Misadventures in cooking

One of the joys of living by yourself is that you have to make and eat your own food. 

Now, obviously as I’m still at least ten pounds overweight, I’m managing to do alright in that I’m feeding myself with some success.  So, tonight I decided to take on a new challenge. For the first time in my nearly 47 of existence I tried to make an omelet.

How hard can it be? I mean, it’s eggs, right?  Drop a couple in a bowl, mix em up, throw them in a pan and fold them over. How tough is that?

Oddly, tougher than you’d think. I’m going to give myself an out and explain first that when I left Virginia, Shadow didn’t give me any real frying pans. You see, these little excursions on my own are her chance to divest herself of all the bad cookware she doesn't like; the cookware that’s just worn out or the stuff she says I forcibly ruined by using metal implements in, or by burning stuff in, or just by being in the proximity of in the kitchen. 

Apparently, I ruined a sauté pan at some point, because that’s what I have to use – for pretty much everything, and I blame the failure of the omelet on the tool. (The pan, not me.)

But aside from the pan, there’s a lot that can go wrong with an omelet. If the stove isn’t level – which it’s not – the butter doesn’t distribute evenly and parts of the egg stick. If you put in too much chopped bell pepper it doesn’t let the egg firm up on the bottom – which it didn’t. And if you don’t know how to cook an omelet, you inevitably ruin it – which I did.

The silver lining to all this of course is that a ruined omelet is still scrambled eggs. It’s the food equivalent of a non-working escalator. They aren’t as cool to look at but they're still stairs.

At the end of the day, those kinds of food misadventures are probably what has kept me functioning for the better part of the last five years, so I won't be too sad I failed to make an omelet on my first try.

I know the old saying, 'it’s a poor cook who blames his tools.' In this particular case, that’s absolutely true. And to fix this, the next time I go home to visit Shadow and the kids, you can be darn sure I’m going to ruin some good cookware before I leave.

At last! A name that removes the stigma and shame

There’s a lot to be said for a name.

This week I, like millions of other men between the ages of 20-54, have received the news, from an official millennial source confirming what men of a certain age have known, or tried to believe, for years. The ‘Dad Bod’ is a ‘thing.’

As we all know, of course, ‘things’ in this era come and go quite happily in the blink of an eye. What makes this thing different is that it’s always been with us – we’ve just never had a good name, nor a viral marketing push that has helped us graft it into the mass consciousness the way it has since being branded in late April.

Personally, I think this is wonderful news. It has given those of us in Gen X who have not been gifted with a natural ability to blame others, societal affirmation that maybe it’s not me. Maybe my dear Shadow is wrong on this one; maybe my slightly pear-shaped figure isn’t something to be winnowed down to meet some ‘ideal body size’ – maybe the dad bod is ok!

Now, to be fair, this new-found manly idealism doesn’t come without some effort. I have to continue to do a little because, like so many other good-to-great things in life, there are limitations to the Dad Bod. First, is the duly noted age limit which means I can only legitimately throw out the Dad Bod card for another 7 years … kind of like a Statute of Limitations for Lazy.  Plus, thanks to a handy chart in the Washington Post, there are other limitations as well.

For instance, 174-202 pounds is my sweet spot for the Dad Bod zone based on height. Do too well on the Advocare 24 Day Challenge (click the link!) and come in under 174 and you fall out of Dad Bod-Zone and into “really good shape for his age” obscurity.  Get above 202 pounds and well, you’re just fat like everyone else.

No, the Dad Bod is something that needs to be carefully crafted, like a banzai tree. Just enough exercise and diet where you’re willing to go shirtless at the beach but you’re still not quite comfortable about doing it.

Too much exercise and you risk going shirtless all the time and looking like Creepy Old Dude who is trying too hard. Not enough exercise and you pack on extra arm pits rolls and start complaining about things like flop sweats. You run the risk of losing Dad Bod and replacing it with Dad Boob.

This body shape requires some effort to maintain good physical health while not worrying about washboard abs or skinny jeans – both of which are kind of ridiculous. The guy with the Dad Bod will not win any race or athletic endeavor – but he will be there to compete and enjoy the challenge.

For one, I’m glad this thing has been named and no longer has to be a matter of guilt and shame for me and millions of others. However, while I bask in the formalization a name brings, I can’t help but think that credit for it goes to a 19 year old college student – which, as a demographic, has never been known as a harbinger of good taste or aesthetics.

I’m just as sure, regardless of what it’s called, Shadow won’t mind at all so long as I’m barely eligible and not at the part of the scale that puts me in danger of entering Flop Sweat/Dad Boob territory. That portion of the chart is in desperate need of a name change.