Thinking of Pizza, leave it to the Professionals

So, after leaving New York City at rush hour last Friday night, my wife and I eventually got home around 7:30PM.  I didn’t want to cook anything, but then remembered I had a three-month-old Paul Newman frozen thin crust pizza sitting in my freezer.  I had never had one before, but I’d heard Paul’s stuff was very good, and with all of the donations their organization makes…good karma needed to be coming my way.  We normally cook and bake out of the smaller top oven in our new oven “system”. I started preheating and then noticed the instructions said, “Do not place pizza on a cookie sheet, place frozen pizza on the oven rack.”  I didn’t like that idea, especially since the top oven/microwave gizmo does not have any racks.  The wife says, just use the bottom oven, that has racks.  Fine, now I have to preheat this bottom oven, which took literally 40 minutes.  Modern technology is a wonderful thing.  Once it was done, I opened the bottom oven door and there was a large cauldron sitting on the racks which at that point was glowing red.  The intense heat coming off it steamed up the peepers I was wearing. The wife says, you’re lucky it wasn’t a quilt we were storing in there.  

So, I cooked my Paul Newman pizza and now have to get it off the oven rack.  Luckily there was minimal cheese spillage, but I still needed to figure out how to get it off the rack.  I had gathered a collection of weapons to address the situation, as well as a very thin plastic cutting sheet.  My thought was, sheet is very thin, but strong enough to withstand sharp cutting, it’ll be perfect to slide under the pizza.  Naturally, in the back of my mind I’m thinking, this plastic time bomb is going to explode into flames after about two seconds of extreme heat.  As it turns out, I was able to grab the edge of the crispy pizza crust, and drag it onto the thin, very thin plastic cutting sheet with absolutely no issue.  Euphoria has now enveloped me; I have single-handedly conquered the Frozen Pizza Challenge.  But then I got greedy.  As I was masterfully pulling my pizza out of the oven, I noticed a small chunk of burnt cheese sitting in the craves at the bottom of the oven door.  (Keep in mind, I’ve never been a waiter) I decided that if I just reached back down, while holding my pizza on the very, very thin plastic sheet, I could kill two birds with one stone.  Big Mistake!  Before I could reach the burnt cheese crumb, a combination of things happened - a complete report from the crimes against humanity commission is pending.  Said pizza got wings and flew off my plastic sheet onto the floor…face down.  For about two seconds I thought I’d be able to quickly pick it up and the crispy browned cheese topping would stay intact.  Then my wife pinched me and I awakened from that dream.  She then reminded me, she never said she was going to eat the Paul Neuman pizza, but I did.  I spent the rest of the night picking dog hair off my tongue.

Lessons Learned:  First, always order your pizza from a professional, and have it delivered.  Next, the fact that the Burn Unit didn’t play into the story speaks volumes to my personal growth.  And finally, you would think I’d know better.  I do an AARP presentation on Brain Health.  In it, there is a section on Tips to Help with Focus.  Number three is Avoid Multi-Tasking.  Like when you’re sitting in the family room watching TV and decide you’re going to walk into the kitchen and get a couple of cookies, that your wife thinks she’s hidden.  But along the way, you see a dust bunny trying to hide under a chair.  You then decide to go to the closet and get the vacuum cleaner because you’ve lit a fuse, and this has to be taken care of now.  And from there, you’re off to the races.  By the time you get around to those cookies, it’s 11PM and you’ve upset your stomach just in time for bed.  So much for restorative sleep.

The Joys of Fishing & True Lies

So after twenty years of owning a lake house it was time to pass the baton to another owner who enjoys poison ivy and double the yard work in his life.  And with this sale, the vast majority of a sizable collection of fishing equipment will no longer be taunting me.    I’m also expecting a sizable reduction in my psych bills; you see for the last 20 years I’ve come very close to catching a monster size bass.  As the familiar story goes, they always seem to get away, or more likely they sense it’s my line and they just stay away.    

You have to understand the relationship I have with fishing, it’s based solely on luck.  There is no skill involved what so ever.  I can generally catch fish in one of two ways: First, a fish is swimming along and happens to be looking in the opposite direction. When he turns around, he yawns and sucks my hook deep into his mouth.  The second methodology is where the fish is a kamikaze or has strong suicidal tendencies.   I have a 52 inch, 64 pound Chinook mounted on my wall.  This prehistoric looking salmon was in a spawning frenzy and jumped onto my hook while making his final swim up an Alaskan river.  The boat guide assured me that no skill was required to catch this fish.  He continued saying, it was completely dumb luck, a matter of being in the right place at the right time.  He suggested that I go out and buy a lottery ticket.

The first piece of fishing gear to go is my kayak, specifically engineered for fishing.  Translation: I’ll have a tougher time tipping it over.  I gave it to my neighbor who I call the fish whisperer.  I figured it would be just and right for the kayak to be in the hands of someone who would know how to use it.  I liken it to a thoroughbred racehorse finally getting a real jockey to ride him as opposed to John Candy.

Next to go: my 20 year old, fourteen foot, 2,000 pound, metal hull row boat.   This rowboat is planted on land in an upside down position.  It has not been turned over in more than a year.  There is a good possibility that carnivores are living underneath.   In years past I’ve set off fireworks under it to scare away the demons that might have decided to take up residence inside. Unfortunately or fortunately new community rules preclude me from setting off fireworks.   Added to that, my last “under the boat fireworks extravaganza” set off a small brush fire under the boat from the dry dead grass.  It was easily extinguished but when it comes to fire and me, I’m like the Frankenstein monster, something bad almost always happens. Currently I’m not sure what might be living underneath, but the boat needs to be flipped so I can get it into the lake (praying it doesn’t sink… right away) and drive it to the marina where its new owner is waiting.  Significant problem is the weight of the boat and that I need to flip, by myself.  (We’ll put aside the armies of venomous creatures that will be totally ticked off by my intrusion and take vengeance on me.)  The last time it was flipped, my godson and his friend did it.  In my younger days this would not have been a problem, but because I’ve advanced to the upper limits of what I generously call middle age, I need to be careful. (I have a 200-count bottle of Advil waiting for me if things go sideways.)  I position myself like a Bulgarian Olympic weight lifter in the middle of the boat.  Trying my best to keep exemplary form and use my legs to lift, I grab the boat.  In doing so, a thought from the back of my mind races to the front:  Wouldn’t wearing a thick pair of gloves be a sane idea to fend off all but the most powerful jaws and stingers?  Too late, my mind wigs out and as if I’m the incredible hulk, I flip the metal boat as if it’s made out of straw.  I then run away like a person who’s seen a ghost.   After calming down from a severe case of the DTs, I get the boat into the water and successfully make a final nostalgic trip over to its new owner.  

Final Note:  I still have my fishing gear so that afternoon I decide to do some fishing from my dock.  I pick up my favorite rod and lure…a rod and lure that has not caught a fish in over a year.   Not sure where my head was, maybe still feeling the effects from the adrenalin rush, but I launched my lure high into a neighbor’s tree that hangs over the water.  I shake my head in frustration, as even a fire truck would have trouble reaching it.  I do my best to try to coax the lure out of the tree, but in short order my line breaks free with no lure attached.  I figure enough is enough, and call it quits.  The next morning I decide I can’t end my fishing career on this lake in humiliating defeat.  I grab my second favorite lure, attach it to my line, securing it  with a number of granny knots.  Two casts and the lure is stuck on the bottom of the lake’s rocky floor.  I can feel my sensibility exit my body like water racing over Niagara Falls.  I yank on the line and it breaks free, minus the lure.  I now know how Tiger Woods feels as I grab my pole like a javelin and launch it into the woods.

It’s clear, The Fish Gods have Spoken – It’s Time to Go! 

“There’s a Big Difference between Fishing and Catching Fish.”  ~ Tom Brokaw