Culinary Combat

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I stood there, staring at the crunchy, cheesy concoctions I marvelously put together. Little pops and crackles rose up from the sizzling silver surface beneath me. On my left were some of the products of my culinary precision, waiting under the bright lamp to be eaten by the many students I'd see that day. I was ready.
 

I looked through the smoky, scratched screen in front of me as the cafeteria sat empty. It was the calm before the storm. It was in those brief moments of tension that I knew they were coming. I realized that my collection of culinary art would soon be devoured, and that it wasn't enough to dent the oncoming invasion of ravenous, rampaging humans. 

The lives of my crunchy compadres flashed before my eyes as I saw their gooey interior splatter across across the paper layered pan. It's my job to make them meal ready. And they were, fearlessly sitting under the heat lamp waiting for the tongs to embrace them.

Suddenly, I realized that I had become lost in thought, and the people in front of me had lost their patience. My attention was suddenly drawn to the empty pans. Nothing was left but cheesy, crunchy remnants of my previous masterpieces. A slight nervousness tingled through my skin as I looked ahead. Everyone was blankly staring at me. Some of their eyes drooped down to the quesadillas on the grill, and then slowly back up to meet me.

They were hungry. Nothing would get between them and their feast, not even time itself. Suddenly I started pacing back and forth, unwrapping tortillas from their self contained barriers of cryostasis. They stuck together, refusing to leave their brethren. Some of them left segments of their fractured shells behind, which meant that I had to condemn them to the dark pit of refuse.

Time passed as I continued to make sure the food was cooking. My hands wrapped around the nice, wooden handles of my ninja flippers and within seconds all of the quesadillas were grilled side up. I was half way there. Sweat dripped from my brow as the pressure intensified. My mind started calculating...chicken...pepperoni...pepperoni...chicken...cheese...pepperoni...I thought to myself as my hands pointed at them all.

The crowd shot me a blank stare as I mumbled to myself like a madman. I tried to make casual conversation with some of my guests, but all they could hear was the screaming howl of hunger from within their desperate souls. Finally, the time came.

It was the maiden voyage for the little self contained vessels I created. A sigh escaped my chest as I wiped my brow and brought them to the bilateral incision board. With one fell swoop I halved all of my creations, and tossed them into the breach. I knew none of them would last long, and I mentally said good bye to all of my work.

Suddenly, I noticed something odd. One of the students, who ordered pepperoni quesadillas, walked off with cheese as well, leaving two ladies stranded in front of my grill, staring at me with sad, pitiful eyes. "Where is the cheese?" They asked sweetly, looking at the empty tins. Then, without any break in concentration, I started over, repeating this endless cycle of satisfying their voracious appetites.

Through the heated battle of culinary combat I successfully satisfied all customers with their own custom crafted quesadilla. After closing time, I cleaned away the remains of a well fought war. I had managed to win this battle, but I knew they would be back. College students were never permanently satisfied. One week from now, they would return, hungry for another greasy feast. Until then, I had to rest, refocus, and remember that each battle got me closer to achieving the ultimate goal in this season of my life. One day, I would be a master chef.

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The Scanner

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I sat in the small, wooden chair thinking about the shift I was taking upon myself. My calloused hands grasped the black, ergonomically comfortable scanner as I looked at the crowd approaching me. Their eyes showed signs of hunger, of thirst, and of minor depravity. They were hungry, and the only way to cure their insatiable appetite was through the power in my hands.

My eyes glanced down as the red light vibrated over their zebra coated bar codes. A little chuckle escaped me as I realized the position of responsibility I was given. On this throne I could determine who could eat and who would be turned away, stomachs grumbling by my royal rejection.

At first it was a simple job, being in charge of the mighty portal of porridge, but I knew that my time would end. Soon, the crowds died down. They relocated to chairs around the cafeteria with the food I had so graciously allowed them to receive. Then, boredom set in.

It's tendrils crawled through my nerves as I sat there, staring at people enjoying their food, while I sat motionless behind the cash register. Suddenly, a few ideas entered my activity depraved mind. My laser was now an instrument of entertainment instead of a mighty scepter of service!

I realized that with a few vocal sound effects, I could make it into a club. I beatboxed happily while I shone the laser around the floor, acting like a culinary DJ with no audience. Then, by a stroke of genius, I scanned a pencil and realized it was safe to go through security, followed by a retinal scan of myself (which was probably not the greatest idea). But the most interesting discovery I made about my newly held position, and something that biologists worldwide might be astonished by, is that my hand apparently has a secret, natural barcode.

When I reached the end of my wits, I decided that scanning myself to find out how much I was worth was a clever use of my imagination. With a steady hand, and a focused eye, I scanned my palm, and suddenly the receipt machine sprang to life! I looked down at the receipt, and it said, "transaction failed". My self esteem fell a couple of notches as I watched the receipt print out this very disconcerting message. I either had no worth, or could not be sold. In order to salvage my shattered self esteem I chose the latter option, because selling myself would not be the best idea I ever had.

Time went by, and I realized that my position of power was suddenly beginning to fade. 1:30 rolled around, and I sighed. It was only an hour of power, but it felt good to experience such a gratifying sense of importance. Immediately my boss came in, turned off the cash register and told me to return to my normal life, away from my temporary position of power. I walked back to my lonely, quiet room on campus and realized that in those fleeting moments I had discovered something new about myself. 

 

I am easily entertained when given a barcode scanner and too much time on my hands.

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Attack on Toilet

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Sometimes, the human body has no understanding of convenience. It's an autonomous, ticking machine that calculates each second of our lives while we observe in awe. Millions of signals are sent throughout the complex network of electrical nodes in our system to help us perceive the world we live in. Even though our intricate brains have come together to determine acceptable patterns of behavior, the body is still primal with urges and reflexes beyond our limited control. Although our mind discerns the appropriate time to fulfill certain duties, we still are at the unbending will of our urges.

Sometimes those urges put us in predicaments that are unavoidable, which brings me to the greatest saving grace mankind has ever developed. It's curved exterior and clear liquid pool are easy on the eyes, while the soft rushing water of a well deserved flush is music to the ears. When you see the signs, and your body is loosing control, it's the safe haven for humanity.

I was in need of one of these portals when the glorious sign hung firmly above a nearby storefront. At last, I said to myself as I walked in and shut the door. After doing what needed to be done, I was ready to take on the world once more. This throne would be missing it's temporary ruler, but I had to go back to the world beyond the white washed cells of this peaceful asylum.

With a firm push of my outstretched palm, I could hear the rushing waters flushing away beneath me. It was a truly satisfying experience. The swish of liquid mixed with the deep rumble of the bowl being refilled was a symphony to my soul. This was my friend, I thought to myself as I started to rise from my seat of sanitation.

A gentle tug at my pants brought them to their assigned seat when suddenly...I knew something wasn't right. They were dry when I walked in. My eyes traced down my shocked body to the jeans at my waist. I gently lowered them a bit to see the backside. This wasn't good. My jeans were blue before...but not that dark. Or wet.

I dropped them to the ground and looked around to find out what could have caused this catastrophe...when suddenly I knew.  While I was focusing on the intense pleasure of the flushing, I was attacked. The wet, scarred fabric of my once clean blue jeans was rinsed by the disgraceful shower of a cracked commode. To put it simply, the toilet was having trouble. Since I don't commit to fifteen point inspections before doing my duty, I didn't see the tiny cracks in the porcelain.

Ah great, I thought to myself as I tried to dry off the offending stain with toilet paper. No use. My eyes glared at my once faithful friend. How could you? I asked the silent bowl as I squished my way out the door. My hands loosely tied the belt to my waist, so that my jeans did not cause me any further embarrassment. It's one thing to feel the soggy slap of wet jeans against the rear, but it's quite another for the innocent civilians of a public place to see it. I will not explain further.

As I slowly sloshed my way across the bright bathroom, I realized that I almost forgot to wash my hands. I faced the mirror and turned to look at the marked area. It was painfully noticeable. What's my girlfriend going to say? I thought to myself as I sighed. Well, it's too late to worry about it now. After rinsing my hands for a few seconds, I reached over to the soap dispenser.

I didn't realize until that moment that the toilet was not the only aggressor in this lavatory. With a soft press of the handle, a puff of white goo erupted from the bowels of the sink onto my left leg. A gooey, dripping mass slid down my pants as I attempted to wash it away. I should have realized that soap reacts to water. After trying to scrub the soap off my jeans, I realized that I had lathered the denim. Not only were my jeans wet, but now they were bubbly. Little suds slid down my leg, while some inflated in little orbs of air on my pants. Great, I thought to myself as I dried it off with a towel.

With one last look in the mirror, a giant exhale escaped my lungs. Now it looked even worse. The seat of my pants were soaked from the traumatic toilet experience, and the front was assaulted by a soap machine gone haywire. In the back of my mind I could imagine the sink and the commode laughing as I left their domain in shame. I had to go out to face the world, but not in the way I intended.

I wasn't leaving with pride at the job well accomplished, of my duties fulfilled with my head held high. No, I left in shame and realized something that I never thought of before this moment. When I finally met my girlfriend, she met me with beautiful, concerned brown eyes.

"Baby, are you okay?", she asked softly.

I paused for a moment, trying to think of a way to respond to that question. Inside I felt like I was being bullied by a bathroom, but I knew I was stronger than that. In a few brief seconds, I had my answer.

"Baby...I'm a soggy bottom boy." I smiled and walked with her out into the world together. I may have squished and squeaked my way through the rest of the day, but I was happy. Nothing in life can keep me down forever. Not even a treacherous toilet experience.

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Spin Me Round

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Boredom is a terrible mistress. It teases you with the possibility of an idea, then leaves you stranded in the emptiness of your mind. One second, you think you have something brilliant, but then you slump down in despair as you realize the dull throb of an unoccupied mind shooed it away. I was in one of these times as I sat there staring at my phone screen. My body was seated comfortably in a chair, but my mind was bored and tired of wandering around the empty void of boredom I currently inhabited. What was taking the lady so long?

She said she needed to step in the back and make a call, but I didn't realize that it would take so long. All I wanted to know was a simple quote on the item I was attempting to buy. A sigh escaped my chest as I sat there. Some people wandered in and decided to use my shoulder as an arm rest. Their eyes glanced from one item to the next as they maneuvered around my seated form with the grace of an intoxicated elephant. Great, I thought to myself as I watched someone put their face right over my shoulder to look.

If they were children, I wouldn't have had a problem. Kids have a way of not understanding personal space and I would just politely ignore them. But these were adults. I glanced down at my phone screen as their wrinkled hands pointed and gestured in front of my annoyed face. I asked if I could move so they would have a better view, but they said I was fine and continued to make me feel like a part of the furniture I was sitting on.

The pleasant glow of my phone screen kept me company as I ignored the shuffling seniors. Eventually they will go look at something else. There weren't that many items on the shelf. Soon, I popped open the App Store on my phone to look for a distraction from my desperate boredom. There were plenty of little games that could've occupied my time, but none of them caught my eye.

Through my years of gaming experience I had matched so many colored jewels, soda, candy, pirate treasure, diamonds, and every other conceivable object under the sun that I needed something original. It had to be something simple enough to pick up and play, but engaging enough to keep me occupied. As I scrolled down the list, one particular game took my breath away.

My eyes fixated on the little icon and I gasped quietly to myself. No way. This can't be real. I thought as I clicked on it for more information. As my brain hungrily digested the text I was reading, I realized that this was not a dream. Within seconds I clicked the download button, and watched eagerly as the loading bar spun around the orb. Almost...almost there. Finally, within a few seconds, the icon popped up on my phone's screen.

Boredom no longer had a place inside my occupied mind as I clicked on the icon and watched the object load in front of me. It was magnificent, a monument to human ingenuity. The little three pronged dream weaver spun in front of me as I swiped my finger. The beauty of the moment is hard to describe in text. No word in the human dictionary could properly capture the elegance of what I was witnessing in that brief moment.

Suddenly, it stopped. Gold coins filled an invisible piggy bank and I was not yet satisfied. With a quick swipe, the magic began to happen again. Little blue and green swirls melted together into a kaleidoscope of colored wonder as my heart melted at the sight. It...was...beautiful. A little numbered counter steadily climbed higher at the top of screen, filling up a bar indicating my skillful achievement. But, the number didn't matter to me. For once I was not captivated by the increase of meaningless numbers on my screen. Gone were the days when I longed for a higher level than others, or to watch the steadily rising numbers of achievement to satisfy my thirst for purpose. Now, the simple act of spinning this wonderful device left me speechless.

A little, salty crocodile tear dripped down my cheek as I felt the urge to hug my phone tightly to let it know it was loved. Why had I not thought of letting this darling little device into my life before? I don't know, but ever since I discovered it, my life has changed. I no longer feel the bitter sting of boredom in the darkest hours of meaninglessness. Now I have a playful companion to keep me company whenever I am alone and have no other tasks to attend to.

But, I wouldn't be a good friend to all of you readers if I didn't let you in on the secret. Throughout this article you have probably asked yourself, what on Earth is this guy going on about? Well, I am here to say that this particular little game may change your life. It changed mine.

Thank you Fidget Spinner, you have shown me that there is still beauty in this world. With your swirling, colorful gadgets, you have made a believer out of me. At first I believed you were a fad, a short term obsession that only the middle school kids would get into, but I was wrong. You are beautiful. You are the cure to boredom, and a dear friend. So may I offer support to you by telling the great readers of my blog to download you and to experience the beauty of spinning you round and round til the end of time.

Oh, excuse me, I got a little distracted. I think I may have a problem that I don't want to fix. With all due regret and acceptance I must admit that I have become temporarily enamored by the digital Fidget Spinner on my phone. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must take the app for another spin.

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The Art of Nixing Negativity

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Pessimism is sometimes seen as a highly held virtue. To some, it is a reserved strength that eases the bitter pain of disappointment by avoiding the perceived pitfall of hope. How can one be hurt by a negative outcome if there was no expectation for anything better? Although this may be a safety net for some, I do not want the training wheels to limit my speed.

You might not fall off of a bicycle with training wheels on it, but you won't be able to fully enjoy the experience of riding either. It is safer to assume that things won't happen, but where is the joy in that? How can someone enjoy their life if they believe nothing good will come of it? I'd rather ride full speed ahead on a bike and feel the pain of a nasty wreck than to gently caress the road with my tires and be safe.

I do understand the pain of falling though. A crushed dream is one of the most painful experiences in life, and it causes many to lay out a safety net in order to avoid being hurt again. I tried putting out safety nets in my own life, but the self imposed restriction was a lot more discouraging than the possibility of failure. This restriction meant to keep myself safe from harm managed to hurt me more than if I let myself ride in the freedom I was born with.

Instead of looking at the wrecks I've had in my life and dreading the possibility of failure, I decided to take a different approach. What if I looked at failure as an opportunity to improve? No one ever went up to Tony Hawk and said "You fell off of your skateboard. You need to go do something else." Even if they did, he probably would've looked at them like they were crazy and kept practicing.

If he fell off of his skateboard, he'd look at the board, what he did when he fell, and then adjust. He might have shifted his feet a certain way, or adjusted the speed of his kick to flip the board differently, or a variety of other methods I am not familiar with. I'm not a skateboarder after all. I'm a writer.

We look at practice as a means of reaching perfection, yet when it comes to dreams and hope, we see failure as an indicator of a permanent, lifelong sentence. If Michael Jordan missed a shot during a game, which he did, his coach wouldn't kick him off the team and force him into retirement. Yet, we never think of Michael Jordan missing a shot do we? We never think about all of the hours of practice he put in where he missed the basket entirely, or dropped the basketball, or tripped over his own feet. It's a funny image but I can guarantee you he probably experienced all of those at some point in his life.

So why are we different? Well, because I think we assume that success is something that comes naturally for some people, who were born for it, but not for the average person. A lot of people today look at their lives in bitterness because they didn't get to do what they were born for, and look upon successful people in envy because they were "privileged". Some people do have an easier life than others, but where you start does not determine where you end up. A person with no ambition or dreams could be born in a rich home and die homeless, while a person who has nothing can overcome it all and become a successful entrepreneur. The difference between these two people is in their perspective. It's like the old phrase, "what you see is what you get".

I believe that if we look at our lives with the expectation for success, yet with the adaptability and wisdom that can help us deal with failure, we will enjoy life. If we have the courage to stand together, encourage each other when we are feeling down, and help each other to become the men and women we were born to be, we can fully enjoy the life we were given. Life is not about successes and failures, but about what we do when we experience them. There is no avoiding failure, but it's easy to leave success behind.

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The Measurable Malice of Midnight

Photo Credit: Marie Higgins

Candlelight flickers in the cold, dark room as I sit in bitter isolation. Outside the wind howls through the trees and I shudder as I look down at what I must do. There's a strange power one feels in the night when alone. A slight tingle crawls through the skin as you sit and ponder your next move.

I start to carve a symbol into the remnants of a dead tree, being careful to make sure each curve and jagged edge is near perfection. One mistake, and the power is gone. One mistake, and all of my efforts are wasted. The squeaky application of the pink soot is only a temporary solution to a deeper problem. It may remove the marking on this archaic document, but it will leave a smudge to remind me of the sloppy imperfection of my ways. Yes, I shall learn quickly. My life depends on it.

Each ancient symbol has been passed down for generations, and their writings are a passage into adulthood. Without the necessary skills in penmanship and concentration, one cannot hope to conjure up the expected result. That result is required to become a man, and to live in the society that I call home. I shutter as I think of the possibility of failure. My eyes glance at the candle as it flickers back and forth in a fiery dance. It seems like the little flicker of flame is having more energy than me at the moment, but I must not let it distract me. This problem is more important.

Trails of black dust start to form recognizable shapes beneath my trembling hand. Each symbol has a special power when cast by a trained student, and I had become familiar with them all. By etching a black X into the tapestry, I am able to increase things greatly in size. This is a very important skill to use, since the crossroads rune (which looks like +)  is only helpful to a certain extent. When it comes to bigger problems, one should not attempt to reach a solution using the crossroads. Instead, the X is better used to summon a larger being. 

My long, black cloak lightly grazes the floor as I outstretch my arms in a glorious yawn. I had put it on earlier that evening after standing under the waterfall. It was very refreshing. The chair I sit in feels cold against my bare feet, but I don't care. Finishing up this assignment is far more important. I'll warm my feet up under the covers of my nice warm bed when I'm finished.

During our rigorous training, we were taught how to give to others, to multiply the fruits of their labor through our ancient arts. Many people smiled as they saw the results of our work, and what it could do for them in short and long term. But what of those who wish to reduce their load? Or divvy up the spoils among comrades?

When these times come, we have solutions for them as well. By combining a mixture of the dash and slash forms, we are able to slowly reduce or greatly diminish whatever they ask for. This can be used to help our allies or harm our enemies, but in my particular study we were taught to be pacifistic with our power. There's no reason to start a war over the wagging of a tongue, my professor always used to say. Instead, let their own tongue get them into trouble and reveal their foolishness. I always smiled at the thought. I've never seen anyone stick their tongue out and wag it around, but my professor was grey bearded and knew more than me so I listened. He was wise and whimsical, but there was one thing that worried me. What if I did not pass?

I'm supposed to have these mysteries solved by morning, coming up with answers to problems no one ever had. It seemed like foolishness but I knew there was a purpose. It gave me practice for when the power really had to be put to use. If I did not finish these problems by midnight, I would be in trouble, and may not pass the training I paid to enter. The price would be far higher the second time around, and I did not want to face the consequences of being left behind.

Sweat dripped down my tired brow as I continued to carve out new symbols and smile as each solution was reached. Success was a few moments away as I felt the tingling of nervous exhaustion creeping into my moving hand. Don't give up now, I thought to myself as my eyes tried to close shop early. I always hated it when my eyes wanted to go to sleep before the rest of my body. It made focusing really inconvenient.

When I finally finished brewing over the problems, I laid down my number two wand and sat in relief. My breath was shallow as I took another yawn. Rain pattered the outside window as I glanced at all of the hard work I had accomplished. Although the victory was sweet, there was one important thing I learned.

My mind wanders to strange places when I do math homework during a power outage. 

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An Awkward Amount of Cereal

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I'm a man of exquisite taste. When it comes to my cereal, I look upon the lavishly colored boxes as a sign of personal status and luxury. Every morning I come downstairs, I open up the pantry and take in the beautiful sight of the fashionable foods sitting neatly on the top shelf. This is the life, I think to myself as I pull down the box that I am currently working on.

See, according to breakfast etiquette, one must not switch boxes of cereal while they are only half-way consumed. Doing so represents a lack of discipline and commitment to the cereal you proclaimed would be yours to cherish once you opened the plastic seal. If you leave a box of cereal, only to feast your eyes upon another, you have broken trust. No one trusts a man or lady who eats out of more than one box at a time. If one cannot stay true to the box they have ripped apart for pleasure, then they mustn't put forth the effort to remove that box from it's kind, gentle resting place of wholeness that it once held.

There is nothing more depressing in the kitchen than to see a half-eaten box of cereal neglected by it's impatient owner. Now, there is one exception to this rule that I find it necessary to address at this time. If there is more than one member of your household who enjoy the pleasant sensation of consuming cereal, then it is within their right to eat a different box of cereal than you. If you enjoy the magically delicious marshmallows crafted by the hands of a lucky leprechaun, but another family member does not share your sentiment, then he or she may indulge in the cinnamon twisted flavor of a well toasted square. This is indeed acceptable in the eyes of breakfast etiquette.

But, every once in awhile, there is an awkward dissonance between the universe's alignment and the contents of your cereal bowl. You should endeavor to plan out your meals so that the final breakfast is a special occasion. It should be treated in the highest regard, as you pour out the remnants of that once full box of delicious, crunchy meal into your milk filled bowl. The finely ground powder at the bottom of the bag represents the swan song of a once beautiful relationship between the breakfast connoisseur and their subject of interest. This wonderful interaction can last many mornings, or only a few, depending on the appetite of the consumer, but no matter the length of time, the farewell powder is a sign of the end.  After embalming the subject, by taking the plastic bag out of the colorful husk, they send the cardboard corpse away. Some even hold services for the empty cardboard box that once held their morning companion, and then throw it away into the recycle bin, so that it can enjoy life in the hereafter as another box of cereal for someone else to cherish.

I personally have never held a service, but if you are inclined to that sort of ritual, that is your prerogative.  Now that my mind has wandered off the beaten path a bit, let us attempt to reconvene and refocus. The departing of a loved box of cereal is not the awkward moment I attempted to bring up previously. It's a normal part of life and is expected unless you never finish a box of cereal in which case you are wasting a lot of good life experiences and the hard work of everyone who helped bring the box to your undeserving kitchen. Now that I'm done with my rant, let's continue.

Sometimes, when the universe decides it hates someone, you will run into a compromising situation. You have already committed to enjoying a certain box of cereal, though you may have indulged in another on a few occasions, but you know you are nearing the end. Shaking the box no longer produces a satisfying, crunchy rattle of life. Instead, it is the empty whisper of a dying breed. It's a hushed rustling of a once proud box of breakfast, shivering in the confines of your closet, waiting for you to take it's final bowl's worth of vitality. But, if you're anything like me, it's difficult.

It is not because I care about the remaining crumbs, or of the inanimate thoughts of a box, but because of it's awkwardness. Once I have my two waffles toasted and smothered in butter and syrup, I don't want to have to think of more food to fill me. When I pull out my cereal I expect to be filled with it's delicious contents, not spurned by it's inability to live up to my groggy expectations.  I grasp the box in my two hands and realize that it cannot even attempt to fill one bowl that I placed before me. How can one be fed off of a measly few charms in the bottom of a supposedly lucky box? Then, I have to put the box down in disgust.

You see, the awkward part of this whole situation is that I cannot throw away the cereal left in the bag, because then I will be wasteful, and will no longer hold a position of respect among my colleagues. But, if I pour out the cereal and see the powder, then I have to eat it. I am not desperate enough or awake enough during my morning routine to finish off one box of cereal, which dedicated it's life to the service of feeding my appetite, and then wash out my bowl and eat another. You might say that I could easily pour another box of cereal into the bowl once I finish the first box, but this would show your ignorance.

The powder of a cereal's final passage leaves it's memories in a bowl of milk, even if the cereal has been devoured. It will infect any other cereal that enters it's dairy domain with a hint of flavor that reminds us of their life. It's like a forced memoir upon the taste buds of an unsuspecting victim. You may think you're done with charms, but once you stick that square cinnamon chunk in your mouth you will remember what it was like. Fruity hints of flavor will rudely interrupt your new sensation, and you will be left longing for a cereal you no longer have.

It's a sugary specter entering into the world of the hungry. The phantom of flavor will visit until you remove the milk from which it once resided. Then, it will leave you alone in peace. So, what do you do when you run into this awkward situation? Well, make sure you plan out your cereal consumption so that you may enjoy your final meal with your beloved breakfast buddy, and send them off to enjoy the edible afterlife they all long for.

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