GOOD ENOUGH FOR ME

I've been on a cooking kick lately. 

The problem with this is that I am usually unprepared to cook correctly. What I mean by this is simple: I crave certain meals, but I lack the proper supplies to actually follow the recipes.

So, I punt.

Chicken casserole? Sure, I'll just throw some stuff in a glass dish, things like chicken and spinach and frozen cubes of squash and some fresh green beans and shredded carrots. Hey, is that a can of cream of chicken soup? Sure. Sounds good. Low on bread crumbs and no Ritz crackers? No problem. I'll just use a package of cornbread, all mixed together and thrown on top . . . because why not!

Baked ziti? Yes, that sounds marvelous. I have a half-pound of ground beef I can cook, a half a box of pasta, and a jar of sauce. Oh, wait. No ricotta cheese? That's okay. I have shredded mozzarella and shaved parmesan and some grated Romano. That should work, right? Who needs ricotta cheese when you can improvise.

My sister tells me that she is making nachos for the Super Bowl. She is a far better cook and baker and crafter and pretty much better anything than I will ever be. Now I want nachos, too. I have corn chips and salsa and more ground beef and shredded cheddar cheese. I could go high-brow and actually cook the nachos in the oven (even the toaster oven would work). But, no. I must cheat. Into the microwave they go. And, dagnabbit, they're not half-bad.

I suppose I should actually open up my recipe file, especially since I recently made an honest effort to put everything into order in a binder, complete with tabs and everything. I suppose I should go to the store that's only a few miles away and buy the correct stuff to complete these concoctions. There just isn't as much adventure in any of that.

And, so, as I said, I punt. The results, like the New England Patriots, are worthy enough for recognition, impressive enough to make it to the table, but not quite the crowning achievements they could or should be. Either way, they're are good enough for me.

GAME ON!

The Olympics are on. 

I am much more of a fan of the Winter Olympics than Summer. Who doesn't love watching bobsled and luge? Ice skating? Hockey? Biathlon -- skiing and shooting? Who remembers the glory of Eddie the Eagle? The Miracle on Ice?

I have a television subscription (not cable) that allows me access to a lot of channels. After a very long week at work, I drag myself home on Friday afternoon and settle on the couch, hoping for something mindless and mildly entertaining. An old western, a Hallmark movie, an old sit-com, perhaps. 

As I flip through the channel guide, a movie jumps out at me. An old one, but one I can't resist. 

Slap Shot.

Nancy Dowd, the writer, was born the same place I was: Framingham, Massachusetts. I already feel a kinship toward her early vision of the world. The fact that she used her own relatives' hockey experiences and a real team and real characters in this, makes it even better.

This movie is as real as it gets. Is there fighting? Of course. Are there shenanigans? Puhleeze -- have you never attended or participated in a pick-up game or a midnight league game? 

This is as real as it gets.

So, strap in for the Olympics, if you dare, but remember: Old-time hockey (no helmets, limited pads, bare knuckles) brought the elegance you see today, the finesse, the timing, and the raw emotions.

Oh, and sex appeal. Paul Newman in leather pants? Now, that's worth the price of admission.

ROLL ON

It has finally happened, and it only took six years. For the first time since that ridiculous Covid blasphemy, I have relaxed enough to allow my toilet paper supply to dwindle to a reasonable low.

For the first time since the infamous toilet paper hoarding of 2020, I am down to only two spare rolls.

In all honesty, one of those rolls has been with me since 2020. I borrowed it from school when we went back for the Fall session (teaching remote and in-person at the same time) as my emergency back-up roll. I have kept it as a reminder that we were once all insane and that some people are/have bigger arseholes than the rest of us. When I finally retire, I might quietly slip it back into the staff bathroom. 

I do not panic in my two-roll back-up position. Technically, I still have three rolls since the one on the toilet paper holder is a full roll, as well. I live alone. Unless I have a sudden influx of unwanted guests or catch the Norovirus (again), I should be safe until I get to the store in a couple of days.

Still, though, it's a slightly off-center feeling, this knowledge of toilet paper weakness, that I am finally, for the first time in more than half of a decade, low on toilet paper.

When I do finally get to Market Basket, there is no shortage whatsoever in brand, style, scent, size, ply-strength, or package capacity among the choices. I go for two-ply unscented, swooping in and bringing home an eight-pack of rolls.

I won't lie: Even though I was never in danger of running out of toilet paper, not now and not even during the pandemic when we all traded rolls for things like meals and medicine and Covid tests, it feels strangely satisfying and somewhat reassuring to have more toilet paper than a single person could possibly need for the next foreseeable future.