Yeah I Like Coney Islands

After five months of healthy eating, I was wondering whether I had lost my taste for fast food. Without regular fixes of Taco Bell chalupas, White Castle sliders, and Subway meatball sandwiches, I found myself 20 pounds lighter and my "bad" cholesterol at a respectable number. Can't say I've been craving those foods either.

But, in the last couple of weeks, unique fast food opportunities came my way, and I felt compelled to indulge. First one came in Iowa. During several road trips this year traveling back of forth to Des Moines with my college daughter Amelia I saw an oversized, illuminated sign advertising a fast food restaurant from my youth. Right off of I-80, mid way between Iowa City and Des Moines, a Maid-Rite hamburger shop beckoned me.

I ate Maid-Rites a lot during my teenage years in Muscatine, Iowa. In case you've never tasted a Maid-Rite hamburger, this franchise specializes in loose meat sandwiches. Rather than grilling or frying hamburger patties, at Maid-Rite hamburger meat is sauteed in an open pan along with chopped onions and a secret combination of salt, pepper and spices. This meat is served up on a bun along with dill pickle slices.

Maid-Rite style sandwiches briefly achieved national attention when Rosanne Barr opened a restaurant on her television show where they served, you guessed it, loose-meat hamburgers. Rosanne discovered Maid-Rites when she and her former husband Tom Arnold lived in Ottumwa, Iowa. I'm not sure if she loved the sandwich or thought the idea of loose meat hamburgers was so ridiculous that it became a running gag on her comedy show.

Joke or not, every time I passed the restaurant I wanted to eat a Maid-Rite. And I always said to my fellow passengers, "Let's stop and get one. They're great!"

So last week, driving back from Des Moines, my wife agreed to stop at the restaurant under the giant Maid-Rite sign. She was probably sick of hearing me talk about these sandwiches. While I couldn't persuade her to try one, I was almost giddy with aniticpation.

The restaurant was clean and modern--not the dingy, greasy smelling hole in the wall I remember--which was a good sign. And the menu had expanded. Not just the traditional Maid-Rite, the restaurant offered new fare, like a Cheese Rite (which was slathered in Cheese Whiz); a Bacon Cheese Rite (add hard bacon bits); and even a Texas BBQ-Rite (bring on the barbeque sauce!). I elected a "Classic" Maid-Rite, which was the sandwich I remembered. And, and the sandwich delivered to my table featured and big bun and a heaping mound of loose, cooked hamburger meat. I took a bite, and . . . the Maid-Rite prompted no memories. In fact, the sandwich was kind of bland actually. Ketchup and hot sauce helped a little. Not sure what I found so delicious in a Maid-Rite when I was a teen. Not special at all. Guess I won't be stopping next time, not even if I need a Cheese Whiz fix! Such disappointment.

On Friday last week, my hankering for fast food hit me again when I found myself in Philadelphia. After Maid-Rites turned out to be less tastey than I remembered, maybe my tastebuds would find redemption in a new fast food. For years I heard of the much bragged about Philly Cheesesteak but had never tasted one. An opportunity to try the sandwich presented itself in the Philadelphia airport where I had time during a layover to try one for myself.

The sandwich was not what I expected. I imagined the cheese was going to be yellow--either sharp cheddar, American, or Velveta. And the steak--well I expected seasoned chunks of beef that looked liked pieces of a sirloin steak piled on a hoagy bun. Guess what? That is NOT a Philly Cheesesteak. The Philly Cheesesteak I ate in the Philadelphia airport, and I got a "loaded" version that included grilled peppers, mushrooms and onions, was bland, kind of like the Maid-Rite sandwich I had four days earlier.

The meat in a Philly Cheesesteak looked like the flat pieces you get in a gyro, only this meat was not seasoned like a gyro, in fact I couldn't taste any seasoning at all! And the cheese was not yellow cheese, but white. But not good white cheese like gouda, mozzarella or swiss, this sandwich featured soft Philadephia Cream Cheese. Does that sound good to you? Philly Cream Cheese and hot beef together? In a sandwich? I like Philly Cream Cheese in celery sticks and on top of bagels, with capers and red onions, but as a complement to tasteless gyro meat . . . yuck.

To get over the disappointment of my Maid-Rite hamburger and first-ever Philly Cheesesteak, I knew I some needed truly delicious fast food. I wanted to remember that high-fat, high-sodium, inexpensive menu items could actually satisfy. So, last night Isaac and I hauled ourselves to our local National Coney Island and ordered some truly good fast food: a "classic" Coney Island sandwich. For those of you not from my neck of the woods, a Coney Island is a hotdog served with mustard (never ketchup), chopped onions and chili (no beans) on a steamed bun. As if that wasn't enough all by itself, we also ordered chili cheese fries (bring on more chili and copious amounts of Cheese Whiz) and a spicy hani (seasoned chunks of chicken, chopped sauteed veggies inside a pita).

Look at the attached photo. Doesn't that look good? Doesn't Isaac look happy with our meal? And yes, we're drinking Diet Cokes. Very satisfying. I'm going back to health food knowing that there are still artery clogging choices I can enjoy any time I feel like falling off the low fat, low carb, low sodium band waggon.

Now that's fast food, Detroit style!

Beer Snob Diary

Thursday evening found me in a world of hurt and I desperately needed a liquid getaway. Before I sound like a roaring alky, let me explain what happened that evening and maybe you won't think poorly of me.

This Thursday my wife and I drove from our home to our daughter's college so that we could be with her after she finished her freshman year and to send her off on a once-in-a-lifetime trip to South Africa that begins this next week. It's a long drive from Grosse Pointe to Des Moines--at least 600 miles--and I drove every mile. Further, my wife and I found ourselves engaged in deep and meaningful conversation virtually the entire trip. Needless to say, after nine hours of driving and non-stop talking, I needed a drink.

At midnight, however, my options for finding alcoholic beverages were limited. I wasn't going to a bar and the grocery stores that sold my preferred beers and wines had all since closed. Instead, I visited a popular convenience store next to campus that provides libations to many Drake students. So, at midnight, I walked into the Kum and Go, yes, that's the name of the store, Kum and Go, to find a beer.

The place was packed with young, scruffy looking folks, most of whom were standing in front of the beer case. I quickly scanned my choices: Bud, Bud Light, Coors, Coors Light, Miller, Miller Lite, and . . . well I kept looking for other choices. Sam Adams? Nope. Leinenkugel Red--we were in the Midwest after all. Nope. They had to have Rolling Rock--wasn't that a popular college beer? Apparently not at Drake. In fact, in that beer case I couldn't find a single beer I'd consumed in the past 25 years! Out of desperation, I grabbed the one beer I'd never heard of--it was 18 ounces and only cost $1--how bad could it be? So I grabbed two Steel Reserves and tried to leave the Kum and Go as quickly as possible.

Unfortunately, I had forgotten how difficult it is to escape a convenience store at midnight, especially when there was only one barely functional cashier working (who did not speak English as his first language). Do you remember how college students buy drinks? I had forgotten. Especially during finals week, one friend collects money from all his/her friends and runs over to the Kum and Go and buys one beverage apiece for every friend in the dorm who gave them money. Apparently nobody at college treats their friends--they pay for each beverage individually. Needless to say, I stood in that line a long time.

And not everyone in the Kum and Go was a college student. The guy in front of me, besides buying his Mountain Dew, also bought a hot dog out of the hot dog warmer. I can't imagine that a college student, even a hungry one, would ever eat a nasty hot dog that had been sitting all day in that hot dog warmer spinning in front of a greasy light bulb. Gross. I couldn't get out of there fast enough.

Little did I know that Steel Reserve is actually a popular brew among college students. It's a malt beverage with a higher alcohol content than normal beer--and is most typically purchased in 40 ounce bottles. Now that would have been a hoot--me walking out of the Kum and Go in Des Moines with a 40-ounce Steel Reserve in a brown paper bag! My wife is convinced I'm trying to relive my youth--maybe I've just proved her point because I actually enjoyed the Steel Reserve. I don't know if out of exhaustion, thirst, or my intense need to unwind, but the drink went down fast--and I fell fast asleep about five minutes after it was gone.

Yep, I enjoyed my first experience with a Steel Reserve, however, not as much as I enjoyed another brew I tasted last night for the first time. We had dinner at the Court Avenue Brewing Company, which is a popular Des Moines restaurant that is similar to hundreds of other microbreweries in the U.S. The owners took a turn-of-the century retail building and converted it into a hip restaurant. Think high ceilings, hardwood floors, outdoor seating, antique signs on the walls, a massive bar and lots of noise. But, unlike other similar establishments, the Court Avenue Brewing Company had an interesting menu and the brews they produced actually tasted good.

Again, I was in the mood to drink. The primary reason for my alcohol thirst was that I was meeting my freshman daughter's boyfriend for the first time. The bartender offered a large selection of beers on tap, but I felt compelled to drink the "Honest Lawyer IPA" draft. I didn't know what an IPA was, but I ordered it anyway. It was good.

IPA stands for India Pale Ale, which is a class of light-colored beers that are especially appropriate for summer drinking. The one made by the Court Avenue Brewing Company had a hint of citrus and went down quickly and easily. Drinking the IPA helped put me in the right mood to meet Byron.

Actually the boyfriend was delightful--confident, handsome, with an easy smile and clear appreciation for my daughter. He was respectful toward my wife and answered all our questions (and we had a lot of questions) without a hint of discomfort or resentment. While both Byron and Amelia are far too young to think longterm, it appears they are well suited for each other at this time in their lives.

We're now engaged in helping Amelia pack for her trip. Fortunately, we're staying in a suite with a small refrigerator that I've stocked with enough Stella Artois to keep me in the right frame of mind through her Tuesday send off.

I'll talk to you again when I get home.

Twenty Things

This will be my twentieth blog posting. While I anticipated writing more often when I started in January, it's still a lot of words. Thank you for those who have slogged through all those words with me.

The number twenty came up again last week when Clarisa and I celebrated our twentieth wedding anniversary. You know, twenty is a big number. And the idea that we've been together this many years is amazing. Despite a lot of challenges, we've done pretty well together--and I expect we've got at least another twenty years more in the gas tank. So, stay tuned.

To honor twenty years of marriage, I want to share with you twenty things I love about my wife Clarisa. I can think of a lot more nice things to say about her, so this list is not exhaustive. Also, I'm not trying overly hard to be romantic nor am I saying that these twenty things are the twenty best things about my wife. All I'm saying is that I gave myself twenty minutes to come up with a list, and here it is:

1. I love her name. Clarisa Caridad. Really poetic, don't you think? She's the first person I ever met named Clarisa. The second is her aunt (and namesake) in Panama. Caridad is Spanish for "Charity". Oh, and if you're going to say her name, say it correctly. Emphasize the middle vowel--it's Clar E sa, not Clar isssa. That's how it's said in Spanish, and I really think it sounds prettier that way.

2. I love her heritage. I've long said that we really stirred up the gene pool when we made children together. I mean what a mix! She's got African blood by way of Jamaica. She's got east Indian blood (you should see the photos of her turbaned great grandfather) by way of Bombay. She's got white Spaniards and native Panamanians all mixed in there for good measure. Talk about diversity, she's a whole United Nations all in one person.

3. I love that she's bilingual. I don't know too many people who are completely fluent in multiple languages. The remarkable thing about Clarisa is that she speaks English like an American (no hint of an accent), and she speaks Spanish like a Panamanian. And to boot, she's not too bad at French and Portuguese! I'm in awe of her language abilities--it makes her accessible to so many people.

4. I love her complexion. How to describe it? Deep tan? Honey brown? Rich copper? Anyway you look at it, she has amazing skin and really doesn't need make up.

5. I love her legs. This is the last physical attribute I'm going to mention. Trust me, there's a lot more to say about her body, but I'm going to share that with her privately. About those legs--she's 50+ years old and not one spot of cellulite. It's true! Her legs are long and shapely and lovely in short skirts.

6. I love that she's passionate about every detail in her life. I don't care if Clarisa's washing clothes, entertaining guests, or settling some world crisis, everything she does feels important. She sweats every detail and never relaxes her standards. Never.

7. I love that Clarisa loves children. And they love her, too. What's unusual about my wife is that she never condescends to a child. She speaks to them directly, often in the same tone and using the same language that she uses with adults. She also remembers important details about their lives, and asks questions about these details. That's why she's so successful as a room mother, a Sunday school teacher, and a class sponsor. Hundreds of children know her by name and are not ashamed to greet her when they meet her in the street.

8. I love how she makes bacalao. I could have just as easily said chicken and rice, sugar cookies or skirt steak, but bacalao was the first home cooked meal she made for me and I've loved it ever since. For those who don't know bacalao, it's kind of a stew made with salted cod fish. I know, it sounds gross, but it's really good when made with love . . . and lots of coconut milk!

9. I love how Clarisa resists routines. When life seems mundane, Clarisa makes changes. Even when running errands, she doesn't drive the same paths over and over. In our house, the furniture gets rearranged regularly. Dinner is never at the same hour from day to day, and you're never quite sure whether that standing appointment is going to stand from week to week. The only things predictable in our lives are surprises.

10. As much as Clarisa resists routines, I love her diehard embrace of meaningful traditions. From year-to-year Clarisa is the one who insists that we continue traditions. For example, every year, at her insistance, we sit down together and share daily family devotions during Lent; we light candles and say prayers during Advent; birthdays are celebrated with homemade cakes; and newlyweds always receive creches for their first Christmas. Maintaining these traditions requires time, attention and money. Still, Clarisa proudly soldiers on, carrying the torch for traditions, despite lack of cooperation from the rest of us.

11. I love that Clarisa expects the best. She never settles for lesser models or slapdash efforts. She expects jobs to be completed correctly, that the goods she purchases are top quality, and that individuals give their best efforts in whatever they do.

12. I love her firm faith. Since I have the seminary degree, people assume I'm the religious one, but the person with real faith in my family is my wife. Her vibrant prayer life, devotion to Scripture, and very public faith witness are authentic expressions of her faith. While I seem stuck in shadows of doubt, Clarisa's faith propels her fearlessly forward. Her trust in God's goodness is truly awe inspiring.

13. I love Clarisa's compassion. Again, this may come as a surprise, but she's the softy, I'm the hardhead when it comes to people's needs. She wants to help the widows, the orphans, the people in distress, and she motivates me to feel likewise.

14. I love that Clarisa is the least intimidated person I know. Powers and princes mean nothing to her--she will speak her mind fearlessly, no matter the situation. I've become a braver, stronger person since I've known her.

15. I love that Clarisa loves baseball. It's my favorite sport and it would have been a shame not to share this interest. I know her love of baseball didn't start with me because her love for the game is genuine, longstanding, and passionate. We'll never forget that walkoff homerun we saw in 2007 in Detroit that that clinched the ALCS.

16. I love that Clarisa loves our life together. Many people I know wish their lives were different or pine for people and places far away from their homes. Not Clarisa. She's right where she wants to be in her world, and the fact she's content gives the rest of us great peace.

17. I love that Clarisa is devoted to her offspring. Though they may say she treats them differently, I see clearly her love and commitment to all four of our children. She defends them with every ounce of her being and never stops thinking of ways to help them.

18. I love that she has insisted that her family embrace me. It has always been Clarisa's belief that I was part of her family--and since the day we were married, she has insisted that her family treat me as one of their own and not as an alien outsider.

19. I love that Clarisa tries hard to please others, even when it hurts. For my 45th birtday, I was excited about a romantic long weekend in Quebec I had planned for the two of us. Though she was sick as a dog, Clarisa without a complaint dragged herself through museums and stores and sat through endless meals and even pulled off the sexy, negligee-wearing temptress at night, just to please me. I would have taken two Tylenol and gone to bed, but not Clarisa. And it's not just for me, Clarisa works hard to please every family member and friend in her life and I love that about her.

Finally, #20, I love that Clarisa loves me. During good times and even when we don't get along, I've never doubted her love, not once in twenty years. That's saying a lot.

Am I a Bad Parent (or just insenitive)?

No matter how hard you try, parents cannot protect their children from every danger. Toddlers fall down and bust their lips; elementary school kids fall out of trees; middle schoolers don't always wear pads when they roller blade; and high schoolers? Since they have wheels, and money, and fearlessness, there's no limit to the potential dangers they face. And your out-of-school young adults? They may be out of sight, but they're never out of mind.

Worst telephone call I ever received was years ago on a Saturday in early February when my oldest son told me my oldest daughter Lonelli had suffered a serious skiing accident. They were both in high school at the time. I was home alone and felt immediate, overwhelming panic. My son told me she was being transported by ambulance to a hospital in Pontiac and that I should get there as soon as possible. Compounding my fear was the fact that Clarisa was at a retreat and could not be easily reached by telephone. I had to handle this by myself. So, I got in the car and sped to the hospital, worrying all the way.

I experienced no similar panic Saturday when I watched my son break his leg right before my eyes. It barely registered a response.

Isaac was playing in a baseball tournament and was having his best game yet. In two innings of pitching he struck out three batters with a nasty curve ball and hadn't allowed a runner on base. In other words, he had a perfect game going. Then, in the top of the third, he hit a looping single into right field. The outfielder misplayed the ball and Isaac saw an opportunity to stretch a single into a double. Unfortunately, the center fielder got the ball quickly and made a good throw to second base. Isaac tried to slide under the tag without success. He was out. Worse, he was also in pain.

Isaac hobbled off the field wincing every step. It looked to me like he turned his ankle on the slide. Then I worried whether he could return to the mound and pitch. I was also a little embarrassed about my son's base running. With his speed, he would have stolen second base anyway. Why did he have to get greedy?

With his coach tending to the ankle, I stayed away from the dugout. After the side was retired, Isaac hopped up and headed out to the mound. He wanted to continue pitching, however, after a few steps, he turned around and told his coach he was unable to keep throwing. His leg really hurt. I was disappointed. After watching other teammates that weekend leave games with various injuries, none of which seemed too serious, now my son, the ultimate tough kid, had joined the ranks of the quitters. How embarrassing!

Now the injury got my attention. Isaac would never leave a game with a perfect game going unless he was hurting. Coach said it was a high ankle sprain and he wrapped his lower leg in ice. Isaac remained on the bench that inning, but he had difficulty focusing on the game. He was in pain and his face showed it.

By the middle of the fourth inning, Coach came to Clarisa and me and told us to take Isaac home. "He's not going to do any pinch running today," he said with a forced laugh. While I understood it was distracting for the team to have an injured player in agony on the bench, it seemed a little cold to be kicked out so abruptly. And, again, I felt sightly embarrassed. Why couldn't my son mask his pain better and keep his best game face on? We were winning after all.

At that point none of us--not me, not Coach, not his mother, not even Isaac, believed his leg was broken. In fact, I had Isaac walk with me nearly a quarter mile to our car for the trip home. While Isaac wrapped one arm around my shoulder, he walked the whole way.

Who's embarrassed now?

"The right fibula has a spiral fracture," Dr. Leone said flatly to me an hour later in the Emergency Room at Cottage Hospital.

"His leg is broken?" I responded with obvious amazement.

"Yes, but the bone is not displaced," replied Dr. Leone. "Do you need a referral to an orthopedic surgeon?"

Surgeon? Broken leg? Jesus Christ, was this some kind of sick joke? We only went to the ER because my wife insisted. I never imagined the boy sustained a serious injury. My face turned bright red with embarrassment.

I wasn't the only one who felt shame that day. The dismissive coach--yeah the guy who evicted us from the game--when he heard the news of Isaac's broken leg, he called the house twice to inquire about the boy's condition. He also personally spoke to an orthopedic surgeon and arranged for us to have an appointment first thing on Monday. "He's the best in town," said Coach. Guilt has a way of motivating action.

Now time for me to reflect.

If one of my daughters had been in pain that day, I would have carried her in my arms all the way to the car. I would have felt fear over her condition. And, I would have done everything in my power to keep her comfortable. My son received far less compassion. I made him walk on a broken leg and didn't feel that much concern for his pain. "If he couldn't handle it, he'd tell me," I thought. Kinda brutal, don't you think? Isaac did not complain about the walk to the car or the bumpy ride to the hospital. He didn't say a word, though his quiet tears communicated a different story.

Later on, Isaac said he was relieved to hear that his leg was broken. He said that a broken leg proved he wasn't being a wimp. And, God knows, nothing worse than being a wimp!

I've heard many parents say it's easier to raise boys than girls. Girls' lives are full of obvious drama. Their moods swing wildly as they deal with school and relationships. Young girls are vocal about their feelings, and, as a parent, it can be exhausting trying to remain sympathetic when their problems sound so trivial.

Boys, on the other hand, learn early on to suppress their feelings. While adults allow girls to express themselves freely, boys learn that its unbecoming to cry, to fret over who likes them and who doesn't, or pay attention to their appearance. And physical pain? We tell our boys they should "man up" and stop "acting like a little girl." So boys bury pain, fear, and emotions deep inside.

Boys aren't easier to raise than girls, parents simply spend less time helping them sort through their issues. And I'm guilty, too. I consider myself a sensitive father. However, on Saturday I was disappointed in my son when I should have been comforting him.

As penance for my bad behavior, I have been appointed Isaac's manservant during his school's three-day field trip to Chicago. Clarisa had signed up to chaperone, but now with a wheelchair and crutches in tow, we believe it will be easier for Isaac if his Dad assumes the burden of lifting, carrying, etc. We also think his friends will more likely hang out with him if I'm there. After all, how many 13-year-old boys want to be around someone whose Mommy is caring for him non-stop? My wife has serious questions about whether I will properly attend to Isaac in Chicago. I tell her not to worry, I've learned my lesson.

I want my son to feel secure expressing his feelings around me without fear of retribution or encountering my disapproval. At the same time, I want him prepared to live in a world where men are expected to be strong, level-headed, and with their emotions kept firmly in check. I want to help him grow into being a strong, confident man. But, in the process of helping him become a man, I don't want to crush his spirit or create a macho monster. How do I strike that balance? Carefully.

First, I must constantly nurture his self confidence. Isaac must know that I respect his achievements and that I'm always in his corner. The better Isaac feels about himself, the more likely he'll feel comfortable expressing emotions and feelings. If he knows my love is secure, the more likely the subtle messages of disapproval will brush off.

Second, Isaac must choose his friends carefully. Middle schoolers can be brutal. Boys who express their feelings are sometimes labeled as wimps, whiners, fags. They are laughed at and can be the butts of cruel pranks. Isaac must know that to persecute other boys because they seem weak, or even to approve of such bullying behavior, is evil and cannot be tolerated. He can do even more. While he might put his popularity at risk, Isaac can model positive behaviors to his peers--like befriending a maligned child.

Finally I need to model sensitive behavior, too. Seems like the emotions Isaac gets from me are joy when he achieves things, and anger when, well when he acts up. I can show him more emotional range.

For example, I should show him tenderness. I hug and kiss my wife and daughters, I must do the same with him. It is not unmanly for a father to love his son and to show it through tenderness. I should also share with him other feelings. He should know sometimes when I'm afraid, when I'm lonely, and when I feel weak. How is Isaac supposed to deal with those feelings if he's never seen a man deal with similar feelings, especially a man he knows and trusts?

After writing this posting I still have a gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach. I failed my son and it doesn't feel good. It's clear that despite my best efforts, I'm an overly competitive, insensitive boor who failed to care properly for my child when my child needed me. In the end, while you cannot stop bad things from happening to your children, a parent can control how they react when these bad things happen. I can do better. I'm not looking for you to reassure me that how I acted wasn't that bad. I'm looking to change--and I hope that by sharing this story, I'm taking a positive step toward being a better father.

Hungry?

In the past four months I've lost 20 pounds, which is great, since I had at least that much to lose after years of living it up at American Laser Centers. People have asked me to share my weight loss secrets. And, I must reply, the secret is simple. Wanna lose weight? Simply eat less and exercise more.

Well, for me it has not been THAT simple. Reasons for my success are more nuanced. Eating less is not that difficult when you're not around a lot of extra food and business partners who were notorious over-indulgers. Not eating those daily Panera lunches with soup, sandwiches AND cookies; not eating dinner at Bacco with cocktails AND flan for dessert; not eating the candy, chips, and baked goods that were ever present at the office--avoiding those extra calories makes a difference.

Further, being out of work has given me motivation to improve my appearance. I don't want to look like a slob on job interviews! And, exercising five hours a week is truly possible when you can visit the gym any time you want, not just before 8 a.m. or after 7 p.m. Monday through Friday.

So eat less and excericse more AND feel motivated to make a change. That's about it.

Well, there's a little more--like trying to eat more healthy foods. We've been more vigilant these past months to include fruits and vegetables in every meal we eat. And the typical repository for these vegetables has been our daily dinner salad.

If I'm eating salads, I want to encourage my readers to improve their diets, too. In fact, as an extra piece of encouragement to you, today I'm giving away my perfected dinner salad recipe.

Without a doubt I make the best dinner salad in the world, which has been confirmed by many who have dined in my house. My dinner salad is not difficult to make nor does it include exotic ingredients, so all the readers of this blog should be able to make this salad as well. It does, however, require some effort. No, you can't just open a bag, pour it into a bowl, drench the greens in dressing and eat. It takes care--which I believe accentuates its deliciousness.

I learned long ago that to be truly delicious, food must appeal both to the eye and to the taste buds. How your food looks and is presented is just as important as how it tastes. Therefore, my salad should be made in a salad bowl and eaten off of a plate, with metal utensils. It won't taste the same on paper or foam plates or eaten with plastic. I'm getting ahead of myself--we haven't even made the salad yet! So, here's my recipe for Kevin's delicious dinner salad:

First, pick fresh greens. You can use field greens, leaf lettuce or romaine lettuce as your main ingredient. Raw spinach, endive, and arugula can also be included to supplement, but should not be your main green. Do not use iceberg lettuce or cabbage in this salad. Sorry.

Once you've selected the greens, thoroughly wash them. I don't care if the bag says "ready to use", at my house every raw ingredient gets washed by me in my sink. Once washed, the greens go into a salad spinner and I spin away. You must get as much excess water off the greens as possible, otherwise your salad will get soggy, not to mention forget any possibility of leftovers. If your greens are too large, tear them into bite-sized pieces. Do not chop your greens. However, if you use romaine as your primary green, please cut out the thick stem that runs through the middle of each leaf. That should be done with a knife.

Once your greens are washed, spun and reduced to their desire size, dump them into your salad bowl. Make sure the bowl is a large one. Since my salads include lots of ingredients I like a large bowl so those ingredients don't fly on the table when I'm tossing them.

My favorite fresh salad ingredients besides greens are onions, red peppers, carrots, cucumbers and celery. Onions should be thinly sliced rings from a sweet red onion, or one or two chopped scallions (green onions). Red peppers should be roasted. This is a trick I learned from my wife. Cut the pepper in half, remove the seeds, then set the halves (skin side down) on top of the burners of my gas stove. Turn the burners on high flame and roast the peppers. As soon on the skin is black all over, take the halves off the burners and wash under cold water in the sink. The burnt skin will wash right off. Chop the roasted peppers into strips and throw into the salad bowl. Roasted red peppers are far tastier than raw ones.

Carrots should be grated, not sliced--and don't use more than one full-sized carrot in the salad. As far as the cucumbers, peal them, then run a dinner fork lengthwise across the outside. Your slices will be "scored" on the outside, kind of like a coin. I don't know why, but scored cucumber slices taste better to me. Finally, celery should be thinly chopped.

As far as non-fresh ingredients, keep them at a minimum. As much as I like croutons and pita chips in my salads (think fatoush), they invariably get soggy, so I typically don't use. Not big on nuts, seeds, or dried fruits in my salad either. Oh yes, and please no sprouts. But cheese, go for it! You can never have too much cheese in your diet.

I prefer cubes of goat cheese (feta is fine) or the baby mozzarella balls that are packed in olive oil--those will work in my salads. But I won't use grated cheddar, reminds me too much of tacos.

I also like marintated veggies in my salads for extra flavor. These could include sundried tomatoes, artichoke hearts, chopped hearts of palm, and even chopped olives (black or green). Finally, a chopped hard boiled egg is also welcome.

Once you have thrown all the ingredients into the salad bowl, time for the dressing. I have a homemade dressing that I make almost every day. We call it "Lemony Snicket", like the silly children's books. The ingredients are simple--one part fresh lemon juice (can substitute lime juice or bottled lemon juice), two parts extra virgin olive oil, kosher salt, ground black pepper and garlic powder to taste. I usually substitute Adobo (which is a Latin American spice found in most supermarkets) for the pepper, garlic powder and some of the salt. Mix those ingredients well. Fiddle with the amount of the ingredients you use in your dressing until you like the taste and the amount is sufficient for the size of your salad. Dress the salad immediately before eating. Otherwise the dish might get soggy, which for me is the undoing of an otherwise delicious salad.

I never tire of eating this dinner salad. And, while I can't say the salad has promoted my weight loss, I can say it is consistently voted one of the favorite dishes at dinner time in the Piecuch home, which, if you've eaten a meal with us, is saying a lot.

Bon Appetit!

Blessed Assurance

Funerals are rituals meant for the living. Other than burying a dead person's body in hallowed ground and praying that God helps the soul find paradise, there's not much the living can do for their dearly departed once they are gone. However, for those who remain, there's lots of work to be done for each other, hence the wake, the funeral and family gatherings.

Last week I attended the funeral of my father-in-law, Francisco Gobourne. Since he was a lifelong Catholic, his funeral included all the "typical" Catholic features: time with family, the "wake" held at a local funeral home, and the funeral mass in the church.

During the wake, which was held on Friday evening, the body of Francisco lay in an open casket. Friends and family were invited to view the body, pay respects to the dead, and extend words of sympathy to family members. During the wake, the family lead an informal service of prayer and rememberance.

The next day saw a funeral mass held at the church. The casket was present in the church during the service, but it was closed, covered by the funeral cloth (a.k.a. the pall). During the service, scripture was read, prayers prayed, music played and sung. One song, "His Eye is on the Sparrow" was sung by my son Isaac and his cousin Sean.

Following the funeral, the family caravaned out to Long Island to the cemetary, where, under the watchful and prayful eyes of a gnarled old Irish deacon, Francisco's body was laid to rest. Friends and family then returned to Francisco's house where we broke bread together and toasted the memory of our departed loved one.

Francisco was buried with appropriate dignity and his family honored him with respect and even joy. This was not a sad affair, but a celebration of a life.

One theme that surfaced during last weekend that keeps running through my mind is the idea of assurance. My brother-in-law Omar specifically talked about assurance at the Friday wake--and I have returned to that theme over and over ever since. Omar asked everyone present at the wake to ask themselves whether they felt assured their lives were on the right path. And, if after reflection you found yourself on the wrong path, he challenged us to change directions and follow the light of Christ.

I don't know about you, but I need a lot of assurance in my life. I constantly question whether my choices are the right ones. For me, assurance comes when other people tell me I'm on the right path and that I should soldier forward. You probably know that I need assurance in many aspects of my life, not just with the big decisions. I look to my wife to tell me constantly that she loves me, and my daughter to tell me I look alright, and my friends to tell me I'm still relevant. Further, I want to feel assured that the people I love have also chosen rightly--that ultimately their choices will lead them to happiness and satisfaction. Without assurance, I become paralyzed by doubt, worry, and indecision. Should I stop? Turn around? Change directions? Should I warn others of the perils they face? Or do I proceed forward, sometimes cautiously, sometimes boldly, but forward.

There's an old gospel song I love, "Blessed Assurance," which says that by choosing the way of Jesus Christ, we put ourselves on a road that leads to eternal joy in the presence of the creator. I heard echoes of that song many times last week as family member after family member affirmed that my father-in-law had chosen the path of Christ. They said that though he was an imperfect follower, Francisco owned strong faith. These same persons affirmed that God would reward his faith with a place in heaven. Family members said it. The priest said it at the funeral mass. The deacon said it at the grave site. Blessed assurance. Francisco had chosen the path of faith--and now he lives in God's presence. Speaking these words of assurance did not speed Francisco to the pearly gates, they were meant to comfort the living.

In the end, my sense of assurance regarding Francisco has little to do with the words spoken about him last week. As we all know, actions speak louder than words--and it is actions, not words that give me comfort today.

Deeds of a life truly reflect what's in one's heart, and I believe Francisco's actions are the best measure of his person. Certain deeds he performed stand out as a clear indication he was walking on the right path when he died. First, the man loved his family and never tired of seeking and promoting reconciliation among siblings, cousins, aunts and uncles. He wanted everyone in his family together and in love. Second, he prayed daily that God would direct his steps and he freely shared God's guiding hand through almost daily emails he sent to his family and friends. Third, he helped the needy. For thirteen years Francisco fed and sheltered a homeless man at his house. The family knew the man as "Jocko". Nobody knows for sure where Jocko came from or why he was homeless, all we know is that Francisco found him alone and destitute and he helped him without asking for anything in return.

Jesus said that a tree is known by its fruit. A good tree will produce good fruit, while a barren tree is useless. We can have assurance that the path we are following is the right one by looking at our fruit. Is there real, juicy, delicious fruit in our lives? Are we experiencing love, peace, and joy? Are we improving the lives of others? And, can others see our fruit and do they want similar fruit for themselves?

If I want for myself the blessed assurance that Francisco had in his last days, I need to show some fruit. Not words, not leaves, not roots nor branches, I must bear fruit.

Hope you find some fruit in me. And if you find a piece of fruit from my tree, let me know what it tastes like.

KJP

P.S. The photo at the front of this piece was taken at Francico's house in Queens, New York. The people in the photo are friends and family of Francisco Gobourne. I'm in the picture. So is Clarisa and all four of our children. Can you find them? The garage in the background is where Jocko sleeps (it is heated!).

Francisco is Dead

Last year, my wife and I engaged in a morbid conversation in which we guessed which of our parents would be the first to go. Neither of us predicted her father Francisco. Yet Monday, following the NCAA national college basketball championship game, my father-in-law passed away.

Though our lives crossed infrequently, I was fond of the man. By the time I met him he was a shadow of his former self. However, over the last 20 years, I saw glimpses of the Francisco others remember vividly.

He was a man full of contradictions. Prone to acts of extraordinary generosity, he also had trouble providing for his family. Sensitive and loving, he was also vulgar and capable of acts of violence. Yet, despite experiencing countless disappointments and missed opportunities, I knew that his family still loved him and held warm feelings for him. He was, after all, Francisco, and there was nobody else quite like that man.

When I think of my father-in-law, two pictures come to mind. One, a framed photograph sitting on a dresser in our blue bedroom, is my favorite visual image of Francisco. The second "picture" is a series of memories relating to a trip to Panama we made three years ago.

Tbe photo is a candid image taken in Colon, Panama, more than fifty years ago. Francisco is standing with one foot on the ground, and the other propped up on a cement bench. Also standing on the bench is my wife, probably two-years old at the time. She's wearing a white dress with a white bow in her hair. What makes this image so compelling are the facial expressions of the father and daughter. While my wife has a serious, almost angry look on her face, Francisco's jaunty smile is both confident and playful.

Not just their faces, but their bodies also are a stark contrast. While my wife looks stiff and uncomfortable, appearing almost like a human shield trying to protect her father from unwelcome glances, Francisco appears relaxed and confident. With his handsome face and jaunty smile, and sporting a lanky, athletic build, one can easily imagine him a popular man about town, which I'm told he was.

Though Francisco clearly is a man in this photo, with neatly combed hair and crisply pressed clothes, in actuality he was 19 years old at the time. He was a teen with man-sized responsibilities that included caring for a wife and child. Yet, there is no hint of discomfort in the photo. Francisco appeared happy, in charge, and ready for action. I would have enjoyed spending time with that young man.

I did enjoy spending time with the nearly 70-year-old Francisco when we travelled together to Panama a few year back. Ostensibly our purpose was to check up on my wife's namesake, Clarisa DePass, who also happens to be Francisco's aunt. Because of Tia Clarisa's declining health (she's 92 years old), we make annual visits to Panama always thinking it will be our last encounter. That year we believed her passing was imminent and Francisco wanted to see her, too.

Since he was the Panamanian native, we encouraged Francisco to take the lead in making travel plans. Accordingly he suggested a hotel and said he'd arranged for us to be spirited around that week by a private driver. Sounded promising.

The evening we arrived in Panama was hot was sticky. We were exhausted after a day of travel that included missed connections and run-ins with customs officers. We were ready to relax. But, where was our driver? Francisco glanced repeatedly at his watch and assured us transportation was on the way as we stood with our luggage on the sidewalk outside the airport.

Thirty minutes later, our driver arrived . . . in a yellow school bus . . . the short variety. Yes sir, the fancy American travelers were about to hit the town in the short bus. This was not what I expected. And the hotel . . . well, needless to say it was a scary disappointment. We bolted that creepy joint immediately and asked our bus driver to take us to downtown Pananma city where we found better accomodation options.

OK, so maybe trusting Francisco to make travel arrangements wasn't such a great idea. What was a good idea was trusting him to be our personal, family ambassador.

After our first day, we determined that Tia Clarisa had rallied (as usual) and that a bedside vigil was not required. That was a relief. Francisco was the first to suggest we escape "old lady duty" and start having some fun. And fun we had. In the restaurants we visited, Francisco always knew what to order, and entertained staff and fellow diners with snappy jokes, a warm smile, and magnetic charm. Even though my American Express card was on the hook for the bill, everybody focused their attention on Francisco, who played the role of Big Papi to a tee. He was the host, the leader of the pack, our patron.

One evening we went out to dinner with two of Francisco's old friends, one a physician, the other a retired business executive. The three of them cut dashing figures wearing their starched, linen guayaberas and puffing fat Cuban cigars. I tried to hang in there, but felt a little unsophisticated in the presence of these three distinguished Panamanian gentlemen.

Food was not the highlight of that dinner, instead it was all about the cocktails and the music. A young guitarist enlivened the evening playing classic Spanish songs. Of course the three gentlemen knew every word, and, after a couple of drinks, they often added their voices to the tuneful melodies. I felt transported, like I was in some snazzy 1950s nightclub in Havana or New York--and that I was a guest observing the antics of these fabulous Latin gentlemen. It didn't matter that Francisco borrowed money from his son-in-law to "host" the dinner, or that his clothes were just a little threadbare, that night he was comfortable being the grand old man. And I was happy to be in his company.

The week in Panama went by quickly and included days sitting by the pool, drinking beer in outdoor cantinas, and dressy dinners. Pleasure quickly replaced care for a sick old lady as our primary purpose. And none of us regretted that decision.

My wife and I wondered whether that was Francisco's intent all along, to persuade us to pay for a vacation under the guise of caring for a sick relative. Past experience with him made that scenerio seem likely. However, regardless of his motives for wanting to be with us, we are grateful for that week with Francisco. It was the only real experience my younger children ever had of spending time with their grandfather. And the grandfather they saw was interested in their lives, fun to be with, and a pleasure to watch.

It's a shame that I didn't know the Francisco in the 50-year-old photograph, and that the week in Panama was a one-time experience. Yet, as I join his family and friends who will mourn the passing of Francisco Goboourne this weekend, these will be the images I will hold in my heart as I tell my father-in-law good bye and pray for his peaceful passage to the world beyond.