The O-Games

On my way to the grocery store yesterday afternoon, I made a point of checking out Twistars, Jordyn Wieber's gymnastics club, as I drove by. I thought it might be draped in black, but it looked the same as always.

Responding to accusations of sexism, the governing body of international beach volleyball passed a new rule earlier this year that women competitors are no longer required to wear bikinis.  Most of the women still do, however, and those who have covered up in London did so only because of the cold weather.

From what I've seen, the American women are the only ones who had sense enough to put their number, name, and country on shirts. Without such garments, other players have had to wear the bikini top outside their shirts, like this:

Unfortunately for the players from Brazil, their country's official three-letter abbreviation makes it look like they have labelled their bikini bras as such.

The protesters might not be too far off, as many male spectators admit that it's the scantily-clad women, not the competition, that attracts them to the sport.  And that leads me right to ...

Day 3 Quote of the Day (a British spectator on watching women's beach volleyball when the competitors are not wearing bikinis):  "It's like drinking nonalcoholic lager."

O-Lumpit

The second full day of competition in London yielded some surprises, not the least of which was Jordyn Wieber not making the all-around final in gymnastics.  The top 24 scorers get into the final, but there can be only two from each country.  Therefore, although Jordyn was fourth best of all, she was only third best among the Americans, so she's out.

Some are claiming this new two-person limit rule is unfair.  Anastasia Grishina of Russia, Jennifer Pinches of Great Britain, and Jinnan Yao of China, who came in 12th, 21st, and 22nd, respectively, won't be in the final either since in each case, two of their countrywomen finished higher.  I haven't heard anybody making a fuss about them.

Some others are complaining Jordyn's routines were scored low, based on exactly what, I don't know.  She had significant goofs in all four events and just plain didn't perform as well as she might have.  Of course, it's possible that her reputation was part of the problem.  Even the most conscientious judge might subconsciously penalize a reigning world champion more vigorously.  And God knows outrageous judging is nothing new in women's gymnastics.

In other news, Michael Phelps seems to be finding out what it's like not to win everything.

One cyclist's long-delayed crossing of the finish line was due, according to a British commentator, to "a badly-timed flat tire."  There's a good time? 

Day 2 Quote of the Day (Kim Rhode, U.S. gold medalist in skeet, when asked about her future plans):  "I don't see the future ending any time soon."

Whew.  That's a relief.

Oh, Lympics

The Games of the XXX Olympiad are finally underway.  I've been looking forward to it for months, and I am sure I will not be able to keep myself from commenting upon the spectacle as it unfolds.

I've already seen seven or eight soccer matches.  I don't usually watch soccer, but if it's the Olympics, I even watch boxing and field hockey and beach volleyball, especially if Americans are involved.  Cheering on the home-town team is part of the appeal.  I've noticed that if there are no Americans involved in an event, I tend to root for competitors who speak English -- Canadians, Brits, Aussies, etc.

I was disappointed in the opening ceremony this year.  Not only was it boring, it was way too hokey.  Once the athletes marched in and they got on with the flag and torch and fireworks, it picked up some.  When one of the bright spots is guffawing at the ridiculous outfits worn by the team from the Czech Republic, there is obviously not enough to entertain me. 

It might be interesting to ask the people of Great Britain, Germany, and South Korea how they feel about BP, BMW, and Samsung being official sponsors of the U. S. Olympic team.

Today the women's gymnastics competition begins, and everybody in DeWitt, Michigan, including me, will be in front of their televisions to see Jordyn Wieber.

Day 1 Quote of the Day (Beach volleyball commentator about Australia's Natalie Cook):  "She has savvy coming out her ears."

Seriously?

Time for Breakfast

I love breakfast.  I can eat breakfast foods any time of the day or night, I love them so much, but there are some times when the first meal of the day is really special.  Breakfast on the road is one of those, especially at a cafe in a small town.  When there's company from out of town, making a nice big breakfast for everyone is always good.  Or just a cozy Sunday morning at home. 

Long about 20 years ago my partner and I got some good news at an early-morning medical appointment and decided we'd celebrate by going out for breakfast.  I'll never forget the doctor agreeing that was a good idea and then adding, "You could get a bran muffin and some fruit."

A bran muffin and some fruit?  Are you kidding me?  That's not breakfast.  Bacon and eggs is breakfast.  So is ham and eggs, sausage and eggs, country fried steak and eggs, which can be scrambled with or without cheese, fried in butter or in bacon fat, soft boiled, poached, or made into an omelet; also pancakes with or without blueberries, French toast, and waffles (Belgian or otherwise); not to mention breakfast casserole, breakfast pizza, breakfast sandwich, and quiche; plus English muffins dripping in butter, toasted bagels with cream cheese, hot buttered toast with blackberry jam, lemon-poppy seed muffins, buttery biscuits with honey, hash brown potatoes, American fried potatoes, potato pancakes; and, of course, biscuits and gravy.  Add coffee if you do, orange juice if you like, Mimosas if you're lucky, and -- oh, all right -- a slice of melon.

Excuse me.  I have to go make myself something to eat now.

Old Padalik

Looking for something else, I ran across my birth certificate this morning.  I noticed the name of the attending physician, one Adolph J. Padalik, M.D.  He was our family doctor until we moved to a new town when I was six.  There are a couple stories involving him that my mother would tell, and on the rare occasions when his name came up, my father would always nod his head and say, "Yeah, Old Padalik."   I don't really remember him at all, but because of my father saying that, I've always had a mental picture of him as an old man.

On a whim, I Googled the name and found the guy's obituary.  I was surprised to see he died only five years ago at the age of 92.  That means he was only 31 when I was born and, in fact, was actually three years younger than my father.  Maybe my father was thinking "Good Ol' Padalik" and truncated it.

One of my mother's stories about Dr. Padalik concerned his coming to her bedside after I was born and telling her that her husband would be in shortly to see her.  "Now, no matter what he says," the doctor told her earnestly, "I know he was very concerned about you."

She didn't understand what he meant by that until later when she discovered that when the doctor had gone to the waiting room full of nervous, pacing husbands to tell my father the news, he found him slouched in a chair fast asleep.

Killed with kindness, not kilowatts

This morning I had to call Consumers Energy (gas and electric utility) about the bill I just got.  Two months ago it was only $50, which is wonderful and which I attributed to our weird warm spring with furnace and air conditioner off and windows open.  Last month the bill was only $29.  Wow.  The one I got today was for $27.  Uh-oh.  It has been between 90° and 100° for over a month.  This bill should be about ten times that much.

I had to wade through four menus but finally got to talk to Jeremiah who discovered that we were charged for 1 kilowatt hour of electricity last month and 0 for this month.  He said the meter was probably broken, so he transferred me to Jackie who agreed with him and said she'd send someone out today.  I understand Consumers doesn't want to give me free electricity, but I was still amazed when Ryan showed up in his white truck within half an hour.  He confirmed that the meter was broken.  That little wheel that goes around wasn't moving.

Wouldn't the guy who reads the meter notice that?

Anyway, Ryan waited while I shut down my computer, since he had to cut the power briefly, but the whole thing was done in less than five minutes.  Ryan was very nice and polite.

And so were Jeremiah and Jackie.  In fact, they were so nice and friendly and polite and upbeat and helpful that I remarked upon it to both of them.

Isn't it a shame that good customer service is so unusual that you notice it?

I've been chopped

The second installment of our Home Chopped Competition was conducted last evening. I provided the ingredients in the mystery basket: salmon steak, Old English cheese spread, apple sauce, and Eggo frozen waffles.

My partner outdid herself, and me, with a magnificent meal she described as "sautéed Eggo-crusted salmon steaks; Old English cheesy potatoes; and crisp lettuce and tomato salad with apple sauce vinaigrette and garlic-Eggo croutons."

I graded it thus:

Presentation  excellent.
Creativity  very much.
Taste  outstanding; the salmon was perfectly cooked and seasoned, the cheesy potatoes were exceptionally flavorful, and, if you can believe it, the apple sauce vinaigrette on the salad actually worked, and also the waffle croutons were crunchy and tasty.

Since she was good enough to bestow upon me the title of Chopped Champion for my efforts last week, I must now declare that Judy Brown is the Chopped Champion All-Star!

It's too bad there's no more of those potatoes left.

Busted

When I was quite young, we lived in a tiny apartment in the basement of a house that was occupied by my grandparents and two unmarried aunts.  It was a temporary stop while my parents saved for a down payment on a house of their own, which they eventually did, but we lived there about four years.

One time when I could not have been more than three years old, I got myself grounded.  I don't remember what I did, but I had been bad, and my mother forbade me to go outside and play, something I evidently wanted very much to do.

I asked my mother if I could at least go upstairs and see Grandma, and she said I could.  So I went up the back stairs that led to Grandma's kitchen and without so much as a pause, kept right on walking straight through the house to her front door.  Grandma asked me what I was doing, and I replied airily that I was going outside to play.  She asked me if I was sure that it was all right for me to do that, and I assured her it was.

I proceeded down the front steps and over to the house next door where I joined my neighbor Billy and another friend from down the block, Clifford, who were playing on Billy's porch and front steps.  I don't know what we were doing, but during the course of our activities, I fell down the steps and cracked my head on the concrete sidewalk.  I immediately set to bawling my head off.

There happened to be two women walking by just then who witnessed the incident.  "You poor little thing!" they said, and one of them picked me up in her arms and tried to soothe me with caresses and there-theres.  "Where does she live?" she asked the boys.  They pointed to the next house, and the woman said, "It's all right, honey -- we'll take you home."  Then I really started wailing.  "NO!  NO!" I cried.  "Don't take me home!"

But they did.  I don't remember what my mother did or said.  I suspect she figured the bump on the head was punishment enough.  And I learned my lesson.  I'm sure I've never done anything devious since.

Eat your heart out, Alex Guarnaschelli

The Food Network show "Chopped" is a big favorite at our house.  It involves four chefs cooking meals that must include three or four "mystery" items that usually don't go together and are sometimes downright wacky.  My partner asked me if I would agree to participate in such an event if she set it up, and I said I would if she promised to eat whatever I ended up making -- and we were on.

Sunday was the day, and, unlike the show where they make an appetizer, an entrée, and a dessert, I was to make only the entrée.  I was also given 45 minutes for it rather than 30, because those cooks get to have an oven already hot and pots of boiling water going when they start.  Also, they are professional chefs.

I suspected one of the items would be beef, because my partner loves it so much, and I was right.  The basket contained beef tenderloin steaks, fresh curly kale, a can of mandarin oranges, and a bag of Cheetos.  And just like the show, I could use anything in our pantry and refrigerator.

I did nothing for about five minutes but stand there thinking about it since I'd never cooked or even eaten kale before, but once I got started, I moved pretty fast.  I made a tremendous mess in the kitchen, burned myself not once but twice by grabbing the handle of a skillet that just came out of a 350-degree oven (once with each hand), and had to scramble when the cornstarch seized up in the sauce for the steaks, but I got it done; in fact, I finished with about three minutes to spare.

I made my presentation to my partner the judge, just like they do on TV, saying, "Today I have prepared for you filet mignon with mandarin-orange/white wine sauce, and sautéed kale in a mandarin/cream sauce with toasted Cheeto crumble topping."  She gave her critique:

Presentation  the plate with the steak and the ramekins with the kale were a little sloppy and the Cheeto crumbles got slightly burned under the broiler.
Creativity  very good.
Taste  steak absolutely perfectly medium rare and well seasoned; sauce pretty good; kale thing not so much.

Nevertheless she did bestow upon me the title of Chopped Champion.

Her turn next weekend.  Stay tuned.
 

Outgrew it, I guess

When I am indulging myself in one of my favorite cocktails, I sometimes have a tremendous desire to have more than one.  I rarely do, however, partly because I adhere to the notion that alcohol intake should be limited to one drink a day (for women; men get to have two, which is distinctly unfair).  But, no matter how good it tastes and how tempted I am, I stick with the one-drink rule because I know that two drinks can lead to more, and that can lead to inebriation.  It's not being drunk I mind, it's being hung over.  I believe that not having that second drink, for fear of feeling lousy the next day, is a very grown-up thing to do.

I remember one time when I was a lot less mature, at least as far as this discussion goes, when I was in graduate school.  At the time I was giving guitar lessons at the local music store on Saturday mornings.  Too many beers on Friday night -- well, it makes me think of those Direct TV commercials.

When you drink too much on Friday night, you are hung over on Saturday morning.

When you are hung over on Saturday morning, it's hard to give guitar lessons with your tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth.

When your tongue is stuck to the roof of your mouth, you sneak over between lessons to the tavern next door to buy a Coke.

When you sneak over between lessons to the tavern next door to buy a Coke, you encounter men at the bar who are already drunk at ten o'clock in the morning.

When you encounter men at the bar who are already drunk at ten o'clock in the morning, you are leered at and called "Girlie."

Don't be leered at and called "Girlie."  Get rid of cable.

Or grow up.

Back Atcha

The United States and the United Kingdom have been ineluctably linked since the first English colonists arrived, notwithstanding our having to fight two wars against them to shake ourselves loose.  But I think we all have a sense of what we inherited from our former mother country, not least our language.

I, however, don't often think about what, besides Coca-Cola and McDonald's, we might have shipped back for them to absorb; and yet I've recently been bemused by some musical references in a couple British movies.

One was "The King's Speech" in which George VI's speech therapist suggests he sing what he has to say, as a way to check his stammer, and asks him what his favorite song is.  The King replies, "Swanee River."  Eventually they both begin bantering back and forth to the tune of "Camptown Races." 

All right, a little weirdness on the part of a British monarch is nothing new.  Then today I saw a British film in which a mother and kids beguile the boredom of a long car trip by singing "She'll Be Comin' Round the Mountain When She Comes," and in another scene about a village fair, the town brass band comes tramping down the street playing "When the Saints Go Marching In."

The Brits must pay more attention to us than I ever noticed.