It may sound cliché, me being married to a Midwestern man who basically grew up on a farm, but one of my husband’s passions is grilling.

In particular, smoking meat.

There’s nothing better than a long lazy Sunday watching him maneuver in and out of the house to tend to the meat, which often takes all day to smoke. The process suits my husband’s laid-back personality.

I like to hear the sliding of our deck’s screen door as he checks on the grill and often times I sit outside with a cold beer and a book.

I don’t always like the taste of smoked meat but I love the smell. I enjoy seeing the puffs of smoke steadily coming from the grill stack. Add to it the ambiance of my favorite kind of weather – cloudy and misty – and it enhances the flavor, he says.

The time and patience with which it takes to craft an object to perfection always amazes me.

This is one case where the journey definitely beats the destination.

😒

When you’re sick and someone asks how you’re doing. That’s great, thanks for being interested.

But then barely any time has passed and they ask again about how you’re doing.

Well, unless I took a pill to cure the common cold, I still feel like shit. In fact, I’ll probably feel like shit in another three hours and maybe even when I talk to you tomorrow.

Sounds ungrateful but I right now I am sick and I feel like taking it out on nice people.

😒

Authors with initials in their names.

Why can you not have your full name published?

In this day and age I know it isn’t woke to want to know if the novel I’m about to read is by a male or female, but I do care. Men and women do, despite today’s society telling us otherwise, bring different perspectives to characters. Knowing the gender of the author, for better or for worse, makes me feel context. And context is control that me, as the reader, likes to have.

😒

The laughing emoji.

Does the poster mean funny ha-ha or funny as in odd? I rarely post anything on Facebook but when I see that emoji I cringe.

I guess I don’t get it. If the response is to a clip of Friends or Seinfeld then I get laughing about it. And occasionally a political post will elicit a click of the emoji from me. But I see people click on the emoji in response to deaths or for things completely neutral and not remotely humorous.

I believe the laughing emoji screams of snark and though I can be both sarcastic and cynical, snark betrays snootiness and superiority, neither qualities of which I admire.

Lays potato chips are the best.

That is all.

After dinner, I normally would have balked at the massive pile of dishes accumulated throughout the day, sighing as I squeezed the soap under the running water.

But as I felt myself get tense tonight, I looked around and saw happiness. I saw content. My son was at the kitchen table on his laptop. My husband was on the couch with one of our pups on his lap, scrolling through his phone. My daughter had just brought the last dish from the table to the sink, then said she had to get upstairs to start her homework.

A feeling of thankfulness washed over me. For a little while longer, I still have my adult children at home with me. We can regularly sit around our table eating a delicious homemade meal cooked by my husband, discussing our favorite topics – Minnesota Wild hockey, politics, and the events of our day.

Life is definitely good.

I’m a fan of the more low-key holidays, where a good meal peppered with conversation and laughter for a few hours sometimes beats the hype and expectations that always seem to plague Thanksgiving and Christmas.

My folks came over for dinner yesterday and brought with them what I expected they would – Easter basket treats for my kids.   

Never mind that said kids are actually 23 and 18. It’s a tradition that started when I was young, my mother filling up baskets with goodies for me and my brother. When I had children of my own, she and my dad made sure the rite was passed on.

I don’t remember all of the things I received in the Easter baskets from my childhood (other than a single Reece’s Peanut Butter Egg and some cavity-inducing yellow Peeps). But I do recall the comfort I felt when searching for my hidden basket, knowing I’d find chocolate bunnies, stuffed animals, and other items nestled inside the pastel colored grass picked out especially by my mom.

Nowadays, I enjoy showering my kids in the same way. I love strolling the aisles of local stores for items with which to fill their baskets, like comfy pants for my daughter, fishing lures for my son, and gift cards to their favorite fast food and coffee shops.

The best part is that I enjoy thinking of my mom and this cute tradition I get the privilege of keeping alive.

And, if I’m truly lucky, it will come full circle when I have grandchildren of my own.

Fun to listen to the first thunderstorm of spring as I sit here cozy under a fluffy blanket on my couch watching hockey with my family.

My dad stopped over the other day. I enjoy his company. He likes our dogs and always brings them treats and it’s fun to see them jump all over him when he walks in the door.

This time he also came on a mission: Visit the Fleet Farm, Target, and Walmart of our town in his quest to find Woolite Darks and a mesh drain strainer for his and my mother’s kitchen sink.

Turns out he had visited half a dozen stores near their apartment for those exact items the past couple days to no avail.

He even brought an old strainer to show hapless store employees exactly what he was in search of.

I jumped on my computer and told him we could order the items right then and they’d be at his place in at least a day.

 “They always want to deliver,” he said contemptuously, shaking his head.

“Who are they?” I asked incredulously. I mean, I just ordered hand soap from Amazon recently even though Target is five minutes away.

“Well, stores,” he hesitantly replied.

Yeah, I thought, like there’s a couple of minimum wage saps who, upon being asked if they have the exact same drain strainer thing step back to formulate a plan.

“You know how to really get this guy?” one whispers, tongue rolling around his cheek. “Let’s tell him we don’t have one but we can MAIL it to him.”

“Let’s!” the other replies enthusiastically, wringing his hands with an evil grin.

“Um, sir, we don’t have it in stock but we can, um – order it and mail it to you.”

“Ah Jesus Christ,” my dad would say, throwing his arms in the air and incoherently swearing as he huffs away.  

Two days, ten stores, and 20 gallons of gas (at $4/gallon) later, he may indeed find a drain that only slightly resembles the one he wants and, ultimately, doesn’t fit as nicely in the hole.

Mom isn’t pleased and he feels like a complete failure, with the date arrived on which the offer to have disgustingly “mailed it” would have already come and gone.

Why are denizens from the city always hard on suburbanites wanting to patronize their food and drink establishments?

Must there be the feigned we’re-so-cultured-and-you’re-not snobbiness when reading online reviews of places I’d like to try?

Urbanites may not want to hear this but many of us from the boring and banal suburbs actually go to the cities and spend money. You know – moolah. Dough. Bucks. Gravy.

It also doesn’t mean we never ate in the city or drank there or shopped there years before, spending our parents’ money in college and partying it up on weekends in our late 20’s. There’s actually a soft spot in my heart for a place that has low ceilings, leather-backed barrel chairs, and dart boards.

 It was only later that we purchased a house in the burbs.

It does beg the question, however, of why do we go?

Perhaps, indeed, because some of the places can be boring and banal, notably the chain restaurants that clog up shopping center parking lots, where you overpay for mediocre food and underwhelming service.

Albeit, there are gems out in these thar parts. And know this, ye of the side-eyed glances of distaste. There are proprietors who offer good food (often at excellent prices) whether it is a hole in the wall burger joint or a small Italian bistro tucked into an ugly strip mall.

And you know what?

Come on out you slickers of the city. You won’t get the old side-eye from me.

Ah, Fleet Farm. The bastion of all things tackle, tractor toys, and surprisingly – newly-fashionable Carhartt.

My intention yesterday was to pick up some dog food there. But when I saw it, everyone else’s – including my four-legged friends’ – needs faded away.

There it was, displayed on a rack in front of me like a crown jewel beckoning a thief:

A bag of Lay’s Sour Cream & Onion flavored potato chips.

I bought it (along with the dog food, of course).

It wasn’t the “family size”, as I had zero plans to share it with anyone in my household.

No one knew this but me. No one saw me bring in the bag nor hide it in a drawer of my desk.

I dug into the cache of ultimate pleasure a few hours before yoga and nibbled on a few slices before bed (this, after going out with friends post-yoga session for fries, loaded nachos (is there another kind?) and beers).

Fast forward to today and now I’ve finished off the bag before dinner.

I found myself enjoying even the last dregs, scooping out broken bits of chip and salt and pouring it into my gaping maw, head back with eyes closed.

It was just me and the bag.

Me and the bag…

And I don’t even feel guilty about it.

A little girl came up to me at recess yesterday and told me a boy pushed her and didn’t say sorry.

I told her that if she was waiting for a boy to say sorry, she’ll be waiting a long time. Quite possibly forever.

They may as well learn it when they’re young.

In fact, there are several apologies I’m still waiting on from men; particularly, my husband.

To apologize would be admitting he was wrong. But I know that puts a severe dent into a man’s psyche. So much so that he will balk, squawk, and occasionally pout as he fuels the flames of an argument that should never have escalated or, more importantly, started in the first place.

Know what I do when I’m wrong?

Admit it. Say OK, sorry. And move on.

It doesn’t bother me one bit. I’m wrong a good portion of my life. I get names, dates, past conversations, and future plans mixed up and confused several times a day. Does anyone see me flip out, accuse someone else, or question my self-worth or womanhood for my mistake?

 And the thing is, I am not the type of wife, friend, mom, or co-worker to tell anyone “I told you so”.

So what gives, hubby?

You may even get more lovin’ or a foot rub if you tried it my way once.

But like that little girl at recess, that could take quite possibly…forever.