Last night, I finally finished a soup I had started about a week ago.
Earlier in the year, I had a white bean soup at a downtown Atlanta restaurant, and I vowed I'd try to make it at home, because it was so good. I found a recipe and held on to it for months. Then I finally bought some dried beans, and held on to them for a while.
About a week ago, I soaked the beans, which took about 12 hours. Then I drained them and stored them, because I was too beat to make the soup by the time the beans had soaked.
But last night, I pulled out the beans and set out on the 1 hour, 5 minute prep (an unrealistic estimate from the recipe, which turned out to be almost two hours) of this cheesy white bean soup.
It was worth the wait. All the kids loved it. They kept wanting to give compliments to the chef, routing them to Veda. "Oh no ... this was your father's makings ... he's the chef of the night." And many thanks and praises came my way.
"But what about the sandwiches? I didn't make those," I admitted. "Let's say they were made by my sous chef."
Chaz took another bite of sandwich and looked at it, then turned to Veda. "Sue! These sandwiches are GREAT!"
Monday, August 25, 2008
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
It's just tiny rocks ...
Sand.
Now before I go totally off the deep end, let me set the record straight. I love walking on the beach. The beach is sand. If A=B and B=C, then A=C. So you'd think I love sand.
Well, if it would stay on the beach, perhaps. But it doesn't. And it doesn't in spades.
Perhaps it's a childhood trauma. I do remember being caught up in a particularly heavy surf and having my rear end drug through the sand, coming up with enough inside the lining of my swimsuit to level out the greens of a small golf course. Even at that tender age, I knew what uncomfortable meant when you're dealing with the area around the Gentiles, and SAND was certainly not a friend.
We spent about two hours at the beach today. My children seemed to have no problem with the fact that they were covered head to toe in the granular stuff. Now mind you, they didn't want to walk back to the car in it, but that's beyond the point.
I had been squatting with my back to the Gulf of Mexico building my sand resort ... one of those drizzle castles with a moat and then a retaining wall and another moat to fend off the raging sea. Unbeknownst to me, with each wave bashing into my posterior, tablespoons of the sugary stuff were depositing themselves inside my board shorts. Layering themselves between the outer shell and the lining. Crikey.
I got up (which took a second or two) and for a minute, I was alarmed. I thought I had my cell phone and that it had fallen out of my pocket into the leg of my board shorts. "No, that can't be. I don't have pockets." Plus, it was on both sides, on the backs of my thighs.
Arrgh ... you guessed it.
So I waded out into the surf, shaking the bottom of my board shorts trying to free myself from the grit. Perhaps no one was watching. Yeah, right ... EVERYBODY does a little people-watching on the beach. Don't say you haven't, because you have. And especially white pasty males shaking their legs in unnatural ways in the green surf.
After the bizarre water dance, I thought I had it all removed, and we set out on our journey to cross the blazing noonday Sahara back to the beachside showers to rinse off. Like a dribbling little public beach shower really gets it all. Nope. Especially when it's in your hair.
We get back to my in-laws house and the kids hit the showers. Had I been crafty enough, I could have used the sand that came off of them to make the concrete for our new addition's foundation. Why weren't they uncomfortable??? They sat in that stuff all the way from the beach to the house! A 20-minute ride! I would have been going bonkers.
How is it that sand can get in places where other natural resources can't? Apparently I had gotten into it more than I realized. You know you're cursed by the sand gods if you take a potty break and you pass sand.
So I hit the showers to rid once and for all (until the next beach trip) these microscopic boulders plaguing my crevices. Down the drain they went, perhaps on their way back to the sea. Farewell and good riddance.
And don't even get me started on sunscreen ...
Now before I go totally off the deep end, let me set the record straight. I love walking on the beach. The beach is sand. If A=B and B=C, then A=C. So you'd think I love sand.
Well, if it would stay on the beach, perhaps. But it doesn't. And it doesn't in spades.
Perhaps it's a childhood trauma. I do remember being caught up in a particularly heavy surf and having my rear end drug through the sand, coming up with enough inside the lining of my swimsuit to level out the greens of a small golf course. Even at that tender age, I knew what uncomfortable meant when you're dealing with the area around the Gentiles, and SAND was certainly not a friend.
We spent about two hours at the beach today. My children seemed to have no problem with the fact that they were covered head to toe in the granular stuff. Now mind you, they didn't want to walk back to the car in it, but that's beyond the point.
I had been squatting with my back to the Gulf of Mexico building my sand resort ... one of those drizzle castles with a moat and then a retaining wall and another moat to fend off the raging sea. Unbeknownst to me, with each wave bashing into my posterior, tablespoons of the sugary stuff were depositing themselves inside my board shorts. Layering themselves between the outer shell and the lining. Crikey.
I got up (which took a second or two) and for a minute, I was alarmed. I thought I had my cell phone and that it had fallen out of my pocket into the leg of my board shorts. "No, that can't be. I don't have pockets." Plus, it was on both sides, on the backs of my thighs.
Arrgh ... you guessed it.
So I waded out into the surf, shaking the bottom of my board shorts trying to free myself from the grit. Perhaps no one was watching. Yeah, right ... EVERYBODY does a little people-watching on the beach. Don't say you haven't, because you have. And especially white pasty males shaking their legs in unnatural ways in the green surf.
After the bizarre water dance, I thought I had it all removed, and we set out on our journey to cross the blazing noonday Sahara back to the beachside showers to rinse off. Like a dribbling little public beach shower really gets it all. Nope. Especially when it's in your hair.
We get back to my in-laws house and the kids hit the showers. Had I been crafty enough, I could have used the sand that came off of them to make the concrete for our new addition's foundation. Why weren't they uncomfortable??? They sat in that stuff all the way from the beach to the house! A 20-minute ride! I would have been going bonkers.
How is it that sand can get in places where other natural resources can't? Apparently I had gotten into it more than I realized. You know you're cursed by the sand gods if you take a potty break and you pass sand.
So I hit the showers to rid once and for all (until the next beach trip) these microscopic boulders plaguing my crevices. Down the drain they went, perhaps on their way back to the sea. Farewell and good riddance.
And don't even get me started on sunscreen ...
Saturday, August 2, 2008
God Bless Truett Cathy
This man has to be one of the greatest heros of our time.
For those of you who are under-rock dwellers, Truett Cathy is the man behind Chick-fil-A. Beyond his unwavering dedication to God and support of family, including refusing to open restaurants on Sunday, he has one thing that just rocks my world.
He got the recipe for public school yeast rolls and uses it to make his Chick-n-Minis.
When I found these little jewels of poultry for breakfast, I was in heaven. I used to trade stuff to get yeast rolls in school. I even mentioned them in my high school graduation speech.
Now call me strange (as if you haven't before), but I used to put stuff in my rolls. Green beans. Mashed potatoes. And certainly any type of meat we had been served up, however mysterious it may be. I loved making yeast roll sandwiches. I still make sandwiches out of stuff, much to the chagrin of my wife as my children gleefully request to "put mac and cheese in white bread like Daddy."
So thank you, Truett Cathy and all your marketing and research for bringing back these delicious baked goods to my life. And it doesn't hurt one bit that they are stuffed with a good ole piece of fried chicken. A man after my own heart.
For those of you who are under-rock dwellers, Truett Cathy is the man behind Chick-fil-A. Beyond his unwavering dedication to God and support of family, including refusing to open restaurants on Sunday, he has one thing that just rocks my world.
He got the recipe for public school yeast rolls and uses it to make his Chick-n-Minis.
When I found these little jewels of poultry for breakfast, I was in heaven. I used to trade stuff to get yeast rolls in school. I even mentioned them in my high school graduation speech.
Now call me strange (as if you haven't before), but I used to put stuff in my rolls. Green beans. Mashed potatoes. And certainly any type of meat we had been served up, however mysterious it may be. I loved making yeast roll sandwiches. I still make sandwiches out of stuff, much to the chagrin of my wife as my children gleefully request to "put mac and cheese in white bread like Daddy."
So thank you, Truett Cathy and all your marketing and research for bringing back these delicious baked goods to my life. And it doesn't hurt one bit that they are stuffed with a good ole piece of fried chicken. A man after my own heart.
Sunday, July 20, 2008
Project 607
We're about to start building. May the Lord help us.
The drawings are done. The contractor selected. The contract will be finalized in the next week. And then the real fun will begin.
See where we've gotten to already at http://project607.blogspot.com
It's gonna be good.
The drawings are done. The contractor selected. The contract will be finalized in the next week. And then the real fun will begin.
See where we've gotten to already at http://project607.blogspot.com
It's gonna be good.
Saturday, July 5, 2008
Dog Tired
Well, another year of camp has come and gone. And I'm beat. No doubt about it.
Funny enough, though, I think I got more sleep this year than I ever had. Was in bed around midnight just about every night except at the beginning and the end. I was up until 2 a.m. packing on Thursday evening/Friday morning, so perhaps that's why.
Leah came down with fever, chills and general "malaise" on Thursday. She was devastated that she had to leave camp. And it broke my heart. This was her first year as an official camper. At least it was at the end and she didn't miss much.
One thing did happen that struck me as awesome that I have to share with you guys. On Friday, after all the campers depart for home, we go to the office to pay our tab with the FFA camp staff, and load up cars and trucks with all the equipment and stuff in our entourage. I had cleaned out the office and ran over to my room to load up my luggage, and then I'd be heading out.
As soon as I came out of Pulliam with my luggage, it had started to rain. I mean BIG rain. Those huge drops that smack the pavement like little dive bombers. I threw my bag in and hopped in the car, then drove up to the 7th grade girls cabin at the top of the hill to get a good cell signal and make sure our friend was able to pickup Leah's stuff (thanks Rebekah for packing and Connie for transporting ... my lifesavers!)
It was still raining like crazy. The road I was on is like a huge loop around camp ... kinda like the FFA 285. So I continued to drive it all the way around camp, the rain beating down. I was passing cabins where I have been a counselor on the guys side, and all the other places where I've created memories for the past 10 years.
But once I passed through the main camp gate to leave, the rain started to ease up. By the time I got to the end of FFA Road at the highway, the rain had stopped. And that's when it hit me.
I could not help but think that God was washing camp.
Kids left behind junk this week. Stuff. Things that Satan had been coating them, suffocating them, and sliming them down with. They left it all behind. And now God was washing it away in the rain. Just there in camp. Cleaning it up for the next group.
You know ... when we were in the Prayer Room on Sunday before the campers arrived, many prayed for God to show up. But I am of the belief that God never leaves camp. He's always there. Waiting for us. Longing for us. Wishing that we would take Him with us when we leave camp and to share Him back at home. At work. At school. It doesn't take camp to have Him in our presence and our daily lives. The camp experience can be year-round.
But even when we fail Him ... year after year, He's there at camp. Just waiting. With a cleaned slate ... a fresh year of camp ... ready to wash us with His presence and His love.
Let it rain. Let it rain. Open the floodgates of Heaven. Thanks be to God.
Funny enough, though, I think I got more sleep this year than I ever had. Was in bed around midnight just about every night except at the beginning and the end. I was up until 2 a.m. packing on Thursday evening/Friday morning, so perhaps that's why.
Leah came down with fever, chills and general "malaise" on Thursday. She was devastated that she had to leave camp. And it broke my heart. This was her first year as an official camper. At least it was at the end and she didn't miss much.
One thing did happen that struck me as awesome that I have to share with you guys. On Friday, after all the campers depart for home, we go to the office to pay our tab with the FFA camp staff, and load up cars and trucks with all the equipment and stuff in our entourage. I had cleaned out the office and ran over to my room to load up my luggage, and then I'd be heading out.
As soon as I came out of Pulliam with my luggage, it had started to rain. I mean BIG rain. Those huge drops that smack the pavement like little dive bombers. I threw my bag in and hopped in the car, then drove up to the 7th grade girls cabin at the top of the hill to get a good cell signal and make sure our friend was able to pickup Leah's stuff (thanks Rebekah for packing and Connie for transporting ... my lifesavers!)
It was still raining like crazy. The road I was on is like a huge loop around camp ... kinda like the FFA 285. So I continued to drive it all the way around camp, the rain beating down. I was passing cabins where I have been a counselor on the guys side, and all the other places where I've created memories for the past 10 years.
But once I passed through the main camp gate to leave, the rain started to ease up. By the time I got to the end of FFA Road at the highway, the rain had stopped. And that's when it hit me.
I could not help but think that God was washing camp.
Kids left behind junk this week. Stuff. Things that Satan had been coating them, suffocating them, and sliming them down with. They left it all behind. And now God was washing it away in the rain. Just there in camp. Cleaning it up for the next group.
You know ... when we were in the Prayer Room on Sunday before the campers arrived, many prayed for God to show up. But I am of the belief that God never leaves camp. He's always there. Waiting for us. Longing for us. Wishing that we would take Him with us when we leave camp and to share Him back at home. At work. At school. It doesn't take camp to have Him in our presence and our daily lives. The camp experience can be year-round.
But even when we fail Him ... year after year, He's there at camp. Just waiting. With a cleaned slate ... a fresh year of camp ... ready to wash us with His presence and His love.
Let it rain. Let it rain. Open the floodgates of Heaven. Thanks be to God.
Monday, June 23, 2008
Confessions of the Soul
It's shameless.
I actually watch The Bachelorette.
Veda and I hunker down every Monday night after the kids are in bed to debate over who DeAnna is going to select from her dwindling selection of guys.
It started two seasons ago ... we watched as Bachelor Brad methodically (per the script?) narrowed down the field to two ladies, including the current bride-to-be who he left at the alter before ever giving either one of them a chance. Many nights of moaning and groaning over bad acting and the absurdity of it all.
Then we slid through "London Calling" and the British bachelor. Ho-Hum.
And now we're rooting for the Georgia girl. And tonight, at least she dropped Graham. Sheesh ... he was as immature as it gets. Couldn't look her in the eye ... was he camera shy for kissing on screen? And what he came dressed in for the rose ceremony ... heck, let's just really throw the contest with our jeans, shirt untucked from a sweater and a jacket to dress it up. Good riddance. At least Twilly knew how to dress.
Of course, I step back from the show and ask myself, "Why? Why would I even bother blogging about something as mundane and moronic as a show about selecting your true mate from a field of 25?" Is it possible that God would arrange it to be so? I guess that Trista lady would say so.
The shamelessness will continue ... next Monday, same time, same channel. Arrgh, and we'll be at camp! Hello, DVR!
Lord have mercy.
I actually watch The Bachelorette.
Veda and I hunker down every Monday night after the kids are in bed to debate over who DeAnna is going to select from her dwindling selection of guys.
It started two seasons ago ... we watched as Bachelor Brad methodically (per the script?) narrowed down the field to two ladies, including the current bride-to-be who he left at the alter before ever giving either one of them a chance. Many nights of moaning and groaning over bad acting and the absurdity of it all.
Then we slid through "London Calling" and the British bachelor. Ho-Hum.
And now we're rooting for the Georgia girl. And tonight, at least she dropped Graham. Sheesh ... he was as immature as it gets. Couldn't look her in the eye ... was he camera shy for kissing on screen? And what he came dressed in for the rose ceremony ... heck, let's just really throw the contest with our jeans, shirt untucked from a sweater and a jacket to dress it up. Good riddance. At least Twilly knew how to dress.
Of course, I step back from the show and ask myself, "Why? Why would I even bother blogging about something as mundane and moronic as a show about selecting your true mate from a field of 25?" Is it possible that God would arrange it to be so? I guess that Trista lady would say so.
The shamelessness will continue ... next Monday, same time, same channel. Arrgh, and we'll be at camp! Hello, DVR!
Lord have mercy.
Monday, May 26, 2008
Holiday Down
Another holiday has passed. The cruel reality of work is before me.
Do you working adults remember the excitement you had for summer vacation? Day after day of down time? Then the summer job came. That was only a glimpse of what was to come. Ah well ... it's good to be the worker bee. We had a great weekend, and I'm thankful for it.
And by the way ... I've had requests for a play-by-play on Duran Duran's "The Reflex" (a personal fav) and Manfred Mann's "Blinded by the Light." I can tell you now folks ... there's no mention of any feminine products in the latter. No matter what you thought the lyrics were (and no matter how I sang it when I was a kid, not that I sang it all that often.) I may have to do portions ... they both are pretty interesting. But neither are as funny to make fun of as Princey-man was. I'm just sayin'.
Does anyone else out there have difficulty leaving the digital volume on a stereo, iPod or MP3 device on an odd number? When I mean odd ... I mean numbers like 17. 33. 41. They are just weird. I have to have it on a multiple of 5, or at least an even number like 28. Course, if I'm pumping it up to 28, I'll go ahead and make it a round 30. Natch.
Just a little nugget there. I know I'm not the only one. Enjoy the short week ahead.
Do you working adults remember the excitement you had for summer vacation? Day after day of down time? Then the summer job came. That was only a glimpse of what was to come. Ah well ... it's good to be the worker bee. We had a great weekend, and I'm thankful for it.
And by the way ... I've had requests for a play-by-play on Duran Duran's "The Reflex" (a personal fav) and Manfred Mann's "Blinded by the Light." I can tell you now folks ... there's no mention of any feminine products in the latter. No matter what you thought the lyrics were (and no matter how I sang it when I was a kid, not that I sang it all that often.) I may have to do portions ... they both are pretty interesting. But neither are as funny to make fun of as Princey-man was. I'm just sayin'.
Does anyone else out there have difficulty leaving the digital volume on a stereo, iPod or MP3 device on an odd number? When I mean odd ... I mean numbers like 17. 33. 41. They are just weird. I have to have it on a multiple of 5, or at least an even number like 28. Course, if I'm pumping it up to 28, I'll go ahead and make it a round 30. Natch.
Just a little nugget there. I know I'm not the only one. Enjoy the short week ahead.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)