Football Food

Anyone who knows me knows I enjoy bein' in the kitchen.

Football is sort of a big deal at my house. Okay, okay, so football is a huge deal at my house. Which gives me the perfect opportunity to combine two of my favorite things: football and food.

In the past twenty-four hours I have made two loaves of pumpkin bread, chicken salad, chili, sausage dip, and these cream cheese pepperoni puff thingys. And chocolate chip cookies. Oh wait, I always have chocolate chip cookies. Football or not.

Fall is my favorite time of the year. Football is my favorite sport. And cooking for me is always in season, especially baking.

My family and I have done nothing but watch football and eat. All.Day.

Football season is indeed the most wonderful time of the year.

Even if my team sucks.

Again. This year.

Rocky Top

I just got home yesterday from our anniversary trip.  John decided we should spend it in Kodak in the Smoky Mountains of Tennessee.  I was in it strictly for a change of scenery.  Traveling with an infant is far from romantic or a vacation, so my expectations were low.  Our getaway far exceeded them, and I'm finding out I kinda dig the Volunteer State. 

We arrived Thursday afternoon after a four hour car ride, that I must admit, wasn't all that bad (I HATE riding in a car for long periods of time).  The ride went quickly and was pretty uneventful.  We stopped at a gas station for a potty break and I really thought we were gonna be taken hostage by some pretty mean lookin' mountain folk, but other than that it was smooth sailing.  Once we got into Tennessee, I noticed something foreign . . . people actually know and obey the rules of the road.  Slower traffic actually merges in to the right lane to allow faster cars to pass.  What the hell?  This happened over and over again.  Yeah, this is lookin' like my kind of place, for real.

That night we made our way in to Sevierville for dinner.  I had fried chicken that tasted just like my Mom's, which is no easy feat.  It was scrumptious.  We were served apple fritters as a starter.  These were big hushpuppy-looking things that tasted like apple bread and served with warm homemade apple butter.  To.  Die.  For.  We mighta accidentally ordered some to go.  Oops.

Friday morning we went shopping.  Yes, I went shopping.  There were numerous outlet malls and I am an outlet whore.  We ducked in to a burger joint to feed the baby, after I scored some great deals at my favorite stores.  In a sea of orange (everyone in Tennessee wears orange) I barely noticed this young man wearing an orange t-shirt, until he walked by me and I saw the front of it.  It was a Browns shirt.  We talked briefly and turns out Cleveland has a huge following there.  Who knew?  These people are serious about their football--it's a mainstream religion in Tennessee.  Now I'm really diggin' this state.

We made our way in to Knoxville that evening, which was about a half-hour drive from where we were staying.  The motherland.  The college football mecca.  At least for John.  I was promised ribs, so I happily complied.  If a picture is worth a thousand words, I really needn't say more . . .

Neyland Stadium

John's Disneyland--the UT Bookstore

He showed amazing restraint in the store.  He bought Riley a hat (in case y'all couldn't tell from the ridiculous number of pictures I uploaded to Facebook), Sandy a toy, and himself a t-shirt at my insistence. 

Too cute for color TV!

We then headed down to a popular restaurant on the river.  We waited for nearly an hour for a table.  This should speak volumes, as I am rarely willing to wait at all, much less forty minutes.  Keith Urban was in town and this place was busier than a one-legged man in an ass kickin' contest.  There were folks everywhere.  We were finally seated and I ordered a full rack of ribs with mac 'n cheese and slaw.  I'm glad there was no chance of running in to someone I knew, as I tore in to them like I was eating my last meal, 'cause I'm classy like that.  Dee-lish.  This meal alone justified the four hour car ride. 

It was well worth the wait . . . and me looking like a pig.

Saturday we had a chance to visit with family.  We spent the rest of the day at the hotel in the pool or napping.  Most of the time it seems John and I are more roommates than husband and wife, so it was nice to slow down and spend some time together.  Awesome. 

I have visited Tennessee a few times and have always found the people to be super friendly.  Riley was oohed and aahed over everywhere we went.  Everyone was nice and helpful.  On a previous trip to Tennessee, I stopped at a gas station to use the facilities and ask for directions.  Upon walking in the store, the man at the register said hello and asked how "mama 'n 'em" were doing.  I immediately looked over my shoulder to see who he was talking to, as I knew he didn't know my "mama 'n 'em".  I was surprised by it and found it ridiculously charming.  By the end of my stay I had grown accustomed to answering, "Just fine.  Thanks for askin'".  How can you not love a place like that?

Yesterday, we decided to come home by way of Boone, so we could check out my brother-in-law's new digs.  The quickest route was closed due to construction, so we detoured through some beautiful countryside.  Our detour took us north to Virginia, back in to Tennessee, and finally in to North Carolina.  Lush green trees, winding roads, and breath-taking views of the mountains made the thirty extra minutes more than tolerable.  The digs were nice too.  He has a gorgeous rustic condo with a stellar view . . . . that I will be visiting again.  Soon.  I'm sorta taking it upon myself to make this my winter vacation home.

I called him a whore.  Several times.

This little escapade was well worth my efforts and made me feel slightly guilty for bitchin' in the first place.  I mean, any state that is the subject of a John Denver song has to be a goodtime, right? 

Absolutely.

Summertime Blahs

I loathe summer.  I always have, save for when I was younger and was out of school.  I don't do heat.  This summer has been especially dreadful because Riley's too young to wear sunscreen, so my usual summertime beat-the-heat outdoor activities are out.  Which is a shame because he LOVES to be outside.  Of course, when it's hotter than a Georgia whore in a pepper patch, I prefer my AC, thanks.  Any time I break in to a rolling sweat by walkin' from the house to the garage, it's too damn hot outside.  Which leaves me indoors to entertain my five-month-old.

Thus, Riley and I read a lot of children's books.  Daily.  He loves to be read to--which I am grateful for.  We had a collection of about eight books until very recently.  Before that, I was reading him interesting NPR articles.  I am a nerd.  I know. 

My in-laws saved everything from John's childhood.  Every.  Effin.  Thing.  Whew!  (And I wonder where his propensity for hoarding comes from . . . duh!).  So, Riley inherited a slew of books.  The most current copyright on any we've read thus far is 1960-something.  And I am thankful for them, 'cause there's only so many times I can read "Duckie Duck" without ad-libbing some inappropriate dialogue to preserve my sanity. 

We were reading a few days ago and stumbled across a tale of Mother Goat and her seven churen.  She leaves the house and gives the little ones specific instructions not to answer the door--there is a wolf lurking about.  Eventually, the wolf makes his way in to the house (because the kids let him in) and EATS all of her churen except one.  I am reading this to Riley and thinking, "What a horrible story!". Granted, he can't actually comprehend what's being read.  Thank God, 'cause he would probably have nightmares about Mother Goat CUTTING the wolf's belly open to retrieve her EATEN churen.  What the hell kind of children's book is this?  Sheesh.  What's the message?  Always listen to your mother lest you be eaten by a ravenous wolf?   Instill fear, above all else, in your children.  Now that's nice.  Has anyone else heard of this bullshit book? 

Apparently, this is a popular Grimms' Fairy Tale.  Seriously, a fairy tale?  I don't know about you, but I sort of think princesses and castles when I think about fairy tales.  Not scorned goats who are handy with some scissors (really, she used scissors).  Were they effin' high when they wrote it?  I never read this as a child, thank God.  I think I would have been irreparably scarred.

And then there's children's shows.  Yes, I am one of those mothers who will buy a few minutes of the welcome distraction of sing-songy voices and bright colors that is the kids' television network.  Sue me. 

My husband hates all of these shows.  There was one on just this morning wherein a character sulks because he is "out" of musical chairs.  Twice.  John says, "He sucks.  Who the hell loses at musical chairs?  Twice?".  I eventually join in by shouting at the television, "Put your game face on! Go hard or go home!" (I am sooo ready for some football).  John's overall problem is that these shows are all no-compete.  Everyone wins.  He thinks this is ludicrous.  Anyway, the gaggle of children in the show decide to play a different game.  One where there are no losers.  John continues, "Oh that's nice, what the hell kind of message is that to today's kids?".  There's more ranting about "liberal agendas" and  sarcastic banter such as, "Yay!  Everyone's a winner!" and other such nonsense. 

I will be glad when Fall brings cooler temperatures, football, and some of my favorite outdoor activities.  Maybe then I can to something to entertain my child besides read psycho books (I mean who edited these things, Hitchcock?) and dissect kids' shows.   

It can't get here soon enough . . . .

Un-feminine

I am and always have been anything but girlie.  As a little girl, I can remember holding my own with the boys in my neighborhood playing basketball.  Or kickball, dodge ball, or any other "ball" we entertained ourselves with.  This tendency has not left me.  Not ever.

I love to cook (especially bake), love to clean, and I love laundry.  That's about where the classic female customs end for me.  Come to think of it, that may be less "female" and more "disorder".  Yes, I have boobs and all the other anatomical makings of a girl.  But as a rule, things that are inherently female get on my damn nerves.

I hate shopping.  ALL shopping.  Pantyhose should be outlawed.  Actually, I'm not a huge fan of underwear in general.  My mother had to MAKE me wear make-up as a teen.  That's probably my number one hated female thing:  make-up.  I hate applying it, I hate wearing it, and I especially hate that I look better with it on.  As a friend of mine says:  "Every barn looks better with a little paint".

Mani/pedi?  It's nice every once and a while, pedicures are quite relaxing, but it is far from a necessity for me.  Jewelry?  No, thanks--take me to dinner.  Flowers?  I love pretty things, but to me it's a waste of money.  Soap operas??  Puh-lease.  Reality TV??  I am raising two teenagers, that's enough drama for me, thankyouverymuch. 

Not only do female things get on my nerves, I can relate to and enjoy "boy" things a whole lot more.  I have always had more male friends than girl friends. ALWAYS.  I understand the rules of professional sports.  Football season is my FAVORITE time of the year.  ESPN is a favorite on my TV menu.  My husband spends more time in the bathroom than I do when we go out.  I don't get over-emotional--about ANYTHING.  I don't attach emotion to "things" and "stuff".  If it doesn't serve a purpose, and a useful one, I don't own it.  It just doesn't make sense to me to hoard things in the name of nostalgia.  I've been called "unsentimental", "heartless", and "cold".  I could give many more examples as the list is numerous. And I'm okay with it.  At least I thought I was until this exchange with John last night:

John:  Your new haircut looks good, honey.
Me:  Um, thanks.
John:  You don't like it?
Me:  It was more for utility than fashion.

HUH??  Do you know a female who would make such a statement?  I sure as hell don't!

So I am having to come to some level of acceptance (again) that I'm a man on the inside.  Or at least that's what I've been told.  My best friend in my hometown is black and she used to tell me I was black on the inside.  Congratulations, honey!!  You've married a black man.

Oh well, here's to hoping I enter some sort of time warp and wake up Saturday to some college football. 

Ha!  If only . . .