Pepper, or Not. Tea?

I’m not one to complain. Really. And, as life goes, this isn’t a big deal. A meal. A simple meal. Or, so I thought.

If a meal isn’t up to standards, so be it. My choices at local restaurants are always the same, anyway. I don’t order calamari or sushi. Avocado never graces my lips – can’t stand the texture. Steak, chicken, or haddock with a salad and/or pasta side. Maybe, just maybe grilled shrimp. Chinese szechuan sauce is cool, Korean chicken on a stick at any food truck festival 👍, and cold Thai yellow tea … all personal favorites.

Simple tastes.

Oh, and pizza on Sunday. Need to have 1/2 mushroom, 1/2 pepperoni, slightly over done, with a diet soda after 6pm on Sunday. This started decades ago and must continue. For the sake of all my dearly departed relatives, this tradition can never stop. Used to be after “Dallas” and our local Friday night football game – when my mom whipped together batches of Chef Boyardee paper thin pizza. You know, that yeast-by-the-can treat that was only edible after a loving mother added her special recipe ingredients.

I never complained. After a long halftime show with a very uncomfortable wool band uniform on – and general disinterest in the game itself – I was glad to be home. As well, any other time, the food placed in front of me was to be eaten, regardless. I learned to be thankful … even for meat pie, stewed tomatoes, and tapioca pudding. Ugh. No complaining.

That was as a child growing up. I’m positive you were taught the same life lesson.

As an adult, pretty much the same. Ninety-percent of the time. Save last Wednesday at a restaurant I frequent more than any other.

Did you ever know, just know, things weren’t going to go your way? Winning two rather cute stuffed animals in the claw machine while waiting for three friends to arrive felt normal. It happens frequently. Not to brag, but some day I’m going to get dragged into a back room and questioned under dim lights. The claw machine toughies are going to questions my tactics, prowess, perhaps a level of skill a bit beyond the norm? … without even considering just dumb luck: which it is. My odds are much higher than most because … wait for it … I play the darn thing coming and going each time. Two chances for one dollar. In my case, ten chances for five dollars 😆.

This is when normal stopped. “My normal”, that is.

Same meal, same drink ordered. Nothing new. Except the waitress.

This wasn’t (maybe) her fault? I blame the electronic, hand-held ordering thingy’s order takers have to tap on more and more. She fought with it, slowly. Distracted as she seemed to be, it was almost like a Tesla was being ordered online with a full interior package and every extended warranty available.

Please understand, at this point I am not upset … just relaxed and placing my normal order of an unsweetened tea, salad, lemon pepper fish, and a side of macaroni & cheese. No menu necessary.

My tea arrives. I sweeten it with two packs – one pink, one white. One sip and my over-sweetened alarm bells go off. After taste-testing from others, clearly the tea wasn’t unsweetened to start. Not the best start to a meal. Making the evening worse, our waitress came across as being slightly less-attentive to our table as we had been accustomed. Nice girl. Polite and respectful. Just didn’t come back soon enough to address my tea situation.

Yes, a first world problem. I get it. Sometimes, however, after the two weeks I’ve had prior … I looked forward to a nice dinner out with friends.

Didn’t take long for our dinners to arrive. Usually doesn’t at this restaurant. I addressed the tea problem with our waitress and she was glad to fix it immediately while I started my meal.

Ah, the meal. Lemon pepper has a way of going bad, apparently. “Maybe the claw machine guys finally got to the cook and made a deal to end my lucky streak?”, I silently mused to myself. A replacement tea came as I hadn’t the heart to tell our waitress my fish tasted like a brown, stale, ten-weeks old piece of veal – not that I would have ANY idea what the flavor of THAT would be?

I did have enough thirst to mention to her, once again, the second tea was as sweet as the first prior to my two-packet OCD addition. With an expected surprised look, she returned to the kitchen – second iced tea in hand.

Sweetened iced tea and horrible fish – 3, Doug – 0. Oh, btw, my salad and macaroni & cheese were both so-so at this point…

The manager I went to at the front desk – one who is familiar with my frequency – accepted my fish frustration with kindness after I explained the problem. He offered to personally go back and oversee my lemon pepper replacement. Good to go.

Yep. Good to go. Good. To. Go.

While sitting in baited anticipation for my fish, a third iced tea arrived! Woohoo! It’s unsweetened. Our waitress mistakenly switched pots/kettles in the back when cleaning. Problem identified. Problem fixed. I give her credit for, at least, recognizing the issue. My mood and expectations didn’t match up with it, however.

The manager hand delivers my lemon pepper fish. “Ah,..”, my mind sighs,”.. looks great!.. slightly darker than normal. Yellow-ish with good texture. I’m finally going to enjoy my meal”.

Slightly darker really meant extra pepper. When I type, “extra pepper”, I really should type what was going though the mind of whomever was over the grill. Phrases like, “He wants extra pepper …. I’LL give him extra pepper … grrrr..” and, “He thinks the LAST fish I grilled was bad … hmffph….” are most appropriate. I needed the whole third glass of tea after only two bites of fish. So much pepper … soooo muuuuch. I even took all the unused lemon wedges from our table to help suffocate the seasoning.

Hunger overtook the evening. I choked it down. Scraping after scraping, the fish went down with enough tears to fill any reservoir full of fish. As finally explained, the first plate of fish was seasoned with garlic .. that’s why. The seasonings got confused. Actually, they didn’t 😆, the cook grabbed the wrong one.

Again, with all that’s wrong in our beautiful world, this one meal – tea and fish – is so small and insignificant. I had food. I had friends to share time with. I had the money to pay for it. I had a few minutes to play a game and win prizes.

.. And a kind manager who didn’t charge me for the meal.

During the whole incident, no angry words were exchanged. Tears were shed because of a pepper error, not words. Things were a lot sweeter, albeit unnecessarily so, and stayed that way due to calmer heads prevailing. Throughout the meal, five adults had a wonderful time, yes, at the expense of one who had some difficulty getting ahead with his meal.

It was, truly, just tea and fish at the end of the day. Just like mom’s meat pie which I dislike to this day, if need be … I would eat it, be blessed, and fortunate to have it in front of me without complaint.

This evening, dad will be joining us for a dinner out if it works in the schedule. If you’ve been following lately, you know his struggle. It would be my honor to share an iced tea with him while I still can.

Sweetened, or not.

There are never any complaints when out with dad. Sharing a meal with someone who can’t process a menu anymore or understand the simple act of ordering, is never the time to complain. It’s a time to sit back and enjoy a meal regardless what season of life it is for someone who struggles every day, yet takes peace in the reality that’s his to cherish.

Pepper, or not.

And with that healthy serving of what is really valuable to all of us, the little inconveniences of too much pepper or sugar shouldn’t ever get in the way. Besides, there’s always a chance at more happy, cute animals just around the corner no matter what happens in life … unless I get there before you do.

A Coffee Intermission

Mug contents unknown. Known, however, is the holder of this hot beverage vessel. She is a friend who allowed my use of her picture. I saw it on FB and asked permission … as is protocol when I come across one I’d like to share that is undeniably unique.

I don’t believe Katie expected a blog post when snapping this photo during a relaxing time recently – and, I didn’t anticipate writing about a mug filled with (possibly) a hot beverage I won’t drink … coffee. I write “possibly” because the contents of her mug have not been confirmed at this time. That aside, I’m a huge fan of black vs. blue pictures, … thus the photo.

Ah, the photo. Reflective, relaxing. All the adjectives one would use to chronicle a blanketed porch time overlooking a field stretched out to that wooded horizon. I especially like that innocent little intermission centered in the middle of the two larger acts stage left and right. Clouds above give us a perfectly hanging, never closing, curtain over this theater of tranquility.

Alas, however, I must address the “aside” issue. I don’t drink coffee. Assuming this was in her mug, I can’t connect with the liquidy, beany delight millions enjoy multiple times each day. Just. Can’t. Of all the wonderful, musical, game-loving, life-affirming, joking around, silly mannerisms I inherited from my dear mother … her deep-brewing love of the roasted java didn’t make it into MY particular mug.

I sat around a breakfast table the other morning as friends recounted their first experience drinking coffee. The place. The time. Possibly the company with whom they kept? I had nothing to contribute except a few iced tea laden exhales of nothingness.

Coffee culture does captivate me.

Daily, the drivethru lines outside our local Starbucks are fascinating. Squigling around the building, they are seemingly endless … anxious automatic caffeine caravans – awaiting their luscious Lattes and frothing Frappes.

We entertain multiple little specialty coffee shops around these parts and one large traveling Concession trailer (who also has multiple brick and mortar locations as well). One cafe I frequent a lot offers a buck-a-cup option for all eatery patrons on the honor system. You pump alternative brews from carafes into your favorite mug while enjoying limited menu items. Notice the “you” pronoun there … definitely not, “me”.

Coffee seems to be the great uniter. I see this happen in a small way as I sweeten my tea surrounded by coffee consumers. They become unconcious, competent conversationalists as liquid (de)caffeine rhythmically crosses their lips. It’s a ballet of words in between sips and warm-ups (otherwise known as top-me-offs) … swallowing can be timed and self-affirming as well. Even the finest of wine connoisseurs may not even sniff their way around stemware with such elegance … let alone partake of the Bordeaux.

It’s a conundrum to me. This whole coffee thing. To those who love it, I say, “fantastic” .. and truly mean the compliment. I had one small taste many ages ago. Many decades, to be accurate. Friends suggest this wasn’t enough to develop a taste. Well, I had one small chocolate chip cookie, a pizza, and pretzels for the first time a long time ago and fell in love with all of them soooooo, THAT theory is kinda bunk…

The picture is really quite beautiful. I love the mystery of NOT knowing what is in her mug. Hot, green tea? Yeah, that’s it. Indeed, if it IS coffee, I don’t need to know. Let’s assume whatever filled the mug, filled her spirit at the time.

I am entirely satisfied looking at – and beyond – the horizon. Blue and black framing the intermission where all of us can just take a big breath. Our curtain will not end the show, nor will what is going on now – good or bad – last forever.

Let’s all sit where we are, hold on to whatever is in our life’s mug, and enjoy the scenery.

Even if it does include a cup delicious, uhm, coffee …

A Little Sweetness

Some call me sweetly sentimental. Some may agree with sweet – perhaps some only sentimental. Those close enough to be great friends drop all the niceties and stick with a simply sarcastic, “You’re kinda weird”. I concur as I am aware it is only meant as the nicest gesture possible … and with that I reply, “Thank you” and go on with my day.

It’s a group of morning guys as diverse as the jokes I tell. They’re not always the best (the humerous pleasantries, that is). I get it; however, I can’t simply sit there morning over morning, month over month, with such fertile conversational fabric being tossed around and not make a beautiful tapestry of merriment.

Golf, politics, food, relationships, various work related issues, … all of it bantered about from guy to guy. And yet, I’m expected to sit there and NOT throw in a silly pun, related joke, or twisted tale? Me thinks not.

Merciful and kind criticism comes from the likes of business owners, retired financiers, educators, county workers, city employees, and occassional contractors. All of whom I consider good friends. I time my wittisisms carefully, although not always timely – if that makes any sense at all. One must accept the occassional failure in my line of a.m. amateur whimsical folly.

During a rare few moments one morning – when the subjects at hand provided no juicy bait on the humerous hook – I glanced down at the simple sugar packet holder … to fill the apparent void in my brain. These funny little pink, white, blue, and yellow guys suddenly became exceptionally interesting. How different they look, maybe? Do they? Same shape, same basic function: sweetness? Just different color outside and kinda different chemistry inside, … but looks the same inside.

The differentness and sameness. Quirky. One could open one of each color, pour out the contents into separate mixed piles, and be challenged to match each white pile with its original packaging. With no pasty-finger testing allowed, I doubt it could be done. Four simple little piles of white “sugar” … looking the same. Four very different colored packets. Simple in the packets. Complicated when removed. Yet, when I’ve put a pink and white over ice before my tea hundreds of times in the past, this never earned my consideration.

This could be doctoral candidate thesis stuff here! I’m thinking a possible Nobel prize nod… and I have a slow news day at the breakfast table to thank.

Well, if I was to make that trip to Sweden one day for my medal, my sugar packet theory would have developed into a lesson in friendship. For my friends who tolerate me come in different colors, shapes, and sizes; however, they’re pretty much the same inside.

Quirky, different, and same. They hang together with me for a purpose: to support and nurture a friendship – regardless of how bad or good things are going. All of us, in a sense, add a certain sweetness to each other’s lives in a different colored way. Our packets – experiences and personalities – support and frame the care and concern we bring “to the table” for everyone else.

So, that’s it in a sugar packet nutshell. I didn’t HAVE to be quiet, but it was forced upon me by the gods of inadequate interlocutors. Nobody, but nobody, had a tidbit – a morsel – of compelling comedic conversation going on. Thus, a reflection on the deeper meaning of sugar packets (like they had a superficial meaning to begin with?)…

Oh, well. I’ll await my invite from the Nobel committee. Until then, all of you continue YOUR sweetness, ok?

Hot Chocolate Thoughts

She deserved a nice tip. The young lady behind the beverage bar – nested in a separate room inside Allegheny Creamery and Crepes – mixed up a fine warm chocolate brew for me. This, alone, could have been enough for my asking to break a ten dollar bill. In addition to her perfectly mixed hot refreshment, sips of pleasant conversation accompanied my Saturday evening as I had forty-five minutes to wait.

It was a cold evening in Hollidaysburg. Across Allegheny street, a substitute organist sat on the church bench as I enjoyed a week off. This wasn’t a time to eat a wonderful meal prepared by culinary masters. Due to a meal planned for later in the evening, I didn’t want to over-saturate a growling stomach … just appease the monster within. It was a time to wait for my father to finish up at church. He needed a ride home, … and I needed some alone time to think.

She deserved the tip. I deserved some hot chocolate time. Alone with warmth between my fingers and occasional, sweet conversation across a beverage bar, I sat on a comfortable square stool – deserving a few moments to think.

If you live a life similar to mine, these moments are rare. There is a concession trailer a few miles away – full of supplies, but empty of motivation. Life here has been hectic. If you are a follower of my posts, there have been few this past month. I’m not one whose bucket fills with excuses, so there will be none here. Life … just … is.

This recent hot chocolate moment without staring into a phone screen (except to capture a picture) was worth every second. I was hoping it would be when I Skecher-crunched my way across a dark, snow-covered Allegheny street that Saturday evening. There’s never a bad time to enter Allegheny Creamery either. The service is exceptional, succulent servings on the menu never disappoint, and the owners are very kind and genuine.

Allegheny Creamery and Crepes
505 Allegheny St, Hollidaysburg Pa 16648

So I sat and thought.

I considered the unending, unknown universe while thinking about what has ended in my life recently and “things” I thought I knew. Hot chocolate ponderings I haven’t taken the time to consider over the previous thirty days.

Notions about what I believed should have been normal, but never came to pass, blew through the steam as it wiggled its way up past my nose. Loss -not quite settled into my existence – sat quietly in the not yet consumed white squiggles atop the rich brown chocolate. As I thoughtfully tapped on the comforting cup with each acceptance, the warmth on the side continued to hold hands with great friends and family who’ve always been by my side.

We don’t take enough time to examine, and possibly affirm, the wonderful and not-so good drop-ins that happen to us. Sometimes, we push forward. I did. The past few weeks, life took over.

All of the “stuff” is still here, of course. Part of managing is stopping behind a cup of hot chocolate, alone, and acknowledging the ugliness and beauty of the frayed tapestry that is us at times.

It is said over and over: life isn’t perfect. We shouldn’t want it to be. Reminding ourselves of what is good, and possibly not good, at the moment – at whatever age – can be a sweet transformation, however. Being real with yourself is “what is” … There’s no getting around it.

I have a road to travel. A simple forty-five minutes accompanied by a delightful bartendress, a cup of hot chocolate, and my thoughts won’t solve the larger picture that is my life.

It did tighten up a few threads dangling from a decorative tapestry, though.

And so, she did deserve a nice tip. The moments could have gone by with a less-than stellar beverage and sour chat. As it happened, I was beautified with a perfectly mixed chocolate beverage and a few moments of sweet dialogue.

The Allegheny Creamery and Crepes was a place to be that Saturday night as I waited. I walked in anticipating only few moments out of the cold. A cup of hot chocolate, however, offered something more … time to examine loss, change, and anticipation of good things to come.

If you have a Creamery where you are, sit. If ever in Hollidaysburg, find 505 Allegheny Street. Heather and Kirk will welcome you with open plates and pleasures.

I highly recommend their hot chocolate, by the way, for the gentle reminders it can offer you. I waited and found warmth in a simple cup.

The Phantom and the Hinge

It’s hard not to be an Andrew Lloyd Webber fan. As a musician, I’m drawn to his music. Also, as one who enjoys a good cook-out and one less “b”, I can enjoy a Weber grill as well.

A connection beween the two may seem a stretch, but give me some latitude here … A lot of space, please. It’s been a long week.

Take Raoul from Phantom of the Opera.

I feel so connected to him right now. Unhinged. More on that word association soon. For now, a mask would be warranted. Oh, and it wasn’t a Weber grill, either. Doesn’t really matter, though. The chamber full of propane, I inserted the flaming end of a lighter into said grill and saw half my life flash in front of my eyes in a nano second. The screen in the top of a once calm concession trailer blew out as a loud bang took off facial hair and solar flared all the moisture out of my right eye – at least this is what my optometrist friend said ten minutes later when she graciously stopped by at my blurry insistence.

Look away, I’m hideous. I should be masking my idiocy. Raoul I’m with you, my friend … Artificial tears run down my rosey, now shaven cheek as I think of you. Where is MY mask hiding this scorched half-face of shame?

Yeah, ok. I’m dramatizing the moment. Everything is fine. For a few moments, however, I was worried. My vision was blurry and the smell of burnt hair overtook the usual sausage and hotdog aroma inside my trailer. Blinking sucked. No tears were available for my comfort.

I am now comforted knowing time will give rise to more follicle frolicking. Eyebrows coming back full and robust, a salt-and-pepper semi-beard surrounding a smile, and lashes blinking to awaken a moist eyeball will all befriend me again. Time is the healer of bangs both hairy and gaseous.

I will be extra cautious in the future. Uhm, that’s what I said the last two times, anyway. So, how’s the weather in your town?

Speaking of weather, the Pentecostal winds whacked my concession window cover yesterday. Yes, those higher than average gusts lifted not my spirits, but a heavy, hinged swing roof causing two hydraulic arms to snap off. Hinged? Well, I was able to generate tears from one eyeball, anyway, as the roof slammed itself down against the concession window so elegantly holding a menu sign and my last nerve. No cracks after a quick scan and no patience remained in my already winter season ending, battle-weary skeleton of a body.

Yesterday was my last day at that location. In ten days, I will be relocating to summer spots. An ice cream/shaved ice concessionaire guy will be plopping down where I’ve been these past months. As planned, scheduled maintenance days appear ahead in my book … alas, I will be abandoning those for repairs to my trailer. Back and forth I shall go. Best to forget what I had hoped for and live for what is: fate.

Fate has me paying more money for repairs I didn’t plan on and extra work not scheduled. Fate waited five months for me to flash-freak my face with non-serious, look-back, kinda funny, now, blue flaming frivolity. Fate also gave me a schedule off-site event to cater with my smaller concession cart during a beautiful Saturday in March. A day in which I could not have opened, anyway, with a damaged 20′ trailer and slightly bruised ego.

Tomorrow, that large trailer will be back home for a clean-out before going to the metal shop for repairs. Scott, the proprietor of the fabricating shop, assured me he can fix the damage. I have confidence he can. A spit and polish after replacing the two hydraulic arms with a tweak and pull here and there … I’ll be back in business in no time.

Gosh I hope so. There is redemption at the end for the Phantom. Sure, Christine dies from an accidental gunshot … yada yada … go see the show sometime to appreciate all the twists and turns. Love, intrigue, and … exceptional music as only Andrew Lloyd Webber could write.

I could send him some ideas for his next opus. Perhaps a pianist who reignites his passion for excitement and high energy bursts of gale force winds? “The Unhinging of a Man”?

I do have years of experience in music theory and arranging, one good eye, and one hell of a story to tell so far.

Mother Hubbard is Crackers

This morning’s breakfast fare started with two Full Circle Market Organic Classic Round crackers … and, as of this point in time, ended there. I’m out of options with my favorite hotel cafe closed on Saturdays and Old Mother Hubbard’s cupboards open, but as the poem goes, “the poor Doug has none”.

Anticipating no baker, fruiterer, alehouse, or undertaker in my future … no tailer, cobbler, sempstress, or hosier, the remaining three hours of my day before opening my business look to be quite cravingly mad. Throw me a bone here, please. I’ll take anything.

Sarah Catherine Martin, to whom that poem is attributed, could walk through my office doors at this moment. Unless she’s carrying a tray full of bacon, rye toast, … a chocolate Clif bar, two over-easy eggs, and two glasses of iced tea, I’m not interested in what a two-hundred and fifty-two year old woman has to say. Granted, it’d be nothing short of a Guinness World Record miracle to have such a bicentennial-plus moment here in my humble hovel, however, I need food in my groveling belly.

I’ll survive. As they say, “such a first world problem”. A small trip down the road to one of many grocery stores – full to the ceiling with food – would work all this out. My beat up Honda doesn’t have to disengage as I have the option to casually drift through a drive-thru as well. Both of these choices, unfortunately, require I step out. Step out of very comfortable material surroundings such as the cotton garments keeping my apologetically happy appendages warm at the moment. Twenty-five degrees with a slight breeze outside. Yes, I’m not one to step out into that weather at the moment.

There was a time when cold and hunger didn’t matter. Youth and inexperience colored in the pictures – between the lines drawn by warmth and the need for nutrition. Days without a nugget or morsel tapping around in my belly were common. By choice, mind you, I pushed forward motivated by the words of Zig Ziglar and Earl Nightingale. These men didn’t advocate starvation as a means to an end, of course. I was busy making sales calls, talking to prospects, enjoying my work … that’s all. Youthful exuberance shuffling along with a fantastic company environment. Ah, the late-twenties and mid-thirties in our lives, right?

Enter Old Mother Hubbard in the winter of 2021. Bifocal nose-sliding syndrome is upon me as we speak, the back tweak has returned after a two day respite, my arms are sore after yesterday’s 7-hour work day, and quite honestly, I’ve had just about enough of this year already … with 357 days to go. I’ve gained three pounds since January 1st and since unfollowed a lot of folks on Facebook. Engaging, enlightening political conversations with friends and family aren’t happening anymore and eggshells are strewn everywhere I trod. Looking down at the slight pudge below, my core may be labeled certifiably, organically classic round … just like the box says. “Perfect for Entertaining”?, well … don’t know about that.

The local and national world I live in is crackers. I’m just one of many varieties. Organic classic round as it turn out to be. Tomorrow? Who knows. Would love to be Ritz. Hey!! Speaking of that, I bought a Mega-Millions ticket last night. Better go check the numbers. Odds are pretty good I didn’t win and will be sitting here tomorrow, again, in my cotton clothes wondering if Sarah Catherine Martin ever considered a career in food service. She’d make a great cracker salesperson.

Who Ate My Brownies?

Yes, this is my adaptation of, “Who Moved My Cheese?” – the 1998 best seller written by Spencer Johnson. On this early morning of December 12th, 2020, who ate my brownies?

In my real life story, there is no Sniff and Scurry. Oh, and certainly no cheese; although, I’ve become fond of monterey jack on crackers lately. No Sniff and Scurry. Here in my tale there are only two humans. One who baked the delicious treats and one who thought the sweet, brown squares were, mostly, sitting around for his earlier birthday celebration. This was not as expected. Apparently.

As human #2 reads this, a majority of the brownies – that were in the container previously – may shift in her belly the same way my hopes did last night. Where there were many, few remained. This isn’t a serious indictment of her impulses. All of us have them with sweets, right? More to the crusty, delicious point: unspoken expectations.

Decades of birthday observances have been compressed into a head nod and slight grimace the morning of. That creaky walk into the kitchen when the first item on the agenda is no longer a bowl of Coco Puffs, but a few amber bottles accommodating little white pills and where-are-they bifocals located somewhere I can’t see. Nothing pleases me more than the sarcastic, self-generating, “Geez, it’s just a number” calculated response to my age being subtracted from the actuarial number I know waiting for me at the end of all this. Look, we know life has an end, right? I’m not a fatalist by any means. Life is wonderful. Every year we’re one year older, though, … someone ate those brownies.

Well, to be fair, not all of them. MOST of them. There were most a few days ago, then last night?… little. Expectations being what they are – unspoken, I should have known. Earlier, I did buy a few dozen cupcakes to hand out to my friends. (This is a tradition started many iced moons ago by my mom. She’s gone now, but I still try to keep it going). As compadres go, they scooped them up immediately, fist fulls at a time, as the hard plastic container in my hands wafted its sweet aroma into the world. For all intents, this was my birthday, candle-less, cake. I assumed as much that day until arriving home to see a pan of freshly baked, uncut, brownies on top of the stove. Oh, they (it) smelled so good. As an aside, one big whole pan like that is really NOT a bunch of brownies until cut into individual squares! It is, really, one big brownie birthday cake, uhm, ….

…Or, so I thought.

I can be pushy, assumptive, presumptive, stubborn, and/or obdurate (love that word). Human #1, obviously, knows this. Under those conditions, human #2 is placed in a rather strange shaped pan when baking some sort of life with me. Admittedly, it’s not my ingredients, but our recipe. She baked and filled the pan. I don’t know why and never asked. There’s cosmic stress these days in her job and I’m aware chocolate has a way of realigning her planetary system, albeit temporarily until the next covid meteor screams through her workplace universe. With that perspective, I’m telescopically aware she probably baked for her peace of mind without actual verbal confirmation.

And so we meet at last night’s problem. Someone ate what I assumed to be my birthday cake/brownies that were, alas, not. Days away from the actual celebratory day of my birth, my inquiry into the nearly empty pan was met with the snacky supercilious, “Hey, you snooze, you lose!”. Where there were many? … one. When I challenged the math, there appeared to be some high level backward, algebraic, formulaic back-stepping. I didn’t push to see the solution on paper because I want to see another birthday; however, after a challenging few days it would have been nice to, MAYBE, enjoy more than one brownie.

She said, I said. All about expectations and unspoken assumptions. Will I live not eating most of the brownies? Sure. She can have them … well, she did … not withstanding the wrangling we’re going to have once she reads this. Her numbers and mine will not agree, I’m sure of this. I’m also pretty confident I will walk away satisfied as the winner of a dispute I didn’t win.

It’s not about the brownies or my birthday, is it? Spencer Johnson was – and continues to be – right. Who moved the cheese? Goals, expectations, and assumptions. Today is 19 days away from 2020 being over. If anything, it has been a year of the unexpected popping up as every assumption and goal slowly drains down into the garbage disposal. Fatalism? Nah, just a crappy, stupid, disastrous, sad, scary, unpredictable year. A year when all our brownies – or cheese – haven’t lived up to our expectations.

Yesterday, I had the pleasure of delivering a letter to a retired Home Economics teacher in our area. This note was sent to me from a former student of hers who wanted to express an appreciation for the kindness and love given to her years ago. Being in a better position to hand deliver the letter, I agreed. Unable to meet in person, I slid the note in the mail slot while talking to Mrs. C on the phone. I don’t know the contents of the letter, but can assume – based on my previous texts with my friend – it had something to do with recipes still being used from the late 70’s/ early 80’s, when classes such as these were still being taught.

Maybe, just maybe, there was a brownie recipe in that envelope and Mrs. C could mix up a batch on the sly for me. Nobody needs to know, right? Her family and mine have been friends for years. Human #2 doesn’t need to know. This way, all expectations are met, all assumptions graciously kissed, and goals achieved … conveniences 2020 doesn’t have in abundance.

I’ll gladly lick my fingers after each pleasant bite while sitting back watching everyone else chase their cheese. Expect me to share? Yeah, ok. I’ll think about it. Seeing as how I got less than my fair share of the last batch, odds are pretty good you don’t even have to snooze to lose.

“Dare to be Square”

Before diving in, I must give proper credit. The above tag line hangs below – and is, most likely, registered to – one of my favorite sauce, cheese, pepperoni, and dough places in town: Best Way Pizza.

It’s been a family stop of ours for decades. Today, during a busy run-around day off, I find myself here enjoying an extra slice of restful time. Lines at grocery stores and pharmacies, advertising signs blown over from last night’s Pentecostal winds, and messages on my phone all demanding my attention earlier have been tamed. I’m the only one here. Humming soda machines keep me company … no human contact save the occasional really nice employee wiping down the counter over to my right. Expected for the 2:50 p.m. off-lunch, pre-supper time.

This was my pleasurable view only minutes ago. Not so now. I’ve wiped my hands clean of the grease that remains from what is now marching to my heart (thanks, Drew Carey, for your bit on Johnny Carson years ago!). There’s more ice than Pepsi left in the plastic cup and a few less pepper flakes to carry back in the shaker. Over and over this cycle of inhumanity toward my health has been repeated throughout the decades of my life. The pattern of plastic predictability won’t be officially complete until I top off the cup with more empty calories on my way out.

It’s just hunger satisfaction without tofu, veggies, or soy. That’s all. Easy-peasy. Their soda machine calibration is spot-on, by the way … 👌

“Dare to be square”, right? My parent’s generation probably used the word “square” in the 40’s/50’s to mean “not hip”, or outside the cool crowd – a sort-of conventional dude who went about life inside the accepted borders, following all the rules, obeying the laws, driving the speed limit in the family car while just pulling out of the white picket fence lined driveway.

Square could also mean getting right with someone – settling a debt, perhaps. “Don’t worry about it, we’ll square up later.”, I see as a variation of usage. Does this make the person square? Eh, who knows? Just an idea.

As any of this relates to really good pizza, example #1 most likely is what the LeCrones mean. The original owners, in a twisted way, dare us to be normal by eating pizza that is square … in a “pizza is cool only in triangles” world. Maybe they were convinced, decades ago, we were destined for black eyes in dark alleys by going against conventional circles cut into triangles … in square boxes as the popular memes on social media purport?

Geometrically speaking, the above meme is funny. Three shapes in one Friday night, teenager driven delivery. Best Way doesn’t deliver. If memory serves me right, they were one of the first in the area to offer drive up service years ago as a pizza business. Innovation with simplicity. Quite a success story. As of today, they have multiple locations and franchises in numerous counties surrounding and including Blair County.

May I suggest every writer of a blog and, by extension, every reader of every blog could write a similar story of their favorite pizza joint? Yep. My short break today isn’t that unique to anyone else’s American story.

If you told me back in the 80’s I’d be doing this today, … well, pretty sure you’d get a different response than, “In 2020, during a pandemic, I’ll have a day off from my concession business and be typing out my blog entry for the day inside a Best Way”. I didn’t have a 40 minute plan let alone a 40-year plan just getting out of high-school.

What I was sure of? … my hometown was always a place to love, family was here … and we always had Best Way Pizza on Friday night if we could. Later in life, it became a Sunday night tradition.

I’m a professional pianist … sell hot dawgs and food out of a trailer, and write on a blog. So far, I haven’t been beaten up, so all is good. I must be cool in a square kind of way.

The pizza was really good … as usual. Next time you’re in Hollidaysburg, Pa. stop by. Dare to be square yourself.