6 years ago.
Parking my 12-passenger van in downtown Manhattan. What?
2. Everything takes longer with a big family. EVERY. THING. And when I say everything, I am mostly talking about bathroom breaks. Try this with me. Hold your thumb out in front of you. Close one eye and really focus on it. See your thumb nail? Not the entire thumb, just the nail. Have you got it? That’s the combined-size of my three youngest children’s bladders. If we were a band, this would have been called The Bathrooms Across America Tour. And for reasons as varied as the urinary habits of children everywhere, each bathroom stop took 45 minutes to three days. After I realized this pattern, I had to weigh our opportunities before parking anywhere. “Hmm. Do we want to see Midtown Manhattan, or go tinkles? There’s only time for one.”
3. I am willing to spend big bucks for good treats. And we ate some good treats.We made several ice cream stops. If we weren’t stopping at bathrooms, we were stopping for ice cream, my friends. And it was easily $40 every time. But I dare you – I defy you – to drive across America in the summer and not stop at mom n’ pop ice creams shops, fresh fruit shake stands, or frozen custard places every time you see one. Never mind meals or souvenirs or toll roads or parking garages or museum tickets or subways or taxis or whatever else – you will go broke on ice cream. And you won’t care. Because it’s delicious and you’re American and if you had to, I bet you could find a bank that would let you open a line of credit just for ice cream.
4. When I’m out of my routine, and there aren’t any other demands on me, it is the most wonderful thing to sit and watch my kids. At the end of our day in New York, we were taking the subway from Central Park to Battery Park, and we were the only ones in our car. Connor (17) was flag-polling on one of the vertical subway poles, and Tanner (12) grabbed his legs and was running him in circles. Some of the kids were singing. Hillary (4) was laughing. She was just laughing so hard with Becca (10) and Lucy (7). What was so amazing about this moment? I can’t tell you. I was just looking at my people, and I was overwhelmed with how much I loved them, and how much I liked them, and how much I liked being with them. I didn’t want to be anywhere else in the world than on that subway, with my favorite people. And I missed Garren (18).
5. Sometimes I’d just be doing my thing, lost in my thoughts – driving or sitting on the bed planning the day or wondering if there was something back home I was supposed to be doing – and I’d turn and catch Katie watching me. Just silently, intentionally watching me. And when I’d look at her, she’d just give me this huge smile, and say nothing. It is by far her most powerful way of flirting with me.
6. You may learn some starting things about yourself on road trips. I was standing in the parking lot of a Walmart on the Indiana/Illinois border when I had a moment self-reflection. It was 8 AM and the parking lot wasn’t overly crowded. The kids were waking up and stretching, and I’d already gone inside to buy fruit, muffins and a 3D Chrome VIP Lounge Toilet Seat. (Just kidding – I just Googled “weird things to buy at Walmart” and that was the first item mentioned.) Anyway, we were anxious to get to Chicago, so rather than sleep, we had driven through the night from upstate New York. With no hotel room or other accommodations, but still needing to look and feel presentable before heading to the Art Institute of Chicago ... (you can see where this is going) ... I resourcefully turned to the Walmart parking lot. I stepped outside, rubbed on some deodorant, ran a comb through my hair, and thanks to a conveniently located drain, brushed my teeth. Then I changed clothes ... in the front seat of my van. I remember thinking, “This can’t be the first time people have done all this in a Walmart parking lot.” And though my logic was solid, somewhere in the part of my brain that sorts through social mores, I could sense that this was something I should be more embarrassed about. But also, I was tired, I knew I’d never be in this place ever again, I didn't know a soul there, and kind of, I just didn’t care. And that’s when I realized who I had become.
7. I really, truly love the history of this country. I was inspired over and over as we visited these old cities and read about those who “more than self their country loved, and mercy more than life.” I felt profound respect for those who collaborated, compromised, worked, and served to create one nation under God. And I felt that plea that God shed his grace on us, and crown our good with brotherhood.
8. We did the hotel thing for a few nights, but our favorite is always the people we get to stay with. We truly appreciate siblings, cousins, even friends I’ve known since I was 4 years old. I also got to visit with a friend I hadn’t seen in 28 years, from when I lived in Hawaii, and another friend I worked with 20 years ago…about the time that Katie was the age that Abbie is now. (For reals.) Sincerely, friends. This country’s greatest commodity is its people! Not the ones you see on TMZ, necessarily, and not the ones you did or didn’t vote for, in particular, but the ones running ice cream shops and the ones riding with you on the Staten Island Ferry and the ones who welcome you into their home and feed you delicious food and the ones who sit with you in the ER and the ones that help you get your keys out of your locked car and the ones who apologize and the ones who forgive and the ones who tell you that you can buy the CD for the Gettysburg Driving Tour or you can look it up for free on YouTube and the ones who confide in you and the ones who trust you and the ones that hug you and love you.
My friend, Ann Marie, from Hawaii. We went to her Junior Prom. Most recently, we had lunch together at Katie's sister's house.
My friend, Terry, and his family. We've been friends since 1974. We were both single then.
My friend, Debby. She's great for a number of reasons -
but getting us a table at Grimaldi's and knowing the NY subway system makes her a national hero.
Katie was able to meet up with her high school pal, Beth.
And yes, it was as adorable as this picture makes it look.
One Sunday, we went to the church that Katie went to growing up in Reading, PA, and drove around her old neighborhood. It was so sweet to hear people gushing about Katie's family and their influence in the area. It was also sweet to hear Katie tell this heartwarming story about the first time she fasted, and Becca's hard-hitting follow-up question, "Which stall?"
If you don't have any MalleyCats in your life ... why?
Katie's cousin, Meredith, and her adorable daughters. It was minimal time, but maximum party.
Our friend Jjana, who literally gave up her bed for us.
And her husband Cliff (not pictured) bbq'd for us and it was insaaaane.
Katie's cousin, Marliese, and her family!
I have a sister named Marlise. TWO Marlises in my life? Yes, please.
Katie's sister, Shellie. Behind her? The Capitol Building.
But if you want something done, my money is on Shellie.
Katie's sister, Stephanie, and her kids. There was just enough room for me to sleep right in the middle, there.
9. I love cold cereal. I do. The “free-breakfast” hotels we stayed at all featured a variety – waffles, eggs, muffins, yogurt, bagels… No thanks. I’ll just have four bowls of Frosted Flakes and Froot Loops. Breakfast of champions.
10. At some point you begin to sense that back home, reality has not pushed “pause” while you’ve been gone, and Real Life is waiting for you at home. In fact, Real Life is mounting back at home. And you’re sad to see the trip come to an end, but grateful that you have a Real Life that you’re actually excited to get back to.
So that's it in a very small nutshell. In the end, we had one minor hiccup. It didn’t seem minor in the moment, but things are looking up. On our second to last night, our youngest, Hillary, took a spill down some stairs … and broke her clavicle. A quick trip to the hospital and an x-ray revealed a pretty bad break. The ER doc said that when we got back to Utah we should speak to a pediatric surgeon. We told the ER doc he was fired. Our doctor back in Utah assured us there was no need for surgery, and Hillary is on the mend!
My 14 year old son, Garren, following in his dad's footsteps, recruited two of his friends, and they started a blog. They named it G.A.S. It's the first initial of each of their names. I should point out that the two other friends are of the female persuasion. How he convinced them that GAS would be a good name for their blog is beyond me, and I can only fathom that the word means one thing to him (re: bodily function) and something entirely different to them (re: something a car needs).
He is guest posting for me today.
Pretty Much My Most Favorite Thing EVER.
by Garren Craig
I totally love food! It's what I live for. I would die without it! (Literally.) But don't ask me what my favorite food is. There's so many choices. It's too hard. It's In-N-Out.
Well, it's at least my favorite fast food. Well, that and Tommy's.
See what I mean? I can't make up my mind!
But the best food experience I've had, was on my twelfth birthday. My parents took me and my sister, Abbie, to Del Frisco's.
Del Frisco's! Only one of the fanciest restaurants in Las Vegas! There is a dress code to get in! This place was pretty darn fancy!
Yes. They really did have these crumb tools.
Anyway, we start out the meal with bread, and salad. I'm eating the salad, and the waitress lady, (there were like 12 waiters/waitresses waiting on us), came over, and in a high pitched little girl voice says "Fresh ground pepper?" I have my mouth full of salad, so I just nod.
And then these two guys bring out the pepper grinder.
Is is just about six feet long.
One guy holds it up to my salad, the other guy cranks the handle. Ever since that day, every time we have something with pepper, me and Abbie will say to each other, "Fresh ground pepper?" in that annoying three year old girl voice.
After the salad, they brought out the food. I had a steak. It was the best steak I've ever eaten!
But all those things are nothing compared to the bathrooms.
The bathrooms were surprisingly the fanciest part of the restaurant. I walk in there, and there is a guy cleaning the mirror. Like, they always have a guy in there, just cleaning the mirror. But that's not the half of it. On the counter, there were mints. Breath mints. Tic-tacs. But that's not all. There was cologne. There was freakin cologne in a bathroom! Just sitting there. For people to use. So when I'm done using the bathroom, the window guy has walked out. So I'm like "why not?" I use the cologne. I go back out to our table smelling like someone filled a gallon bucket with Axe Body Spray, and then dumped the whole thing on me. I wasn't very good at putting on cologne. I put on so much, the waiters stopped coming over to me to offer me pepper. I smelled so strong I bet the people at the next table were like, "Oh Gertrude! Look at that boy. He's soaking wet with cologne. Can you smell it? Take a video with your iPhone5!"
Something you might not know about me is that I keep a blog.
It’s true.
I started it in 2005, back before the Internet was even
invented. It all began when a handful of my friends from college decided to
entertain each other with storytelling via blogs.
That was what hooked me. I’m a sucker for storytelling.
I don’t think I am unique in my love of stories. I do think
I am unique in that I find a full-size Butterfinger bar just too rich for me,
but I have no problem eating an entire bag of Hershey’s Nuggets with Toffee
& Almonds in one sitting. But story telling? Doesn’t everybody love that?
I find myself drawn
to stories. I crave them. Love reading them, writing them, telling them and
hearing them. If somebody sits down next to me and says, “Did I ever tell you
about the time in college when the whole seventh floor of our dormitory was
about to ambush this guy in his room, not knowing the entire BYU football team
was on the other side of the door, waiting to crush us?”* I will say, “Start
from the beginning and tell me every detail. What were you wearing and did the
team sing their fight song as they pummeled your face?” (*True story. I can’t tell you who it happened to, though, because I don’t
want to incriminate anyone. But yes, that is how my face got this way.)
Well, the reason I bring up stories and storytelling is that
I have been asked to participate in this delightfully hip storytelling-and-personal-and-family-history
kind of conference being held in Salt Lake City in March! And I wanted to make
you aware of it, since we just established that we are all fans of storytelling
and eating Hershey’s Toffee and Almond Nuggets. (I’m actually not sure precisely
what the refreshments will be. But I can tell you what tasty treats will be in
my satchel, so come and find me if you need a fix.)
This fantastic event is happening March 8-10, 2012 in Salt
Lake City, Utah. It's called The
Power of Story @ Home, and it's sponsored by Cherish Bound, Family Search,
and the Casual Bloggers Community. This is a link to their
website.
This event is really ideal if you have a hankering to learn more about
-different mediums for recording personal and family history,
-blogging, or
-searching out your family history.
I hope to see you there! Yes, YOU! You’re so adorable when
you pretend you don’t know I’m talking to you. If you have any questions, not about dorm room ambushes, let me know!
You know, you can't believe everything you read. That's why I never do it. I am just too jaded. But I have heard a lot of stuffs lately about our economy and how analysts have officially declared it a national state of "being in the pooper." I even recently heard people mention that we as a country have actually borrowed a ka-jillion dollars (give or take a few cra-fillion) from our neighbors, China. Did you know that? Man. Where was China when I was 18 and wanted to rent a helicopter for prom?
Anyway, I wanted to see if this entire thing was true, so last week I went to China my own darn-self. I went as a representative of my company, SealSource International, but additionally, I was undercover for YOU, my friends. (I will be invoicing you later this week for this service I have provided.)
Here is what I've discovered: We have GOT to pay back China, and I mean right away, because we do NOT want China to be holding this over our heads and thinking they are the boss of us!
Let me paint a picture of what our world would look like if China took over!
Do you know what THIS is?! This is what you'll be doin' your "business" in once China is in charge! Evidently they do not mind the squatting, the burning thighs, or the 92% chance you are going to get unspeakable things on or in your pants. Plus, if you're like me, you are going to get zero reading done if toilets are reduced to this humiliating state. (And as I mentioned earlier, I barely read anyway!)
However, the number one reason we need to pay back the money to China is that if we don't China is going to insist we adapt to a Chinese diet. And you, sitting there with your face full of orange chicken and egg rolls – you can think again if that’s what you’re anticipating being “real” Chinese food. I have been to China, and I have seen the food up close and personal. And that’s not what we’ll be eating.
Yep. That's octopus.
This may be fine for those of you who already enjoy stewed donkey or peppered bullfrog (Arkansas, I’m looking in your direction), but I cannot subsist on this fare. (Oh sure, this may help with America’s obesity problem, as our lack of desire to eat will leave us all scrawny; but is this really how we want to solve this issue? I think not. I am not familiar with the current political positions on this issue, but the candidate favoring the eating of pig claw will not be receiving my vote. And that’s final.)
Now, for the good news. For those of you living in metropolitan areas, you will most likely become the new Shanghais of the United States – and Shanghai is pretty dang cool. Especially if you currently reside in a Marriott Hotel. The Marriott Hotel in Tomorrow Square, in downtown Shanghai, is nothing short of spectacular. So you New York and Chicago folks, yours will be a smoother transition than the rest of us, once China has taken over. And you cab drivers – congratulations, the change in driving practices will be negligible.
The Marriott in Shanghai.
Ladies and gentleman, this is my report. I feel I have presented my case as clear as I am able. Please, trust me. If we don’t pay China back soon, and they begin enforcing a schoolyard sense of justice, things are going to be digestion-ally hideous, metropolitan-ally hip, and transportation-ally comparable to what we’ve got now, if you’re a Hollywood stunt driver.
A dinner ritual for our family is that we go around the table taking turns recounting our “highs and lows” for the day. You know, the best and worst things that took place that day. Our hope was that it might spur some lively conversation and provide some insight into how each child feels about their stage of life, current events, and of course, have the opportunity to rat out their siblings’ bad behavior and/or tell weird stories about their friends.
You might expect to hear something along the lines of, “Well, my ‘highs’ for the day included riding my bike, playing with Jo-Jo Marie – who told me that her dad passes gas when he’s watching TV – and having a dance party with Abbie. My ‘lows’ were cleaning my room and also…when Tanner wouldn’t let me play with his lightsaber!”
There have been some eyebrow raising discussions, of course, but for the most part, I’m beginning to see a pattern develop.
Becca, who is 2 years old, generally starts the discussion by reminding us about it. “Mom! Dad! Highsandlows! Highsandlows!” (Most anything Becca says includes exclamation points.) Then Becca will begin to give us not so much the stories of her “highs and lows,” but an itinerary of what she’s done that day. “Uhm, my highsandlows was, I eat breakfast…then I look at books…and my highandlows was, I played games with Connor…I made poops in the potty…and that’s Lucy, and I kiss Lucy, and she’s asleep, and that’s all!”
Next is Tanner, age 5, who rather indignantly states, “Don’t ask me what my highs and lows are. I’ve told you; don’t ask me. Every day is just fine. I like all my days. I don’t have ‘highs and lows.’” Then Katie will try to jump start it. “Well, what about when you played soccer in the backyard with Connor?” Then, with great conviction, “Yes. That was awesome. That was my high. But don’t ask me anything else.” So Katie strategically mentions all the things he’s done that day, item by item, and only then will Tanner admit that he had “highs and lows.”
Then it’s Roxanna’s turn. She’s 7. And as anticipated, Roxanna (possibly our pickiest eater) will look down at her plate and say, “Well my low is having to have two asparaguses…and kind of this salad, too…(then, moving her fork like a laser-pointer in a marketing presentation)…and my high is this chicken.”
Connor, age 9. Connor is a little more diverse, except that his list invariably includes Star Wars or Legos. But if he has watched a movie that day, it will always be listed as a ‘high.’ No matter how poor the movie. “My ‘high’ today was watching The Berenstein Bears and the Messy Room.” Me: “No, it wasn’t.” “Yes, it was.” “That could not have been your ‘high.’ Do we even own that movie?” “Yeah…I don’t know where we got it. It’s pretty lame. But that was my ‘high!’”
Garren, age 11. Garren is at a magical age where he still thinks that doing anything with his dad is cool. Whatever we’ve done together that day, Garren will list it as one of his ‘highs.’ “My ‘high’ was picking weeds with dad in the front yard. Then a gang of bikers came by – you should have seen them – they got off their bikes and waved knives in our faces – they stole our minivan out of the driveway – they graffiti’d the house – they threw beer bottles at us – one of the bottles hit me in the head. And Dad and I were like, “Whoa!” Those were my ‘highs’.”
Abbie, age 13. Abbie will genuinely share her “highs and lows.” Her dreams, her disappointments. Her hopes, her fears. But not her crushes. Some things are just not for public display.
What are my highs and lows? My high is that my children will openly share their lives with me. My low is the thought that at someone else’s dinner table, their child is sharing that “Tanner’s dad passes gas while he watches TV.”
I don’t like to get on my pedestal and publicly shame people, but I feel a moral obligation to say something here. (Also, I actually do kind of like getting on my pedestal and publicly shaming people. But only if they sit silently and let me do it. I don’t like confrontation.)
As a society, we are constantly bombarded with the diatribe of “living each day as if it were your last.” Columnists, pop singers, new-age psychologists, tattoo artists…they all think they’re some kind of “made-you-think” poets with this line. But I find this philosophy to be – how do I put this delicately? – a compost pile.
Let me paint a picture for you of what would actually happen if I lived each day as if it were my last.
I would be fired. Because guess what – if it’s my last day alive, I’m ditching work that day. And sometime around, oh, day 2 of me still being alive but not showing up to work, my boss would probably call. “Uhm – are you coming in today?” “Sorry, Boss. I’m living each day as if it were my last. I won’t be in.” “Uh-huh. Well, ya hippy freak, to me, today IS your last day.”
I would weigh precisely 500 pounds. If I know it’s my last day on earth, I am eating Crunch Berries and Chocodiles for breakfast, two rib-eye sandwiches for lunch, and a Tommy’s Burger for dinner. Five pints of Haagen-Dazs for dessert. Now, that’s a dangerous way to conduct your diet for one day; but if it just so happens to not be my last day on the planet? Well, things are going to quickly get uncomfortable and, digestionally-speaking, unpleasant for me and everyone around me.
My family would hate me. Imagine your child or parent calling you daily and saying, “I’m sorry to tell you this – but I’m dying. These are my final hours, and I just wanted to call and tell you how much I love you. Thank you for everything you’ve ever done for me. I will miss you.” Emotional havoc ensues. Everybody is a big, weepy mess…until the next day. And the next. And the next. Then your phone call eventually receives a response like this: “There are no powers on heaven or earth that will stop me from coming over there this instant and removing any doubt that you will be taking your last breath today.”
Any material comforts would soon be gone – why pay my mortgage or gas bill? “Hi, Mr. Craig? This is Nevada Energy. I’m afraid we’re going to have to shut off your electricity if you don’t pay your bill today.” “Oh, do your worst. The joke’s on you! I’ll be dead tomorrow!”
I’d be making some powerful enemies, telling certain people exactly what I think of them. Starting with Nevada Energy, but moving on to people who set the gas prices, customer service at APX Alarm, Bill Maher, and Oprah Winfrey.
My final point to this nonsensical advice of living as if you were dying is this: H.H. Morant famously said, “Live each day like it’s your last and someday, you’ll be right.” Really H.H.? You do recognize that all those days leading up to that tragic day are days you’ll be wrong, don’t you? What kind of faulty reasoning is THAT? If you are so desperate to be right about something, why not choose an event that you would be excited about? “Live each day in your pajamas, because someday, you won’t have to go outside.” Now you’re on to something. Have Dr. Phil tattoo that on your lower back, Tim McGraw!
We have a delightful tradition in this here Craig Family where our children take turns making breakfast. It’s a genius arrangement, devilishly devised by my wife, who has taught our children that preparing breakfast will instill in them accountability and life skills, while she has actually concocted this scheme in order to allow her and I to stay in bed longer in the morning. (Sometimes Katie is so smart, I’m a little bit afraid of her.)
And truth be told, our children love it. Well, not every morning. Does anyone love buttering toast with butter freshly out of the fridge, hard as a rock? It’s not picnic to eat that toast either – shredded with giant holes in the middle of it. Like we’re some kind of animals!?
Anyway, our kids have made a real game out of it by insisting that breakfast time is “restaurant time.” So whoever is over breakfast that day, it’s their place. You’ll often hear “Hi! And welcome to Abbie’s Café,” or “Hi, is this your first time to Connor’s Cannery?”
We actually have to wait at the bottom of the stairs, to be seated. Then, once seated (at the kitchen table), we are told by our host or hostess, “We always have a prayer with our guests before ordering.” We say prayer, and then the host or hostess tells us “The Special” of the day – which is, of course, the only thing on the menu.
“Today’s special is … a giant plate of pancakes, with bacon.”
“Today we have whole wheat toast, with a variety of freezer-jams, plus fried eggs.”
Or, on those busy days…
“We have an assortment of cold cereals today; can I set you right up?”
We place our order, and as our host or hostess retrieves the food, we make as much witty banter as we can to each other. This is our opportunity to crack wise.
“I’ve heard great things about this restaurant.”
“Yes, and the bathrooms have reading material in them!”
“Oh, this host, he is the BEST in the city. I don’t even care that he wears his pajamas to work.”
It’s an amusing and lazy way to start the day, and I approve this message.
Then, today.
I had to run an early morning errand, and while en route back to the house (a.k.a. Garren’s Grub), I received a text from my almost 11-year old son/host, Garren, who has impeccable spelling skills, but not so much with the texting on his mom’s phone.
“Breckfart is ready.”
As I walked in the door, he had a smirk on his face and said, “That’s not what I meant to type.” But it was too late. When it came time for the witty banter, I was ready.
“Smells like the special today is rotten eggs!”
“Gosh, you get a lot of wind blowing around in this restaurant.”
“Could you put cheese on my eggs? Not shredded. I’d like you to cut the cheese.”
“You know, I like eggs – but with all that cholesterol. It’s deadly. Silent…but deadly.”
“Are you serving any “magical fruit” this morning? You know, the more you eat, the more you –” (Katie did not allow me to finish that one.)
So, if you’re in the neighborhood, and you’d like to stop in sometime, the restaurant is open for business. But you’ll definitely need a reservation. And please remember, it’s currently only open for breckfart.
First off, you should know that I am all about chivalry. I am as freakin’ gracious as they gosh-dang come. B’cept with a couple of exceptions. And one of them is when Katie and I are bolting across a crowded parking lot to jump into our car in an effort to escape some protesting, survey-asking, do-gooder who has targeted us as their next victims. At that point, I’m not getting the door for Katie. At that point, the most chivalrous I can be is to wait for Katie to get into the car before I take off and inadvertently run over the surveyor in the process.
Alas, we didn’t make it into the car before being overpowered by our predatory concerned citizen. But you know what – I am SO glad. Because I learned a little something that I cannot believe I had not previously known. Ready? I hope you are sitting down. But not sitting down in your car, reading this on your computer or iPhone whilst you drive. That’s dangerous and concerns me as a citizen.
This is the propaganda that was handed over to me, courtesy of CALPRIG.org:
“Our Kids Need Safe, Nutritious Food. We should make sure that our kids are getting safe, healthy food in school. Some of the meat served in schools is of such low quality that McDonald’s and KFC wouldn’t serve it. Since 2007, 13.6 million pounds of chicken from hens that would otherwise be made into pet food or compost have been sold to the National School Lunch Program.”
I am disgusted. Appalled. Like you, I am ashamed. How has this happened? HOW do we live in a country where companies like McDonald’s and KFC are completely ignoring the advertising opportunities obviously available to them through this study?!
If I were on the ad team for McDonald’s or KFC, you would see an immediate ad campaign along the lines of something like this:
“McDonalds. Now TWO steps above dog food!”
“KFC. Because your kids need something healthy for dinner, after eating compost-food all day at school.”
“KFC. For healthy teeth and a shiny coat!”
“Four out of five moms prefer the McDonald’s $1 Menu to the National School Lunch Program.”
“McDonalds. Not being offended by CALPRIG’s dissing since 2007.”
“Dog food: It’s what’s for lunch!” “Brought to you by KFC, the makers of the recently-considered-more-healthy-in-comparison-to-school-lunches ‘Double Down.’”
Amongst my throngs of children is my 8-year old son, Connor. Connor is one ambitious dude, with auspicious dreams that reach beyond society’s modest celebration of the common and mundane. In other words, you know your kid’s dream of being the next NBA poster child? Well Connor’s dream just gave your kid’s dream a wedgie.
Connor has a “workshop” out in our garage. He has managed to collect some tools, thanks to his mom, who encourages his creative energy, and some friends and neighbors that have generously donated to his cause. And by his “cause,” I of course mean “building a ship, so he can sail around the world.”
This is his singular focus. Everything revolves around “The Ship.”
Me, to Katie: “Can you believe that Abbie will be off to college in six years?”
Connor, overhearing: “Six years? Well, I won’t be here to see that, because I’ll be on my ship.”
“Connor, come in for dinner.”
“Can’t I eat out here? This ship isn’t going to build itself, you know!”
“Connor, did you finish your school work?”
“School work is for suckers who aren’t brave enough to sail!”
“Dad, we should go to In-N-Out for dinner; because once I’m on the ship, I won’t be able to eat hamburgers much.”
Often Connor’s hopes are dashed by a hard dose of reality. Like the fact that he doesn’t have any ship designs. Or enough wood. Or an ocean anywhere near the vicinity. And usually reality is pointed out by one of his parents. And sometimes, no matter how logical reality seems to you, you still feel like a Class A Butt-Munch for being the one to break it to your son. Like you took his dreams, put in a brown paper sack with some doggy doo, lit in on fire, put it on your neighbor Steve’s porch, rang the bell, and had Connor watch Steve stomp all over his dreams. And no matter how much you tried to make it look like Steve’s fault, you know the bad news came from you.
So I decided to take the opportunity to lift Connor’s spirits. An afternoon with Dad. We took a bike ride together last week and rode over to Taco Bell. (Because it was the closest fast food, and not because of our profound appreciation for diarrhea.)
Once there, we chatted a bit and I shared with him that I greatly admired all his wonderful ideas. That I thought every one of his ideas were incredible, and that I was sorry that sometimes it was difficult to make his ideas a reality – but that I would always do whatever I could to support his ideas.
Then we chatted in general about things that made us happy, things that made us nervous, etc. I asked Connor, “Is there anything that makes you embarrassed?”
“Uhm, yeah. Lots of things, actually.”
“Like what?”
“Uhm…public tooting.”
I just about fell out of my Taco Bell booth – but this time, the stomach cramps were from laughing.
“Public Tooting? Yours or somebody else’s?”
“Mine.”
“Well…do people know it’s you?”
“Not usually.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I don’t make a face where people would know it’s me. I just kind of look around casually, like everything is normal.”
“Well, when you’re on your ship, you can toot all you want and nobody will know but the fishes.”
So scoff if you will at Connor’s vision. But someday, when you think your life is pretty great because you get season tickets to your son’s NBA games, I will be relaxing on the shores of some remote island paradise, because my son, Connor, built a ship. And we’ll scuba dive and snorkel and swim and tan and eat fresh seafood…and toot all we want, thank you very much. See if anybody in the Staples Center appreciates you doing THAT!
Several years back Katie came up with the horrifying clever idea of dubbing the first month of the year “Sugar Free January.” Before you read any further, I would encourage you to read how this tradition started by referring to my blog post regarding its incarnation. You can find it by clicking here.
Essentially, the theory is that since December is such a month of caloric debauchery and habitual treat-munching, January should be a cleansing month. I’m not going to lie to you. January has never been my favorite month, and it is even less so now. We are currently in a fight, January and I.
In an effort to help me make it through these first few weeks, I thought I would chronicle the experiment in a daily log. I was going to call it a Sugar Log, but that just sounded too delicious, and I was distracted every time I went to write something down; not to mention I drooled excessively on the keyboard and it became unpleasant to type on it. So instead, I just refer to it as My Descent Into Madness: the Autobiography of Ken Craig’s January.
January 1: 9:00 a.m. Woke up feeling fantastic. Enjoyed an egg and toast for breakfast. Actually kind of looking forward to the detoxification and purging sugar from my body. A new healthier, happier me.
January 1: 9:15 a.m. Ransacked house looking for sugar. Checked pantry, fridge, 72-hour kits – even searched hard-to-reach areas for possible overlooked plastic eggs filed with Easter candy from 9 months ago.
January 4: Wept. Like a baby. Felt moody all day. Punished one of my children for “not being funny enough at the dinner table” and sent him to bed. Lethargic. Unshaven. Kicked the dog.
January 5: Realized I don’t own a dog. Wrote apology note to neighbors for kicking their dog. Tied note to brick and threw it through their window.
January 6: Ate entire jar of Sweet Pickles. Contacted lawyer for "false advertising" claim… Wondering where I can locate some Sugar Beets.
January 9: Promised Katie the Sugar Nazi if she let me eat a bowl of ice cream I’d watch ProjectRunway with her. Nothing doin’.
January 10: Promised Katie if I could eat a package of Hostess Donuts I’d look at the IKEA catalogue with her and pretend we lived in Manhattan and had a 600 square foot apartment. Nope.
January 11: Suggested we celebrate our four-year anniversary of “Sugar Free January” with celebratory cake and ice cream! One cake per person! Vetoed.
January 12: Packed a hobo sack, flung it over my shoulder, started whistling “Pour Some Sugar On Me,” and told Katie I was hitchhiking to The Big Rock Candy Mountain. She tried to convince me there was no such place. (As if I’m going to fall for that Sugar Nazi propaganda!)
January 14: Came back home, listless. I think my body is imploding. Bones weakening. Organs leaking vital fluids. Heart slowing. Breathing shallow. Darkness closing in. Slight headache.
January 15: While hallucinating, tried to eat plastic cupcake in daughter’s toy kitchen. Once hallucinations stopped, tried once more to eat cupcake. Found bag of Ruffles potato chips instead. Ate entire bag. And also the chips.
January 16: Realized this is just going to be one long month of zero happiness. Katie told me to pour myself a big heaping bowl of “Shut the Heck Up.” Poured myself a bowl of raisins instead. That's what happens when you're living under a Sugar Nazi regime!
Thanksgiving Day and the day after were two of my most favorite days this entire year. It wasn’t just because we had pie for breakfast. It wasn’t just because we had pie for lunch. It wasn’t just because we had pie for dinner. But I’m not going to lie to you, that was certainly a big part of it.
These were two days of stillness.
We ate. We slept. We got out Christmas decorations and leisurely hung stuff up. We watched Christmas movies. We ate some more. We wore clothes for lounging. We played games. We answered to nobody. There were no demands or expectations. There were no distractions. There were no emergencies. There was laughter and giddiness. There were stories and movie quotes. There was peacefulness and assurance.
Say what you will about egg nog, but unless you are saying “It’s delicious,” then you’re wrong. I love this beverage. I love everything about it. Well, not the name (which sounds dangerously dangerous; like you are destined for food poisoning.) But for the love of all things holiday-ish, this elixir is an instant party in your mouth. Your senses are heightened. You can actually smell colors. (P.S. Your senses might be confused as well.) (But you won’t see that warning on the box.) (Because if egg nog were to start putting warnings on their containers they would have to include things like “Warning: You will quickly and gladly sell your children for more egg nog.”) (I like writing inside parentheses.)
Egg nog is not so highly endorsed by all people. In fact, it’s not even endorsed by all of my family. In fact, it’s not even endorsed by all Ken Craigs in my family. Take for example, my father who also goes by Ken Craig, and whose response to egg nog is, “Whoever would drink that stuff would drink their own bath water.”
Touché, Dad.
Fact is, there aren’t too many fence sitters with egg nog. People either love it, or they are communist. You don’t see too many folks who say, “I can take it or leave it.” It’s usually, “I can and WILL take it – at gun point, if necessary” or “Get that swill away from me, you filthy beast.”
Well, I adore it. In all it’s forms – Dreyer’s ice cream, Jack In the Box shakes, pumpkin flavored, and on and on. But my favorite is Southern Comfort’s Vanilla Spice Egg Nog. Oh, hold me. I get the fever for it just talking about it. You must try it. I defy you to not fall in love with it. And for those of you concerned; no, it does not come with Southern Comfort already in it. It’s just pure heavenly non-alcoholic egg nog. You have to add the Southern Comfort yourself. But being the non-drinker that I am, I don’t add any Southern Comfort. I add a cup of my own bath water.
From time to time I receive a bulky and unsolicited health magazine in my mailbox. I've never subscribed to it, and I've never paid for it. And in spite of its large print and vibrant pictures, I am still able to generally ignore it. But this time, as I walked home with nothing more to read from the mailbox but the power bill (and I like to be sitting down when I read that), I thumbed through the magazine. And you won’t believe what I found: That’s right – an article on colons!
Now, it’s been my experience that this topic is among the top three No-No’s in social conversations: Religion, Politics, and Colons. For example, this joke will never end well:“So the Pope, a Rabbi, and Bill Clinton walk into a bar, each with their own colon under one arm, and a bottle of Kaopectate under the other…”
But here are some startling statistics I found in this article.
In Their Lifetime, the Average American Eats…
6 whole Pigs
12 three-thousand-pound cows
3,000 chickens, turkeys, and other flying birds
3,000 fish, sea creatures and sea scavengers
2,000 gallons of alcohol
300 soft drinks
400 candy bars
500 doughnuts
It wasn't until the second time I read through these statistics that I realized the author of this article wasn't bragging about how awesome Americans are in eating contests or in killing things.
Now, I don’t know where he gathered his information, but I see some real inaccurate calculations here. And I am going to now correct him with more truthful data, but without doing any additional research of my own. Because seriously, I've read that, like, 82% of statistics are made up anyway.
6 Whole Pigs: This may actually be correct. When you take into account the numerous delicious ways to eat pigs, I would be embarrassed to not eat 6 pigs during my lifetime. From sausage and bacon to Easter ham and pork chops, it’s truly the other white meat. And when it says “whole” pigs, I assume it includes toenails, eyelashes, lips, ears, and spleen. And I think that is correct because hot dogs cover those areas. So this could be the most accurate statement in this statistical analysis.
12 Three-thousand-pound cows. WRONG. How would you even know that? What if I just ate one huge 36,000 pound cow instead of 12 average-sized cows?Maybe I found it roaming elusively undomesticated in the wild frontier of Wyoming somewhere? Are you suggesting it would be better to let such an animal run free, menacing the countryside and eating small Wyomian children? How un-American are YOU, pal?
3,000 Flying Birds. I can kind of see what he’s saying here, and I tend to agree. This is really a suggestion that we branch out and try new things; namely, flightless birds. When was the last time you tried Ostrich? Or a delicious slice of Penguin? Come on people, get out of your comfort zones. Don’t be afraid to try new things.
3,000 Sea Animals. I’ll tell you right now that if he is including shrimp in this statistic, he is way low. I've eaten 3,000 shrimp in one sitting. (They are so tiny!) And if you go to Claim Jumper, (slogan: Gluttony! Successful Capitalism! Come see why the rest of the world hates America!), I’m pretty sure you can now order a surf n’ turf combo of 3,000 shrimp with half of a pig. It’s called the Swimming Swine. Top it off with an éclair the size of your head, and that is a fine, fine meal, my friend.
2,000 Gallons of Alcohol. If this is accurate, I am way, way behind. I've never even had heavy duty cough syrup.
300 Soft Drinks. I’m sorry, did this survey say “in a lifetime” or “before noon?” I know people in my office who take soda intravenously until lunchtime, so it is difficult to declare, within any degree of accuracy, just how much Diet Coke is coursing through them at any one time. If somebody has a soda once a day, then they've had 300 sodas before the end of one calendar year. There is no way this number is right. Unless this statistic is from 1948.
400 Candy Bars. If the 24 hour period after October 31 is considered a Free Zone and those numbers don’t count towards the rest of the year, then I could see this being close to accurate.
500 Doughnuts. (Or as I like to call it, Appetizer Item #5 at Claim Jumper.) Difficult to say on this one. If you eat one with a fork and knife, is it still a doughnut, or is it now cake? If you take a dozen Krispy Kreme glazed donuts, put them in a bowl, pour milk over them, and call them Cheerios, are they still doughnuts, or are they now cereal?That sounds good…maybe I should do some real research and get back to you on that one.
Regardless if these statistics are accurate, I think we can all agree on one thing: When it comes to killing and eating things, you can bet that 78% of the time, Americans are the best at it 100% of the time.
I think to the average passersby I probably come across quite casual. A fairly mellow individual. Not easily ruffled. Ah, but there is the rub. I do have one, intrinsic weakness. My kryptonite, if you will. Unless you want to see me come completely unglued, do not, under any circumstances, start a conversation with me by saying, “You know, the tomato is actually a fruit.”
Really. Really? REALLY?! Are you kidding me with this?! Been cutting up a lot of tomatoes lately to mix into your fruit salad? Nothing like watermelon, banana, and tomato all mixed in together in a nice fruit mélange, right? Perhaps in a parfait? A Jell-o? People, please. The tomato is the classic garden vegetable. Ever heard of V8? Did you know on the can it says “V8, 100% Vegetable Juice.” Guess what – 87% of V8’s vegetable juice is tomato juice, folks. So don’t let’s start mixing up our produce categories. Okay?
Truth be known, it’s not just the tomato/fruit thing. I have zero tolerance for any of these newfangled definitions trying to change the face of whatever it is we’ve come to know and categorize. Making vegetables into fruits and fruits into vegetables.
You know yesterday at work someone had the audacity to tell me that a peanut isn’t actually a nut at all? “Technically it’s a legume,” he said. “Well, technically you’re going to need to make an appointment at the orthodontist,” I answered, “Because I am going to kick your teeth in!” It says “nut” in the name! Pea-NUT! I have never – NEVER – seen a Planter’s Mix Nuts & Legumes can. I don’t believe one exists. Legume M&Ms anyone? Nothing quite like the All-American Sandwich: Legume Butter & Jelly on white bread! (Or is white bread not officially a “bread” anymore? Anyone want to step up and have this discussion with me? No, I thought not.)
