A Wurpee at the 10-11

So spring has arrived here in Provo. The bulk of student activity on campus and the roads I travel most is at its annual minimum (at least until the terrifying, thunderous herds of minivans descend on campus for women’s conference tomorrow). I won’t even mention that the ladies are using my basketball court for a service project. (What are they thinking?) I had my first Slurpee of the season this week and am now addicted to the sugar rush and obsessed with the purple specialty cups in all of their rolled aluminum purple glory. When our boys were little we used to take them to 7-11 often but I guess not often enough. One day Alex asked in his little boy soprano voice, “Can we go get a wurpee at the 10-11?”

So for the first time in weeks (months?) I feel like I can write something positive. If I had blogged before this today, you would have heard a lot about our cat dying unexpectedly, my back going out painfully, and a lengthy and gloomy laundry list of why life was pretty sucky. So you and I have both avoided that bit of unpleasantness.

All of the gloom of late winter reminds me of a story of another dark day a couple of decades ago. I was driving our gray Toyota Camry on the road that circles around the south end of campus. I was feeling pretty low and actually had the thought in my head, “Can it get any worse than this?” At that precise instant, a fist-sized blob of bird poop hit the car’s windshield right in front of my face, obscuring my vision and answering my rhetorical question to the heavens. Yes, yes it can. This particular answer lightened my mood and I actually began to smile, then laugh, then count my blessings. In place of self-pity, suddenly there was gratitude, especially the thought that I come from a family with a history of depression coupled with a healthy sense of humor. Despair can be covered with poop but poop can be erased with laughter.

With leaves on the tree and a fresh blue sky (sans poop), I feel a little more optimistic and am really trying to enumerate life’s positives. We have a new cat named S.C. (slender cat) and/or Rescue Panther. While this strange auburn-black creature does not replace the eight years we had with our gray puddle of cat, Ixi, this new one is another feline source of amusement. Today my back is well enough that my opponent in noon basketball remarked that I was trash talking during a play (not just before and after, as is usual). My Celtics made the finals when, at the beginning of the season, they were really playing poorly. And a few hours ago, I got a text with four of my favorite words in the English language, “Clair box on porch.” I highly recommend liking the same sport, same teams, and growing to be approximately the same size as my big brother. Such stature and predilections have some truly cool benefits. I did have some trouble deciding to go with classic Jordan Bulls red or modern Celtics green for our trip to the 10-11 tonight. Decisions, decisions.

And, biggest blessing of all, in just one week, I will have been married to the love of my life for 25 years. And I can tell you right now, the first 25 years are the hardest. (And if you get that joke, you understand that it can extend to 40 and beyond.) Here she is in the place I found her, somewhere near 5th North, just a few years back. A tall drink of water, not a wurpee, . . . but cool and wearing purple.

It's Not How Big You Are . . .

Today I played some mediocre basketball. But it was still great fun. And as I went down to play and as I returned back to work, I thought once and again of the games of one-on-one I used to play with my big brother Justin. (Bigger in spirit, it turns out; I grew a little bigger in stature). He would have been 51 today but he gave up this earth more than 16 years ago. I wish he had been there today, to play on my team, to help me be better. Like I've said countless times, brothers and basketball are synonyms in my mind.

In April 1995 my wife, oldest boy, and I went up to visit with Justin and my folks. At one point Dusty and I played basketball out in front of the house in Mountain Home, and for a while, it was just like old times. Vestiges of his former personality came out while we were playing—as we dribbled and hustled and took one-handed “horse” shots from the old green Chevy pickup. He even laughed a little as we talked, but then, the shadows of his illness would obscure his smile and he would disappear again. It was the last time I would see him, and I am so grateful for those brief, beautiful moments.

When short guys complain about tall guys having the advantage in basketball, I always tell them that I would gladly trade in a few inches for some skills. And occasionally I will mention my brother who would consistently beat me because he was a step quicker off the dribble and had an underhanded “scoop” layup that he undoubtedly saw and borrowed from another even older brother. The scoop can only be stopped with a hard over-the-shoulder clobber foul or a good hard flagrant shove; and I often did what I had to. In the end, he taught me that it’s not how big you are, it’s how good. I learned to foul hard and to keep a defender in front of you lest you be pressed to clobber his head.

So speaking of "a ringing in both ears," Dusty Dan sent me a few audiotapes while I was down in Ecuador (in the 80s) and, regrettably, I recorded over most of them … but on one of the last ones, he is talking (and laughing) with his wife Janet, explaining the wonders of stereo recording on his fancy Sony Walkman . . . a device which he later let me borrow anytime I wanted.

Here is the short clip I listen to when I need to hear some “straight” talk. It's not a lot but sometimes you hang on to whatever you've got left.

P.S. Dusty also let me consume nearly all of his Sour Cream and Onion Lays potato chips purchased with his paper route money; I consider this to be one of the great examples of sacrifice observed in my youth.

Ode to an Apple

Yeah I know that Mom just blogged about apples so you may or may not appreciate another riff on doctor prevention. But I really can’t help myself as I just polished a sample and it sits here reflecting dimly the light from my Apple computer display. And now it is sliced, photographed, and being eaten as I write this. It’s a baking apple and not terribly sweet; obviously a kindred spirit.

As fall frosts into winter, I am glad that I have a box of apples to remind me of the crisp days of the past few months. I have not been able to find really good cooking apples for a while but I stopped by our local orchard retail outlet (where we get all of that sweet corn in late summer) and they had harvested a crop of plump, burnished-red Jonathans. Usually Jonny’s are smallish and you have to peel a lot of them but these are almost Rome-size. There will be pie. And likely an upside-down cake or two coming out of this find. (Mmmm. Cherry apple mixed, we like to call it “chapple.”)

As prelude to fall canning marathons, we used to road trip down to Utah to pick fruit. We would load the back of Big Red (our spacious GMC suburban) with bushels and bushels of apples, pears, peaches, apricots, plums, cherries, grapes . . . I would sit in the back seat, flip the ash trays, then bask in the sweet amalgam of odors rising up from our fruiteous bounty. Then I would get to work because canned or frozen goods are tasty but there is absolutely nothing better than fresh, hand-picked fruits or vegetables. For some inexplicable reason, I was never hungry for dinner when we got back home in Idaho.

When I was young, it seemed that any time I wanted, I would ask mom or one of my sisters to slice me up an apple and they always would. It was always such a treat, made better by the knife-wielding hands of beautiful women who loved me. Today I keep a knife and cutting board in my desk drawer at work and eat apples all through the fall. Without fail, the tart and earthy flavor sends my mind back to “borrowing” unripe undersized green apples from neighboring orchards or to a framed mental picture of my dad “scrumping” an apple or other fruit off the ground near, I believe, any and every fruit tree he ever had proximity to. The look on the man’s face, no matter his age, was youthful, mischievous, and unforgettable. He was always glad to pay for boxes or bushels but he also believed that if it was on the ground, it was a free sample. I completely agree.

This year I begrudgingly planted another apple tree out in the wild part of our property, and a pear tree, one of my wife’s favorite fruits. She got the little starts on clearance, of course, and we finally threw them in the ground. We’ll see how that goes.

I’ll admit it. I love huckleberries because of their rarity, their amazing color, and flavor. But I love apples because they take me home.

Upside Down Life

I was surprised but pleased when my youngest son requested my dad’s upside down cake for his 15th birthday dinner. So I scooped out a bunch of pie cherries from my bucket and whipped up one of the better cakes in recent history . . . the crust crisp and chewy almost like caramel, the cherries tart, and the vanilla ice cream smooth and sweet. And just now, I projected back to a cookbook I once put together and a few lines I wrote:

Just a few years back, after Austen arrived on the scene, I made a cherry upside-down cake. That night, as I was putting the ingredients together, I was struck again with the sense that I was a Dad and I began to understood how much love our parents had put on the table over the years, a labor that had gone on without much notice and even less appreciation  (at least from me).

When Dad and I were alone, a few weeks before he died, he told me “…enjoy that sweetness while you can.” And while he was referring to the love between a husband and a wife and that invisible force which binds a father and his children, I think it also applies to any offering which comes from your heart. Sometimes, when you scoop out a handful of Crisco, you can feel it.”

In Three Amigos, one of the funniest movies ever, Steve Martin’s character Lucky Day says, “In a way, all of us has an El Guapo to face. For some, shyness might be their El Guapo. For others, a lack of education might be their El Guapo. For us, El Guapo is a big, dangerous man who wants to kill us.”

This has been a tough year for people I love and, on the edge of the storm, I have shared some of the turbulence and the tears. I am pretty sure they would trade in their unequal share of death, divorce, or disaster for the “big, dangerous man” in the comedy. At least El Guapo has a “plethora of piñatas” at his birthday party to help offset the pain (along with an attractive sweater). Though we are miles apart, I still feel as close as the kids in this photo and sense the unbreakable bond of true family.

Life has its downs but it also has an upside. My suggestion is to flip it over when you can and add whatever ice cream you can find in its icy cold freezer. You are also invited to come visit and I’ll do what I can to help, whatever your situation. I will also gladly make you a cake.

Round Pieces of Pie

Long time no blog. It’s been a busy August but now the boys are back in school and life is back into its painful fall routine (and its painful question, “Whose turn is it to get up at 5:50 a.m.?”).

In three weeks of the last month, we jumped in icy Alturas Lake, hiked to Sawtooth Lake, jumped into the not-as-icy but still brisk Pacific Ocean near Ventura, California, hiked around Jenny Lake in the Tetons, got splashed by cold whitewater as we rafted the Snake River, and crossed state borders so many times we couldn’t count. (Of course, every time we crossed into Idaho, we would belt out the state song, “Here We Have Idaho.”)

I could easily elaborate on each of those travel adventures but, suffice it to say, we had some good times with our tall boys (currently 6-four and 6-six).

Now to the main reason for this blog: to brag and to share a favorite family recipe (just in time for fall apples). Last Friday we had a neighborhood party/carnival. Part of that was a pie-baking contest and my wife signed me up.

A wise man once said, “I like my pie in round pieces, hot or cold.” I agree and add that I’ve never had a bad pie; some have been better than others, but there is only so much havoc you can wreak when combining pastry crust and sugared fruit. Am I right? And even the bitter rhubarb can be stomached if you have a scoop or two of vanilla bean ice cream.

So, I carefully followed my mom’s apple pie recipe, cooked it golden, and carried it over to the park fresh from the oven; it was the last entry handed over to the judge.

I was concerned because local apples are not in season and I had to use Galas and Golden Delicious, two varieties that I hadn’t included before. But the crust had rolled out better than ever before and it cooked up to be exceptionally flaky.

I thought I had a shot but there are some amazing cooks here so I figured I would get an honorable mention. So I still had pulled pork sandwich on my face when they called me up to the front and pinned a blue ribbon to my shirt. One friend said I looked like “a prize steer at the county fair” . . . that still makes me laugh.

Anyway, as I mentioned on Facebook, life is too short to not share (even secret recipes). So here is my take on my mom’s classic pie recipe. Please feel free to comment with your own recipes; I am hoping there will be another contest next year and I can win by stealing your crust recipe.

Verna Walker’s “Award-Winning” Apple Pie

CRUST

Sift 2 cups sifted flour (yep, twice sifted) and 1 tsp. salt into bowl. Take out 1/4 cup. Add 3/4 cup Crisco shortening (regular or butter-flavored). Cut shortening into flour with 2 knives (or pastry cutter). Mix 1/4 cup cold water with the 1/4 cup reserved flour to make a paste. Pour over flour. Gently mix together with fork, then form 2 balls with hands (add a little water if necessary). Do not overmix. Roll out one ball to fit your pie plate. Trim excess from edge.

FILLING

Mix together:

1/2 cup sugar

4 Tbsp. flour

1 tsp. cinnamon

Sprinkle over 4 1/2 cups of cooking apples. (Romes or Jonathans if available). Put apples into pie shell and dot with butter. Roll out second ball of dough for the top, fold in half, and cut slits or vents. Moisten edges of bottom shell. Press top down on edge, trim as needed, then crimp the edge together with your opposable thumbs (if available). Place foil under pie tin, bringing sides up to cover the pie. Bake 40 minutes in 425˚ F oven. Fold down or remove foil and bake 5 to 10 minutes more to brown the top. Happy baking!

A Perfect Day in Virginia

So if this photo of my sister-in-law were taken today it would look something like this.

Thankfully there was no way back in the early 70s to hit delete or crop a slide . . . and so real life was captured in all of its cheesy splendor.

I will admit that when I first saw this image that Crecia shared, I laughed until I cried. I showed it to my wife and she said, ”I just love it so much,” and she also laughed until she cried.

Previous to this discovery, I only had the image below to remind me of that perfect day long ago in Virginia. We had just undertaken a cross country road trip from Idaho to New York City to visit my oldest brother, Lorin, his wife, Lin, and my nephew Austin.

It was Grandpa Rosel and Grandma Elaine and Mom and Dad and seven of the nine kids all packed into a VW bus. It seems we had ham sandwiches for every meal and sang a song declaring that fact every time we were asked if we wanted another.

We saw the sites in Washington, but most impressive to me was Arlington Cemetery, especially the flame burning near John Kennedy’s grave and the changing of the guard at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.

The best part of the trip, however, was when we visited Lin’s parents in Virginia. They had a pool, and not a public city pool, but a private one right by their house! And, magically, their freezer was overflowing with ice cream. I remember some vague explanation that a refrigeration unit had failed somewhere and Lin’s dad had more ice cream than he could freeze; the important thing to me was that we were encouraged to eat as much as we could. Every perfect day has its challenges . . . there were monster horse flies that would bite you painfully hard, but that was offset by being able to slap your sibling from behind and explaining it away.

When night fell, there was more magic. Fireflies! You don’t see many of those in Idaho. We popped the top of the VW and set up the small sleeping area there. Through the mesh screen you could see these fanciful creatures flitting through and landing on the branches of the trees. Full of ice cream and tired from swimming, you could only keep your eyes focused on them for a few minutes before drifting off into a sweet dream.

Two Sweet Things

Count 'em.

1. Awesome birthday cake. I believe it is topped with White Mountain frosting.

2. Classic VW bus. We rode in that tricked-out jalopy all the way from Idaho to New York City! But that's a story for another day.

3. Oh, wait. The title just said two things. But she got sweeter as the years went by. ;)

You May Find This Surprising

This story may sound familiar. (Here is last April's account). Or it may make your eyes pop wide with surprise. (Arthur and Chris, playing ball?!)

In my family we often use the "sister-vine," a reliable form of communication that allows one to talk to any one of my sisters and have the information disseminate quickly to nearly all of my family members. This is the efficient evolution that sprang from "telegraph, telephone, or tell-a-woman." Sometimes the details are repeated and eyes are appropriately rolled in the umpteenth telling but they are always shared at least once. This is a good thing. Most families suffer from a failure to communicate because they can't handle the truth.

Coordinating a pickup game with my brother and nephews this past weekend was a little more difficult than just telling a sister but it was definitely worth it. My nephew Chris was about to be deployed (again) as part of our military and I wanted him to have a chance to break in his latest Iconic footwear. When I asked him about joining our traditional game, he said, "I haven't played ball in a really long time, probably years." When pressed to participate, another of my favorite nephews, Arthur, had a similar response, "I used to be good at basketball. Long ago."

I thought these two would add a new, fun element to our standard Walker/Drake smackdowns. And they did. I knew they were in decent shape but truthfully I thought I would be amused… I ended up being impressed. Both of them attacked the rim without fear and provided formidable defense. I truly enjoyed playing with them and would be glad to add them to my team any time. I had told them to bring some $20s and that we could set up a role-playing game after so they could back their money. They were good sports and put up with my nonsense/lies.

Gus and Sam scouted out the church gym at Bogus Basin to make sure there were no events to trump our hope for a game. Soon a text hit my phone: "At church. Looks like there might be a funeral...YOURS! Gus" And so it began. Though the severity of the trash talk was somewhat subdued this time, there were still some good hard fouls and good-natured banter among players.

We divided up and were determined to play until it hurt. Then we played some more. To save on words, here's a short video that Drew shot on his camera and then I grabbed with my phone off of an old TV set (that should explain the old-school quality). It will at least give you the flavor. (And the music may drive you bonkers after the first 20 seconds . . . prepare to mute the sound.)



Truthfully, we made a lot more shots than this video shows (or we would have played for six hours). I will try to get some other clips from Drew that better demonstrate the state of our hardwood skills.

The nearly three-hour sporting contest was once again wrapped up with a trip to Fancy Freeze where a record nine jumbo Boston Shakes (tasty shake on the bottom, sweet sundae on the top) were purchased by Uncle Clair, who demonstrated where he had hair by stepping up to the foul line and representing. Big thanks for the thick shakes, man! This stomach-stretching tradition once again tested Sam whose shake level was inspected several times. While it's never a contest—whoever finishes is a winner!—the seasoned veterans finished first followed promptly by the teenagers. :)

The rest of the evening was spent jawing with family members. There was a steady stream of humanity through Mom slash G-Ma's house . . . she was an awesome hostess slash dishwasher. The Walker Bed and Breakfast (and airport shuttle service) was really popular and let's face it, you can't beat the company or the price!

Born in the U.S.A.

I'm a long gone Daddy in the U.S.A.
Born in the U.S.A.
I'm a cool rocking Daddy in the U.S.A.
Born in the U.S.A.

A bus in South America is a strange place for a tall gringo to be feeling patriotic. But when the driver reached up and boosted the volume on his overhead FM/cassette player and Bruce Springsteen's pop anthem accompanied the slightly cooler air coming in through the half-open sliding windows, I started bobbing my head and singing along. While I was enjoying my lengthy immersion in a foreign land, in that moment, I was fiercely proud to be from the United States.

One of my most memorable Fourth of Julys was spent in Tulcan, an Ecuadorian city just to the south of the Colombian border. I was part of a small district of missionaries (pictured below, right) and we decided that we would have a big "birthday" party for Henry, a local Church member. We really liked Henry so we decided to splurge a little and procure some exciting party favors at a local shop for the celebration to be held in the cement courtyard behind the chapel.

There was some butterfly-shaped firecrackers, just a piece of paper, really, wrapped tightly around two tight wings of gunpowder with a string/fuse tied down the middle. These would violently explode with a flash and a bang, twice . . . always sooner than you expected. But the real highlight was a bottle rocket unlike any you've ever seen. The propulsion section and explosive combined to be the length of a Pringles can but half the diameter. This was attached to a 5- or 6-foot piece of bamboo. We would lean one of these against a chair, light the fuse, and retreat rapidly. The rocket/bomb would shoot up into the night sky and explode in a brilliant burst of fire. Mesmerizing. Then every time, we would realize, almost too late, that a smoking chunk of broken bamboo was hurtling back to earth. It was then time to quickly locate the projectile and move nimbly to dodge it. Thankfully no one was injured as these were above and beyond your typical pinched Whistling Petes or even Wyoming fireworks.

Okay, I just checked my journal and the bottle rockets were only 3-feet tall. Hmm . . . odd how fish grow every time you tell the tale. Here's the rest of the journal entry in case I try to exaggerate again:

"We ate cake, listened to music, and oh, they whacked Henry 29 times with a belt, once for each year. He just stood there and took it. . . . Then we had a little "appreciate Henry" program, then set off fireworks. (Snuck a little U.S.A. tradition in the party, on the 4th of July, even, IMAGINE THAT?!) 3-foot bottle rockets (big ones!!) and double boom firecrackers that made your ears ring. Wild, they were super loud and very dangerous!"

After 21 months of the natives suspecting I was CIA (dark suit, tie, believable cover as a missionary), I returned to the U.S. on my birthday (the longest b-day ever, as the 747 crossed several time zones.)

The airport in Miami felt like something out of Star Wars, all shiny and ultra-modern. Then, the other fresh RMs and I spied something gleaming partway down the airport terminal. We began to shout, then started sprinting, pushing each other aside as we jockeyed for position. We must have been quite a sight for the other travelers as we slid to a stop at a drinking fountain and started gulping down water like we had been stranded in the Sahara. Clean, cold water at the touch of a button. Quite a miracle if you think about it.

Coming back to the U.S. was like a dream. Our gray-green money looked unreal. And there were so many white people in one place, and most of them weren't missionaries. It took me a while before Ecuador became the dream and the States the reality.

Well, it's time to cook up some ham, potato salad, mushroom soup with french fries on top, and some rice. No wait, that was 4th of July lunch in South America, as close as the “momita”—the sweet lady who cooked for us—could get to a "gringo" meal. Here, it's burgers and hanging out with the fam. Now, we just have to decide whether to watch G.I. Joe or Independence Day on blu-ray after we go and see the fireworks over the stadium.

Have a great Fourth! And a big shout out to the men and women in uniform who keep this country safe and the cold water running. Your sacrifices do not go unnoticed.

Me and T

So here’s my little grandson-in-law (yeah, I know . . . read below) poking his head in and saying “‘Sup?!” this past weekend.

Here are his parents. (This picture is not from the weekend but it captures their essence perfectly. They are not particularly big. But they compensate by being hugely silly.)

Here is their daughter, whipping up some banana bread with her great aunt.

We had a really fun Memorial Day weekend. My niece and her fam came to visit. She has pretty much summed it up on her blog so you can just read that and get the gist. Anyway, my pal Tenzin and I had a blast at the farmer’s market and on the basketball court (I lowered the hoop and helped him dunk a number of times) and at the duck park and at the pool. I guess I’m his great uncle but that really doesn’t begin to cover it, so I tried “super uncle” but that just sounded over the top. I think I’ve settled on “Outlaw Grandpa” since I am his grandma’s brother. That seems to best define the relationship because I've been missing the little dude and his fam ever since they left. As they walked out to their car, Lili yelled, “Hey! Why are you following us?” Truthfully? I was sad to see them leave.

Finally, of course, I took this great picture of us hamming it up. (Julie always try to take the credit for the really good pictures but it’s always all me. Ha ha ha.)

Game Changer

If you are reading this, you qualify as “unusual.” Please consider revising your will to reflect my good fortune.

Dad’s Pancakes

My dad passed away in 1998 and I do not believe anyone who knew him will ever recover from the loss. Nothing fills that void but I have found that, somehow, his pancakes can help a little. Thankfully I acquired some of his recipes before his earthly departure and found time (a decade ago) to put them into The Dad-Blasted Walker Family Cookbook which I shared with siblings and a few other persistent relations and friends. I am still working on my own copy; the laser-engraved aluminum cover currently sits unused in a box. Here’s the page with the recipe, in case you need some comfort food (for breakfast or dinner!) in the midst of this cold winter.

A Shorts Story

Admittedly, I am an inconsistent performer when playing basketball. I miss far more shots than I make. Often I have said, “My shots may brick off the rim, but, man, do I look good doing it.” This is mostly due to the many shoes, shirts, and shorts bequeathed to me by my generous brother. He has always been willing to give me the shirt off his back, literally, more times than I can count.

Every six to eight months, more often if I’m lucky, I catch fire on the court. Today was one of those days where my skill level was only outdone by my modesty. I got some assists and rebounds, a lovely tip-in; and, in the end, I popped two game winning three-pointers. One of these was right after I inbounded the ball to the other team (oops) and they scored, going up by 1 point. I was already feeling foolish, so at the other end, I thought “hero or goat” and hoisted an NBA-distance three from the right side. It fell in, we won by two, and we got to stay on the court and play again.

The next game, our team dominated. Again I shot a three at the end, this time from the left baseline, adding a little extra arch to clear a jumping defender, and the ball snapped the net. I should have gone home right then . . . it could not get any better.

I attribute today’s success to wearing a new (lucky) pair of shorts. I also think eating a banana, getting a short haircut, and eating a blueberry scone (in that order) before the game also helped my energy level and aerodynamics. I will surely attempt to recreate some of that magic by combining all of those elements again (minus the haircut . . . maybe I’ll shave instead). I’ll let you know how it goes.

TANGENT 1: In high school, my parents really splurged, buying me a pair of Adidas Top Ten basketball shoes, bright white with silver stripes. These were some of the first high performance shoes, with a nice lacing system, and a pivot point placed in the perfect spot in the sole. I really think they helped bolster my confidence and my ability to move on the court. Thanks, Mom and Dad.

TANGENT 2: One of the coolest parts of the place where we live is a little meadow down in front. It has a rough basketball court and one of the hoops is backed by a tree that serves as a natural ball return. The tree is a hackberry, aptly named, I think.

TANGENT 3: When all is said and done, I have learned this about playing any team sport. If you are playing just for yourself or only to win, you will always come away disappointed. If you are playing for your team and only for fun, you will never leave disappointed. (But it’s always more fun if you win.)

The Girl For Me

When my wife and I were dating, we stopped in Pocatello, Idaho, to meet her grandparents. When her sweet little grandma, Thelma, opened the door, a delicious aroma wafted out from the kitchen. She had just baked some raisin-filled cookies and they were still warm. Those cookies, with some cold milk, were delightful, and they came with a good story.

Con Millward didn’t have a car and would have to walk several miles to visit Thelma, the girl he was dating. After a visit, Thelma brought him out some cookies to have on the long walk back home. When she put them in his hand, he thought they were really heavy, likely undercooked with nothing but dough in the middle . . . so he put them in his pocket without even taking a bite.

He started walking and, after a while, became really hungry—he was going to have to give in and try one of those lumpy thick cookies. “When I bit into that cookie and tasted that wonderful raisin filling, the thought that came into my mind was ‘That is the girl for me!’” Those “heavy” cookies became his favorite treat and Thelma was always happy to fix them for him.

No Kicking the Bucket

So I pulled into Will’s Pit Stop, a local convenience store, to get a refill in my 64 oz. insulated container that I’ve had forever. It’s so old . . . the store in Provo where I bought it (Harts) has been out of business for more than a decade. I still use it because it is large and keeps drinks cold all day long. The handle broke a while back but I put it back together with some black tape.

Anyway, I am filling my jug and a handsome Hispanic guy in his 20s looks over and, in a thick Mexican accent, says, “Hey, how much do you pay for that thing?” I explain that it ranges from 80 cents to $1.15. “He looks at me, then once again at the size of my refill, and says, “Oh, man. I gotta get me one of those buckets.”

TANGENT 1: When I proposed to my wife one fateful Christmas Day, she was expecting a ring when she opened the black velvet box, not a stack of refill coupons from Harts. Then again, I also did not expect to have to retreat so quickly to the closet where I had hidden the actual engagement ring.

TANGENT 2: During my high school years we did not have a basketball standard at our house as it was built on a hill and what little level ground we had was either grass or a terraced strawberry patch. In one little section of driveway, however, I mounted a bucket with the bottom cut out so I could practice my jumpshots and “dunks” with a tennis ball.

TANGENT 3: Our family has a variety of interesting nicknames. One brother whom I greatly admire is called Bucket. One of his boyhood friends just started calling him that and it stuck. In a later post I will share what I know about Speckle-Nosed Trout, Dusty Dan, Wiener, and my own legacy with nicknames.

The Last Cookie

To start the week off right, one of my coworkers cooks up a batch of cookies from a book of award-winning recipes. These treats are presented in an aesthetically pleasing stack on a golden plate in our editors staff meeting, then the remains are put out on a counter in the reception area for others to enjoy. Often, the pile is reduced to one cookie by early afternoon. The last cookie. It sits on the plate longer than any other. It seems no one wants to take it. It is like the awkward, pudgy kid, picked last for a playground game at recess. When I discover its sad condition, I quickly snatch it up. It can play on my team.

TANGENT 1: I am the last of nine children. C is for Cookie. That's good enough for me.

TANGENT 2: In my opinion, cake < cookie < scone < pie < any dessert with huckleberries.

TANGENT 3: Like my father before me, I like my pie in round pieces, hot or cold.