THE BCS WORKS

Two of my favorite bloggers, Bryan and Steven, are up in arms over the BCS, since whoever wins this year’s automatic bid from the Big East conference will have at least four losses, while the once-defeated Texas Longhorns are probably going to get shut out of the BCS.

First of all, gentlemen, we can certainly agree on this: If Texas had beaten Oklahoma, we wouldn’t be having this discussion, right? Well, that’s my point: if you play in a BCS conference, your whole conference season is bascially a playoff. (If you play in a non-BCS conference, your entire season is a playoff, since no undefeated non-BCS team is likely to qualify for an automatic bid.) You might still make the BCS if you don’t win your conference/division, but that’s not a guarantee. The BCS bylaws allow for non-BCS teams to claim one of the two at-large bids under certain circumstances, which Utah did and Boise State just might be able to do. So the net result is that, in fact, that loss to OU costs more than pride. (If you’re a Cal fan, then it’s the USC loss that ruined you, but the reasoning is still the same.)

So I don’t think that complaining about Syracuse or Pitt getting the automatic bid is fair. The Big East gets an automatic bid no matter what. If Texas or Cal had gone 8-3 but still finished second in their conferences, nobody would be complaining much about the Big East. You could complain that it’s not right for Utah to get a bid and leave Texas (or Cal) at home . . . but that’s how the BCS rules are written and, after all, Utah won all their games, and you didn’t.

The obvious solution, of course, is to fire Mack Brown. Don’t laugh–John Cooper could beat everybody but Michigan, that conference rival that kept the Buckeyes out of the Rose Bowl every year, and people wondered why OSU would do such a foolish thing.

The next year, they beat Michigan–and won the national title.

TBP CLASSIC: “DEATH OF A TOASTER”

From May 2000, before I’d ever even heard of a ‘blog.’

It has not been a good week for mechanical things here at the dacha. The week got off to a rousing start on Tuesday, when the Richardson County “roads” claimed a new victim.

Here’s how it happened: The main route into Falls City from here takes me down what’s known as Kunz Corner Road (unless you live north of me, in which case it’s known as Palmer Corner Road, but I digress). Now, that particular road carries a lot of traffic, maybe 100 vehicles a day. I know that doesn’t sound like a lot to some of you, but trust me, for a gravel road, that’s freeway traffic. Kunz Corner Road is in such notorious disrepair that the UPS drivers are not allowed to use it. It’s potholed, washboarded, and generally covered with loose gravel.

Lately it’s been even worse than usual. It actually rained here the first part of this week, so now the road is not only potholed and washboarded, but rutted as well. How bad is it? I drove my truck down it on Monday, and dang if the road didn’t bounce me around so hard that the truck sloughed about 45 degrees off a straight ahead track. It gets disconcerting.

So I avoided Kunz Corner Road and started going into town on the Straussville Road. It’s a lot better, with two notable exceptions: there’s a vicious bump on the far side of a railroad crossing just west of the USDA office, and there’s a bridge just north of Straussville itself that has an 8″ deep pothole right in front of it.

Tuesday I ran into town like a fiend, trying to beat a check to the bank. I made it with plenty of time to spare, as it turns out. So I go roaring back up Straussville Road. I hit the rail crossing by the USDA office and catch a little air on the downside. (I love doing that.) I slow down to 50 when I hit Straussville (which is nothing more than a house, a machine shed, and a grain elevator, but the railroad still stops there) and blast it on north of town, because if you catch that one pothole just right, you almost go
weightless across the bridge.

So here comes the bridge KCHUNK and there I go! Once across the bridge, though, I heard this strange white-noise sound coming from the back. I pulled the truck over to make sure I wasn’t trailing suspension parts or a pedestrian or God forbid a shredded tire. I walked to the back of the truck and what to my wondering eyes should appear?

The tailgate, literally hanging on by a thread.

Not a good omen to start the week. Things got worse on Thursday, when I drove the Honda into town via the same route. I had noticed that one of the tires was looking a little low. I returned to the Tire Store of Indentured Servitude, knowing that I’d be out at least ten bucks. It was a nice day, so I meandered aimlessly about downtown while they worked. When I got back, bad news: ALL FOUR TIRES WERE GOING FLAT. The back two just had nails in them, but the front two had worn down to the steel belts. Oh, and it was out of alignment too. It would take $150 to get the car back on the road, plus about three hours of my time. And no, unfortunately, they’d already loaned out their loaner car. Grrr.

What do you do when you’re stuck in a tire store for three hours? That’s a rhetorical question–it’s happened to me twice in the last six months and I *still* don’t know. If it weren’t for the news stand at the Grocery Store Formerly Known As Hinky Dinky, I’d probably be stuck paging through all their back issues of Modern Tire Dealer.

I made it back home by about 4, lighter in the wallet and grumpier than a gathering of “Matlock” fans. It was too early for dinner, but the rumble in my gullet would not be denied. I grabbed an English muffin, popped it into the toaster, and sat down in the living room for just a minute.

Then just two minutes. Then three. Still no POING from the toaster. I sprung back into the kitchen just as the smoke began pouring from the slots. I jerked the plug out of the wall and flung the flaming English muffin directly out of the toaster slots and into the front yard.

That was it. That was all I could take. One too many mechanical betrayals in a week filled with stress. I had no choice. The toaster was going to pay.

I spun it over my head, lasso-like, by its cord, then flung it down the road. (That’s the great thing about living in the country. I’d like to see you try something like that in town.) Then I did it again. And again. Then I picked up all the plastic parts and chucked them into the burn barrel. Charcoal lighter fluid. Match. Two-week-old potato salad. Bye-bye, junk toaster.

The only negative aspect of this senseless act of toastercide, of course, is that now I had no way of making toast. This is a big problem, since toast is one of my four food groups, along with pizza, coffee, and things other people give to me.

Have you shopped for toasters lately? My WORD! I’ve had computers that weren’t so advanced, and here I am thinking specifically of the VIC-20. They’ve all got names like “BagelSmart” or “PastryPerfect” or “LuftWaffle” or some other spaceless Space Age name. I actually found one with something called “ToastLogic,” an onboard COMPUTER CHIP that senses when the toast is done to perfection. Twenty years ago, we would have laughed at such a concept. Twenty years later though . . . well, I still think it’s funny.

I had only two criteria for the new toaster: It had to cost less than $30, and it had to not be a Procter-Silex, since that’s who made the scapetoaster I’d wrecked the day before. I finally found one, a Toastmaster, ’cause hey, with a name like that, they must mean business.

In case you’re wondering, yes. My new toaster does indeed have “ToastLogic.” It makes mediocre toast. Anybody want to play Cowboys and Indians? I get to be the cowboy.

MILWAUKEEATTLE

Gray, gloomy day in these environs. I was up until 3 AM trying to trap a mouse (I succeeded) and waiting for Serena to get hungry so my wife could get a good night’s sleep. I ventured out into the retail world to visit one of my favorite bookstores, then drove around listening to ESPN’s College Game Day (or trying to, at least . . . the otherwise-wonderful ESPN station in Milwaukee decided to air a NASCAR season wrapup program instead).

And it rained the whole time.

So now it’s gray, cool, and raining gently, and I got maybe four hours of sleep last night. I don’t know whether to go to bed or to Starbucks. Of course, since my local Starbucks has two–two! –big overstuffed chairs, it’s not necessarily an either/or decision. And I did pick up a copy of this, so perhaps the course of my afternoon has already been determined.

SEARCH ENGINE ANSWER GUY #7

I’d apologize for the lateness of the seventh installment of this site’s most consistently popular feature, but (a) I decided to move this feature to the end of the month so I don’t have to pore over two months’ worth of referral logs to write it, and (2) the only reason this is the most popular feature on the site is because the first edition of it contained certain terms which have enticed those who are seeking ungarmentable imagery of antigeriatric individuals. Since, every time they click here, my Google rank goes up, I’m fairly certain that one day I’ll actually reach the top of the search page for every Roman Polanski wannabe on the planet.

So anyway, it’s late in the evening, but I still feel like destroying my reputation, so let’s begin.

2004 motor city bowl scenario

A hush falls over a crowd of 12,000 people in downtown Detroit. On one sideline stand the Minnesota Golden Gophers, the underachieving, undercoached, oversold, challenge-avoiding scions of Ski-U-Mah. On the other sidelines stand a bunch of MAC players, each thinking to themselves, “If I’d walked on at Ohio State, I’d be in San Antonio right now, where it’s warm. Plus I’d have a car to drive. And if I’d gone to Kent State like my mama wanted me to, I wouldn’t have to spend Christmas in Detroit.” The referee calls the captains to the center of the field for the coin toss. The Minnesota captains try to call time out while the coin’s in the air, because they need permission from their position coach before they say anything to the ref. The MAC players agree to the time out–being from the MAC, they’ve never seen a coin before. Heads are bowed as the referee tries to explain that the “tails” side of the coin doesn’t really have a tail–the MAC players, again, are unfamiliar with the concept of a “coin,” while the Gophers are really not supposed to take classes at the ag school, since it’s all the way over in St. Paul, a long way from the Bierman building. Then, while everybody’s heads are still down, it happens.

A lutefisk comes flying out of the stands, striking one of the MAC players.

History will quickly dub the ensuing melee “the blood spieled at Ford Field.” A TV audience estimated in the upper dozens will be appalled as the MAC players and Minneapolis sportswriters try to drown Minnesota’s coach in the Gatorade bucket. The ESPN announcers will report that the MAC head coach was injured and they’ll have an update just as soon as somebody can remember what the guy’s name is. In Bristol, they throw the switch, beginning their emergency tape broadcast of the 2002 World Series of Slot Machines. The next day, the papers will be filled with heartfelt handwringing and bitter recriminations. But no one will care. Why?

Because the Insight.com Bowl is on that night.

dealing with child flatulence in ministry

Ignore it as much as possible. Given what the average American child eats for breakfast, though, that may be a daunting task.

matt lovecchio and drafting

That may have more to do with the Pentagon than the NFL.

healthy menu for basketball tea

OK, I can think of three possibilities here. One is that you’re looking for food to serve during a basketball-themed tea. I would suggest anything with three points, though this will confuse NBA fans. The second possibility is that you intend to invite a basketball team over for some tea, in which case you’d better be exceptionally precise about what it is you intend to serve.

The third possiblity is too horrible to contemplate, and I’m not sure what you could serve to make up for drinking that.

how much do finance majors get paid out of college

About 40% of what they think they’re worth.

how to say spleen in portuguese

It’s pronounced “chorizo.”

does statutory rape involve oral?

*sigh* . . . thanks, Bill.

music who originally did the tide is high

Blondie. They should be showing up on oldies radio in another couple years.

philosophical idea of chocolat movie

Suppose someone in Hollywood came up with an idea for a movie that, unfortunately, failed to contain enough material to fill out a segment of “Love American Style.” Moreover, the screenplay (if you wanted to call it that) contained characters who would be considered laughably fake by five-year-olds watching “Scooby-Doo,” and the plot was so predictable it made the average romantic comedy look like the backwards episode of “Seinfeld.” Would it be possible to make a movie this bad, but make it so well that thousands of moviegoers and dozen of critics would be bamboozled into thinking they’d just witnessed something profound and touching? Yes, if you make it in France, and force Johnny Depp to wear an Errol Flynn mustache. This effectively proves the existentialists’ point that life is inherently meaningless.

best fight scene ever

There can only be one choice: the fight between Hugh Grant and Colin Firth in Bridget Jones’ Diary.

1993 ford tempo transmission fluid requirement

Technically, yes, transmission fluid is required, though if you leave it out, you may not be able to tell the difference. I mean, your car will break down without tranny fluid; it’s just that breakdowns are not a unique experience for Tempo owners.

define a simple experiment?

Put the phrases “sensible tort reform” and “naked baboons” on your blog; then, see which gets you more search engine hits in a month. That’s a pretty simple experiment; I’ll let you know the results next month.

what college majors make the most money?

According to statistics, if you want to make over a million dollars a year, your best bet is to go to the University of North Carolina and major in geography. The average annual salary for a UNC geography grad is in the low millions. If you don’t know why this is bad advice, you probably also don’t know where Michael Jordan went to college, or what he majored in–and you’re not a good candidate for majoring in statistics, either.

i-aa qualified team bowl eligible

I-AA teams may not play in bowl games under any circumstances.

minnesota pansy rule

If you play nothing but pansies in your out-of-conference schedule, you’re bound to underachieve in the conference season. This used to be called the Bill Snyder Theorem, but I think the Gophers have refined it enough to make it their own.

can i get into architecture school with an economics major

Do you have the tuition money? If so, the answer’s bound to be “yes” someplace.

OH, GREAT

I’m the stuff nobody eats:

You Are the Cranberry Sauce

A little sweet, a little sour - you’ve got the flava! Though, you do tend to squish in people’s mouths…

IF THEY CAN, THEY’LL CAN THE CANS

My home state of Iowa was one of the first states in the union to institute a mandatory five-cent deposit on soda and beer sold in cans and bottles, all the way back in 1978. The state law mandates that any grocer who sells beverages must accept the used containers. (The state pays grocers 1 cent for every beverage container they turn over to be recycled.)

Grocers were never in love with the process, and for good reason. Processing returns is time-consuming, a penny per can is a lot less money now than it was 26 years ago, and frankly, you have to wonder if some of the cans people turn in for recycling were fished out of the manure pits on hog lots. If I ran a grocery store, I don’t think I’d be too thrilled about taking back cans full of backwash and cigarette butts, forcing my employees to handle them, and then having to find a place to store them–that’s space I could use to store additional items I could sell, after all.

So it’s not surprising that grocers have been trying to deep-six the law since it was enacted. There has always been a provision allowing stores to designate an off-site redemption center to handle their returns, so long as (a) it’s reasonably close to the store, and (b) it meets certain hours-of-business criteria. But, for the most part, stores haven’t pulled the trigger on this idea.

Until now.

Iowa’s largest grocery store chain has begun taking steps to rid its stores of empty bottles and cans that grocers have long complained are unsanitary and a risk to food safety.

Hy-Vee Food Stores spokeswoman Ruth Mitchell said Tuesday the chain’s 103 Iowa supermarkets are looking at no longer accepting empty beer and soda cans, and instead having customers go to a redemption center to claim their 5-cent deposit.

This is big–Hy-Vee (which many readers will recognize as the former employer of Kurt Warner, and which many New York Giants fans probably wish was Mr. Warner’s current employer) is the only grocery store in many smaller Iowa towns, and the state’s second-largest chain, Fareway, has already said it plans to stop accepting cans and bottles.

The grocers have a point. While the overwhelming majority of Iowans rinse their cans and bottles before returning them, it only takes a few slobs to establish a bacteria colony the size of Greenland. It’s not about the money–as the article points out, the grocers can always raise their price. It’s more about sanitation; bacterial outbreaks can be fatal to food-service establishments, even grocery stores.

It’s time for Iowa to reconsider the Bottle Bill. What made sense twenty-six years ago is not so self-evident now. Many communities already have curbside recycling for glass and plastic containers; it wouldn’t be so hard to add aluminum cans to the mix as well. Likewise, the law has failed to keep pace with the times. It only covers alcoholic beverage and soda containers; no deposit is required on juice, water, or “New Age” beverage containers.

Personally, I think the whole thing should be scrapped. The original purpose of the Bottle Bill was to cut down on litter. I now live in Wisconsin, where there’s no deposit on beverage containers, and our ditches, while not pristine, aren’t overflowing with beer cans–and you’d figure that if that would happen anyplace, it’d be here. Knock off the nickel-back and let the market clean the ditches instead.

TEN BURNING QUESTIONS FOR THE THANKSGIVING WEEKEND

1. Why does nobody ever think they are the slow traffic the SLOW TRAFFIC KEEP RIGHT sign is aimed at?
2. Does anybody actually eat green bean casserole and, if not, why do we always make it for Thanksgiving?
3. For that matter, why do most cranberry sauce recipes yield about 4 cups when most Thanksgiving diners will eat maybe a tablespoon or so?
4. How long before the stores just go ahead and open Thanksgiving afternoon so we can all get a head start on the day after Christmas?
5. The Subway in the town where I work is open 8 to 3:30 on Thanksgiving–why? I know not everybody has a place to go, but when I think “Thanksgiving” and “turkey sandwich,” somehow, Jared’s not involved.
6. Do you ever wonder what turkey/cranberry/stuffing enchiladas would taste like? I do.
7. When that weird uncle of yours asks you what you want to be when you grow up, why not just tell him “A professional Yahtzee player”?
8. You think the NFL is glad that Dallas and Detroit are hosting their traditional Thanksgiving Day games, so a TV audience of dozens will be tuning in?
9. Since the Halloween stuff came out in the stores back in August, and the Christmas stuff has already been out for three weeks, do you think now would be a good time to dye your Easter eggs?
10. Am I the only person who thinks (a) those deep-fried Cajun turkeys taste horrible, like an unfortunate incident involving a bird flying down the chimney at a spice warehouse, and (b) having a device that lets you cook up a gallon of boiling oil in your backyard is sort of . . . I don’t know . . . Braveheart-ish?

THE OFFICIAL “FIRE YOUR COACH” THREAD

OK, football fans . . . with the effective end of the regular season in college football, who’s on their way out and who’s changing addresses? My picks and predictions:

• Urban Meyer to Florida (let’s call this one a foregone conclusion, OK?)
• Ron Turner whacked at Illinois, Chuck Long (OU offensive coordinator) to take over
• Paterno stays put
• So does Kirk Ferentz, who appears poised to extend his contract through 2012
• Mark Farley (Northern Iowa head coach) to Western Michigan

Names I expect to be in play somewhere: Ron Zook, Frank Solich (though he will not be going to UNLV), Barney Cotton (Iowa State offensive coordinator).

Anybody?

PICKIN’ ON THE BIG TEN, WEEK 12

And so the regular season closes out, not with a bang, but with 60% unwatchable games. (I’m not countenancing Northwestern and Michigan State’s Hawaiian expeditions . . . it’s hard enough picking the preseason games during the preseason.) This is PotB10’s fifth season (believe it or not) so I’m getting kind of nostalgic. So grab your Zubaz and your Oakley sunglasses; crack open a Bud Dry and swtich the channel to Married . . . With Children, because we’re sending out 2004 hairmetal-style.

WISCONSIN @ IOWA
“Every Rose Bowl Has Its Thorn” (apologies to Poison)

We both lie silently still
in the shadow of the Wolverines
Although we both lie close together
We’re 178.1 miles apart, according to Yahoo! Maps

Was it something I said or something I did
Did our pass coverage not work out right
Though I tried not to get screwed
Though I tried
But I guess that’s why they say

Chorus:
Every Rose Bowl has its thorn
Just like every night has its dawn
Just like every Hawkeye running back has a torn ACL
Every Rose Bowl has its thorn
Yeah it does

I listen to the Buckeye game
playing on the radio
Hear the DJ say they lost the game
so to Florida we both go
But I wonder does he know
Has he ever felt like this
And Game Day’d be here right now
If we could have beaten those stinking, inconsistent, barely competent Spartans
I guess

Every Rose Bowl has its thorn
Just like every night has its dawn
Just like every Hawkeye running back has a torn ACL
Every Rose Bowl has its thorn
Yeah it does

Though it’s been a week now
I can still see those chin-projecting Michiganders moving the ball up and down the field like we weren’t even there, man
Like a knife that cuts you the wound heals
but the scar, that scar remains

I know I could have saved a BCS bowl that night
If I’d known what to say
Instead of makin’ tackles
We both made our separate ways
But now I hear you found somebody new
and that the winner of this game winds up #2
To hear that tears me up inside
And to see Wolverines cuts me like a knife
I guess

Every Rose Bowl has its thorn
Just like every night has its dawn
Just like every Hawkeye running back has a torn ACL
Every Rose Bowl has its thorn
Yeah it does

THE NEW “WAIT TILL NEXT YEAR” 20
CHICKEN GUM AND CHEWING WIRE 21

ILLINOIS @ NORTHWESTERN
“Ron’s Final Countdown” (apologies to Europe (the band, not the contintent . . . I’m still waiting for the continent’s apologies for the band))

Ron’s leaving forever
So this is farewell
According to Internet message boards, at least
But hey, who can tell?
I guess there is no one to blame
For us eating ground (what about Ron?)
Will things ever be the same again (we hope not)
It’s the final countdown…
The final countdown
Ooh oh

We’re heading for Norman (Norman)
Where OU stands tall
Cause they’ve got this one man
Who could throw a football (yeah)
With so many pass schemes to learn
And things to be found (like a running game)
I’m sure that they’ll all miss Chuck so
It’s the final countdown…
The final countdown
The final countdown (the final countdown)
Ooh ooh oh

(interlude)

The final countdown
Ooh oh
It’s the final countdown
The final countdown
The final countdown (the final countdown)
Ooh
It’s the final countdown
We are leaving together
The final countdown

IT’S A LONG, LONG WAY TO RON 10
EVANSTON CONFIDENTIAL 31

MICHIGAN @ OHIO STATE
(needs more cowbell)

Mo Clarett had come
Here but now he’s gone
Buckeyes don’t fear investigations
Nor do the wind, the sun or the rain… we can be like they are
Come on Tressel… don’t fear the reaper
Baby take my hand… don’t fear the reaper
We’ll be able to fly… don’t fear the reaper
Geiger, he’s your man

SMU is done
Here but now they’re gone
Dickerson and James
Are together in eternity… Pony Express!
40,000 Chevy dealer test drives… Monte Carlos and Cavaliers
40,000 $100 handshakes… Redefine “cheatenous”
Another $40,000 coming everyday… We can be like they are
Come on Buckeye… don’t fear the reaper
Baby take my hand… don’t fear the reaper
We’ll be able to fly… don’t fear the reaper
Geiger he’s your man…

Oh, that school up north
Here but now they’re gone
Booked the last flight to Cali
And it’s clear we can’t go on
Then the door was open and Mike Hart appeared
Chad Henne threw then disappeared
Steve Breaston flew then he appeared… saying don’t be afraid
Come on Buckeye… and they had no fear
And Buck ran to him… then they started to fly
They looked backward and said good bye… Buck had become like IU
Buck had thrown down his hand… and had become like they are
Come on Buckeye… don’t fear the reaper

EVERYTHING’S COMING UP ROSES 24
ONLY OUR LUNCH IS COMING UP 13

MICHIGAN STATE @ PENN STATE
“Slump” (apologies to Van Halen Hagar Cherone Halen)

Owwww!
I get up, two and ten gets me down
You got it tough, I’ve seen the toughest around, since I’ve been here since 1966
And I know, baby, just how you feel
You got to roll with the losses and get to what’s real

Ah, can’t ya see me standin’ here
I got my back against the record of Eddie Robinson
This is the worst that you’ve seen
But do you have to be mean?

Ah, might as well slump. Slump!
A five-year long slump!
A deadly slump. Slump!
A back-breaking slump

“Retire! Hey, you!” Who said that? Bradley, how you been?
You say you don’t know, we won’t know until you begin

Ah, can’t ya see me standin’ here
I got my back against the record of Eddie Robinson
This is the worst that you’ve seen
But do you have to be mean?

Ah, might as well slump. Slump!
A five-year long slump!
A deadly slump. Slump!
A back-breaking slump

(Guitar Solo)

Might as well slump. Slump!
Go ahead and slump
Get it in, slump. Slump!
Go ahead and slump

THE DREAM IS STILL ALIVE 21
BUT WE’RE NOT, ESPECIALLY 13

INDIANA @ PURDUE
(Yes, this is not a hair-metal song . . . couldn’t help myself.)

“Indiana’s Watching” (apologies to R. Dean Taylor)

Indiana’s watching, Lord knows no one else is
Indiana’s watching, Lord knows no one else is
Suck it up, Purdue . . . you’ve lost a few

If a man ever should have won the Heisman
After five games of a flabby schedule, Kyle, it’s you
And it’s so cold and lonely here without you
Defensive end is coming
I’ve been so tired of running

Indiana’s watching, Lord knows no one else is
Indiana’s watching, Lord knows no one else is
Suck it up, Purdue . . . you’ve lost a few

It hurts to see the team Purdue’s become
To know they’ll never see a top-ten ranking anymore
They’ll never see Berwanger’s face or touch his hand
If just once more they could see
The Cuse, Ball State, Illini and Nit’ny

Indiana’s watching, Lord knows no one else is
Indiana’s watching, Lord knows no one else is
Suck it up, Purdue . . . you’ve lost a few

I hope Joe Tiller finds his way, Purdue
Forgive him, please, for the shame he’s put you through and all the tears
Hang on tight to the memories of the Griese years
Red jerseys flashing around me
Good Lord it looks like they found me

Indiana’s watching, Lord knows no one else is
Indiana’s watching, Lord knows no one else is
Suck it up, Purdue . . . you’ve lost a few

(sound of police siren)

“This is the Music City Bowl selection committee . . . we know you’re in there . . . come out with your big bass drum . . .”

TWENTY GRAND TO OPRYLAND 24
BACK TO THE DRAWING BOARD 21

PotB10 returns once the bowl slate is set to try (foolishly) to pick every single bowl game. Shouldn’t be too tough; there are only 28 of them.

Why do I do this to myself?

HAPPY CHEF

(Only an upper Midwesterner knows the joys of Happy Chef.)

So anyways, it’s been suggested to me by a person of my acquaintance that perhaps I ought to give a full accounting of my own culinary quirks which, while not exactly numerous, are not exactly non-existent, either. Forthwith, then, my full disclosure:

First of all, there’s only one food that I really will not eat under any circumstances: sun-dried tomatoes. I have tried to appreciate them, dear reader, and I simply cannot. While to some they call up images of sun-drenched Sicilian hillsides or quaint Tuscan villas, to me they’re like eating boogers from the nose of Satan. If I wanted something with the texture of raisins and the flavor of vomit, I’d knock back a half-dozen prune daiquiris before dinner every night.

My second food phobia is a little more serious: Egg yolks are always a tricky proposition for me. I’ve never in my life eaten an over-easy egg, much less sunny side up. But I find the grainy texture and acrid smell of hard-boiled egg yolks the most difficult to take of all–and don’t get me started on deviled eggs, since I’m not all that nuts about mayonnaise and yellow mustard, either. And if you’re the sort of person who adds sun-dried tomatoes to your egg salad, good for you; just don’t get any on me, please.

Likewise, I cannot abide canned vegetables of any sort, except for corn–and even then, I’d rather have frozen or fresh.

Oh, and here’s one for the record books: guess which two foods almost everybody loves, but I could take or leave? Chocolate and french fries. Nothing against them, but I almost never crave either. I also don’t like McDonalds, except for my once-a-year Quarter Pounder with Cheese (which I still have not had for 2004).

I also have to note that there is significant culinary common ground in this house. We all agree that fish fries are wonderful, Pizza Hut is not, and at the great heavenly feast, we’ll be standing in line for enchiladas, beans, and rice. That, and we celebrate every major milestone in our lives with some sort of smoked pork product. OK? Have I convinced you that dinnertime at the Hasty house is not the grim power struggle I may have accidently on purpose made it out to be?

Well, then let me continue. Because, you see, cooking for two fussy eaters is not an entirely negative thing. A person can learn a lot from the experience, as it turns out.

For instance, the first time Paula and I went out for fish fry, while we were still dating, I was appalled when she put ketchup–ketchup!–on her fish. Everybody knows that the only proper condiments for fish are lemon juice, malt vinegar, and tartar sauce. Ketchup is a notorious bottom-feeder condiment. Ketchup is what the French and other sophisticated food snots blame for our inability to taste our food. After all, ketchup is just a means of putting sweet and sour flavors on everything, thereby making everything taste like everything else.

If you dump the stuff on everything willy-nilly, that is. But in trace amounts on fried fish or in other non-traditional applications, it’s a tremendous flavor enhancer. In addition to being a major source of the powerful anti-oxidant lycopene, cooked tomato products are full of the natural flavor enhancer glutamic acid, which makes everything you put it on taste a little more like itself. Thus, a small amount of ketchup on your fried fish brings out the flavor. (As I discovered last night, a couple tablespoons of ketchup added to a pot of bean soup can also save it from terminal blandness without making the soup too salty–or too spicy for a six-year-old to eat.)

So you see what my blind insistence on the “proper” condiments for fish amounted to: pointless orthodoxy. Because, truthfully, all lemon juice or vinegar ever did for my fried fish was make the crust soggy, and tartar sauce is basically mayonnaise, so it’s never been a favorite of mine. Consequently, fried fish was never something I absolutely adored–just something I didn’t object to. All because I refused to believe that a little ketchup might make it taste better; instead, I thought the ketchup was just a trick for people who didn’t like fish. Like I said, pointless orthodoxy.

Why? Why do we cling to such established norms instead of letting our own palates be our standard? Why is our notion of “good food” in this country so beholden to what pleased a Frenchman’s taste buds in the 19th century? Is a really good chicken taco worse food than coq au vin? In these food-crazy times, do you surrender your claim to fresser-dom if you dare to admit that you’d rather have a really good burger than a sort-of-good steak? I don’t think you do–but then, despite all appearances to the contrary, I’m not actually a food snob.

And there’s the problem. Too often, we train ourselves to prefer that which pleases others instead of that which keeps us–and our “clientele”–happy. The end result is a bunch of pointless orthodoxy.

(Granted, not all orthodoxy is pointless; as Fran Lebowitz once put it, “People have been cooking and eating for thousands of years, so if you are the very first to have thought of adding fresh lime juice to scalloped potatoes try to understand that there must be a reason for this.”)

Now, you know there’s a ministry-related point coming in all of this, just like there was last time. But it’s not the point that you think. My call is not for preachers to preach that which “keeps the customer satisfied;” the Gospel is corrosive stuff and not everybody is going to like being splashed with acid. No, my call is for preachers to spend as much time learning how to listen as they do thinking about how they’re going to preach.

I return to my fried-fish point. Whom did I impoverish by my stubborn insistence that I already knew everything I needed to know about dressing fried fish? Certainly not my wife and stepdaughter–I never prevented them from putting ketchup on their fish, after all. But every time they did, I put myself above them mentally. I may not be perfect, but at least I don’t put ketchup on my fish like some barbarian, I thought. And in so thinking, I robbed myself not once, but twice: Firstly and most obviously, I robbed myself of a better fish-eating experience; secondly, I robbed myself of the chance to relate to them as a partner instead of as the Dinner Commandant. Only the latter of these was a loss to them as well. But it’s a pretty big loss.

Too often I see preachers pulling a “ketchup on fish” act with the people they serve. They retreat from true engagement with the cultures in which they live and immerse themselves instead in elitism of one sort or another. Whether it’s the sophisticated mainliner who can’t be bothered to listen to anything but NPR, or the culture-wary conservative who rails against shows which went off TV a decade ago, or the overworked Catholic priest who, of necessity, reduces every act of ministry to a mere process instead of a true engagement, somehow, someway, we all wind up impoverished for the experience–and, while it hurts the people we serve, it hurts us even more.

In my opinion, there’s never an appropriate circumstance for a preacher to consider him or herself superior to the people he or she serves. It’s absolutely fatal to ministry. If you want to reach people–and I mean really reach them–it means listening to that goshawful hick AM station that broadcasts nothing but farm reports and Johnny Paycheck songs. Or going to the tractor pull. Or putting down Christianity Today and picking up Reader’s Digest. Or somehow, someway, participating in the same culture as everybody you serve does. Even the most world-denying Christians have some engagement with the rest of the world, after all. And how are you going to meet the needs of sinners unless you have some sense of the sins they’re caught up in?

A good preacher should be able to talk intelligently about the things his or her people care about. If that’s social justice or apocalyptic literature, so be it, but any dope can figure that out. But if it’s the Green Bay Packers or local development planning or violence in the streets, well, that’s important too. Every good sermon is an admixture of topcality and timelessness. We hope, when we step in the pulpit, that we speak of eternal truth (or at least we’d better hope we hope that), but it’s far too easy to forget that our calling is to serve God’s people in this place and at this time. And if you want to do that, you’d better be here, now–not where you’d rather serve, or when you think people might be more receptive to your message. Snobbish orthodoxy makes little sense at the dinner table, but it makes even less sense in the pulpit. Just put out your best home cooking, and trust that God can make strong spiritual bodies out of your best efforts.