The annual Indian Guides camping trip is coming up tomorrow. As usual, it will be two thousand degrees outside with one-hundred twenty percent humidity. The sun is forecast to dip within ten feet of the ground above my tent, just when I will be struggling to erect it.
But we will survive. We always do.
These father-daughter outings are supposed to free up our wives for a time.
I wonder, though, if time just continues to fly by for our spouses - leaving in its wake the guilt of unfulfilled aspirations.
In either case, I cannot wait to get home on Sunday. Tired, unshaven, caked with sweat, craving a beer and a shower in no particular order. Coming home is sweet.
I had never taken my daughter to Cedar Point before (my son would not handle the lines well, so it was just my daughter and I). She had never rode anything beyond carnival rides. Walking into the park, I looked up at the Raptor and suggested we ride that.
"No, Daddy. Let's keep going."
Oh, at that point I knew where this was going. She was going to be scared of anything challenging. Iron Dragon came first. It's a fairly tame, swoopy hanging coaster. That scared her and she screamed the entire ride. Truth be told, I found it a bit scary, too. It had been more than a dozen years, and the body forgets. After that first ride, though, I was readjusted. Bring 'em all on.
Well, my daughter wasn't quite there, yet. So we rode the Corkscrew, followed by the Magnum. Okay. Now she's not only hooked, but riding the big rides. By the afternoon, she was dragging me towards the Millennium Force. Heh.
She conquered her fear - trusted her father and pushed herself.
All her petty transgressions pale in comparison to her fortitude and resilience. She's an impressive little girl - at least to me. Realizing that is as much fun as anything in the park.
I don't want an omelet. I want scrambled eggs - with onions, tomatoes, and cheese in them.
"What's the difference?" I asked. I did not receive a satisfactory answer. My wife said because omelets are too big (offering her half an omelet did not seem to placate her). My daughter said that I'm more likely to burn an omelet (by which she means even the slightest browning), but when they aren't burnt my omelets are delicious.
I understand that there are a few impenetrable mysteries to life. Questions such as, "why don't ripe olives come in jars, too?" Some things Man was not meant to know. But this morning's mystery required a bit of research on my part.
According to The Atlantic's food writer, Corby Kummer, "the chief difference between an omelet and scrambled eggs is one of social status."
Julia Child described the omelet as, "soft-cooked scrambled eggs, wrapped in an envelope of firmly-cooked scrambled eggs."
Neither of these people are any help. An omelet is scrambled eggs - cooked with a bit of flair, perhaps, but that's it.
I like making omelets. They're easy, and not as pedestrian as a pan of scrambled eggs. I'll be damned if I can get someone to tell me why one must be in "the mood" for an omelet, as opposed to wanting scrambled eggs.
No, I did not suggest a frittata as a compromise. I have principles.
On our way to the movie theater this afternoon, my daughter and I talked. Certainly, we covered many topics, but the ones that I remember involve my childhood. Especially the differences between our current media consumption and mine, thirty-some years ago when I was her age.
You see, we had three good television channels and a couple independent broadcasters. Everyone watched those three channels. Since we were on our way to a Disney movie, I mentioned that one of my favorite shows was the Wonderful World of Disney. Every Sunday night my family would gather in the living room to watch it. I really liked it when they showed cartoons.
I explained that, when I was a kid, we could only see cartoons at certain times on certain days. We didn't have entire channels devoted to them! Having fewer choices lead, paradoxically, to watching a greater variety of programs.
But we were on our way to a movie, so I had to mention drive-in movies. There were rows of speakers set in a wide, gravel parking lot. A huge screen, under which was a playground. A low, central building that housed the projector, restrooms, and snack bar.
I liked going with Kevin. His parents had a station wagon! You know the drill. You back the station wagon into the spot, put down the tailgate, and sit with your feet dangling. The speaker hung from the car window would crackle and squawk a bit, always tinny, but you didn't care.
There was no better summer fun than eating a hot dog served in a paper boat, watching Godzilla fight Megalon from the back of a station wagon.
A few posts back I mentioned our trip to Buffalo for the Allentown Art Festival. There, we picked up a set of three food pictures for our kitchen. Today, I hung the photos, and they look really nice.
They weren't very expensive - just $15 each. They look like they'd be somewhat washable, since they appear to be vinyl stretched over a wood block. Just the thing for kitchen art.
The annual Indian Guides camping trip is coming up tomorrow. As usual, it will be two thousand degrees outside with one-hundred twenty percent humidity. The sun is forecast to dip within ten feet of the ground above my tent, just when I will be struggling to erect it.
