Cheesy Baked Beans

As many of you know, on occasion Pam asks me to fix dinner. Usually she does most of the prep and my job is simply to put everything in the oven at the right time, set the table and have it ready to serve when she gets home. Thus was the case the other night when I was tasked with grilling up some brats on the grill to serve with Pam’s famous baked beans which she had already mixed up and placed in the Pyrex dish for me to pop in to the oven for 30 minutes prior to go-time. Everything was going swimmingly, after all, I have done this enough times to know the drill. But then…

Ok, every now and then I get out of my lane. Such was the case on an evening last week as I stood over the rich, dark brown dish of baked beans. I saw the bacon in there, the diced green peppers and onions floating around in that tantalizing brown sauce, the tangy aroma of Worcestershire sauce thick in the air.  I remember thinking, “That really looks brown.” Then a wild thought came into my head. When I had opened the fridge to get the beans I had noticed a container of fresh parmesan cheese by itself in the corner. I am something of a cheese freak. I love all kinds of cheese, by itself or slathered on top of basically anything. In a flash of inspiration I thought, “You know, those beans could use a little color…the yellow of the cheese would be perfect…and cheese makes everything better, right?” Before I could stop myself, there I was sprinkling a handful of fresh Parmesan cheese over the top of the beans. It looked amazing. I thought of how proud Pam was going to be of me and my culinary initiative. 

She got home and sat down at the table. I served up the brats and placed the cheese-soaked beans in little glass bowls and set them down in front of her. At first she didn’t even notice. We said the blessing and then turned on our show that we were watching. Eventually Pam placed a spoon into her bowl of beans and when she withdrew it there was a long string of cheese hanging off both sides of the spoon. Her reaction was not what I expected.

Pam: What is this? What the heck? What’s wrong with my beans??

Doug: There’s absolutely nothing wrong with those beans!! Thats some cheese I added. What do you think?

Pam: (giving me the kind of look one might give someone upon discovering that they had used Miracle Whip instead of Mayonnaise on the BLT’s) Why on Earth would you ruin my beautiful baked beans by putting cheese in them??!! What were you thinking?

At this point I realized that offering an excuse that included my idea that the dish needed some color would be problematic. So, I immediately backed off of defense and went for damage control instead…

Doug: Have you tasted them? The cheese makes them creamy!

Pam: Creamy?? Nobody wants creamy baked beans. Who ARE you??

This was over a week ago. You would think she would be over it by now. But just a while ago she asked me if I had any ideas for dinner. When I didn’t answer right away she adds—“And you better not say cheesy baked beans”

Ok, ok. I get it. Never monkey around with a woman’s recipes. But I’m still thinking that cheesy baked beans needs to be given a chance. They might end up being the next big thing, like fried Brussels sprouts. Whoever thought that would happen?

When You’re in the Midst of it…

You just had a novel published. You should be all in on all things A Life of Dreams. But there’s a problem. You find yourself fully immersed in your latest effort, the one you’ve been writing off and on since the end of last summer. The story won’t leave your head. It lives there rent free. Even when you’re not writing, you’re thinking about it. There was an entire month that went by without a single line. Then it hit you while you were doing pushups one morning and suddenly it was off to the races for a couple weeks.

Now you find yourself at a devilishly tricky scene. It’s crucial to the story, it will determine how the story’s arc turns out. This is the scene that will determine what kind of story this ends up being, and you are fully aware of the stakes. The writing starts to feel like labor. You stand up and walk around the room while looking at the computer screen from different angles, as if this new perspective will conjure the right words out of the atmosphere. You feel the breeze of an inspiration, sit back down and pound out two sentences, then one more. Yes. That was good, you think to yourself. I’m getting closer, you say aloud. Then it’s off to the kitchen for something to drink. 

You feel a twitch coming on in each extremity. There’s energy pulsing through you. The story is percolating. You can almost feel it in your fingertips. But, you can’t bring yourself to sit back down at your desk. Instead, you take a break by walking upstairs to the recliner in your room where you check on the day’s box scores. This takes your mind off the story. Suddenly there’s just too many possibilities flying around in your head, so many different ways for the scene to go. Your brain has reached capacity overload. So you shut the laptop and think about Maine for a while.

After a while you open it and start writing this post. Maybe if I try to describe what’s going on in my head, greater clarity will be found.

Nope.

You go back to the story and read the 2100 words you’ve written in chapter 19. You like it. You really like it. But you always like the stories when you are in the midst of writing them. Whether anyone else will is another thing altogether. But at this point you’re not writing something with the goal of having strangers like or dislike it. You’re writing because you’ve got this story in your head and there’s absolutely nothing you can do to make it go away…except sit down and write. It is while writing, during that confounding, magical time when you think that maybe writers are a little bit nuts. The whole process reminds me of one of our candidates for President…its like having a worm inside your head.

The Greatest Email of the Year!

This morning there was a very special email in my inbox from On The Water In Maine. I’ve been waiting all year for this one. It begins like this:

“This is the email you have been waiting for! There are now 3 weeks or less until your vacation in Maine!”

Thus begins the happiest time of the year for Pam and her husband. Soon various staging areas will pop up around the house, mostly on the dining room table, as Pam begins to execute her meticulous packing protocols for the trip. The other day she laid out three new bathing suits on the bed, took a photograph, and sent it to me in a text with the words, “Ok, I’m packed and ready to go to Maine.” 

Lucy is getting hyped too. A couple of weeks ago I started reminding her that she would be heading to Maine soon. She always pays close attention when I mention the “M” word, so she is pumped.

This summer will be a little weird in that it will be the first time that neither of our kids will be there since…ever. Kaitlin and Jon will be on a trip to England/Scotland/Ireland celebrating their tenth wedding anniversary, and Patrick and Sarah will be coming up for our fall trip. We do have guests coming so we won’t be up there for six weeks by ourselves, but it will feel different without the kids. Different, but still freaking fabulous.

Here’s the plan: weeks one and two will find us at the enchanting Summer Dreams, one of our favorite camps on Quantabacook. I’ve lost count how many times we have stayed there, but its always delightful…

Yeah…that will do quite nicely. After two weeks of this, we will pack up all of our stuff and head to the other side of the lake for four more weeks at a place we have never stayed before, Fernwood Cottage. A word of explanation seems in order since regular readers of this space will be wondering why we aren’t staying at our beloved Loon Landing. Well, it seems that the owners of that property decided (without consulting me!!) that they will be staying at LL for the entire summer!! The nerve! Fortunately, Tif and Meg, the dynamic duo at OTWIM came to our rescue with this property…

I think we will manage.

So, in a mere 21 days we will depart Short Pump for six weeks in Maine where seldom is heard a discouraging word and the skies are not cloudy all day. At least that’s the plan.

Blanket Lady. An explanation.

This morning I put a photograph on Facebook of a co-passenger of mine on a recent flight to Atlanta. I re-publish it here for your edification…

I have gotten several messages from perplexed readers asking for some sort of explanation. It actually deserves clarification because the actually story is quite hilarious.

So, I don’t fly all that much anymore, only once every three years or so. Years ago Pam and I flew all over the place at least once a year to some exotic location and I always considered flight great fun. This is no longer true due to a variety of reasons, 9/11, COVID, and the fact that human beings are horrible. But, I digress. The issue at hand is what to make of the coat of many colors draped over the middle seat of row 44 on Delta flight 2681 headed for Atlanta.

Before boarding this flight I had made the decision to engage whoever happened to be sitting beside me in conversation, perhaps make a friend, and make the trip go by faster. When I arrived at row 44 I was taken aback by the sight of a large woman wearing a solid pink track-suit with silver gemstones sewn throughout the fabric which gave off a porcupine-like spiked effect. Of course, in order for me to get to my window seat, this lady had to get up and let me in, which turned in to something resembling absurdist theatre. Now, I was facing being trapped against the fuselage of this airplane for the next two hours, unable to escape without a repeat of the difficulties alluded to in that absurdist theatre blast. Anyone who knows me will understand the dread that overtook me at this prospect. But, it had to be done. It was a full flight. There were no other seats available, and I am not a child. I am a grown man and I would have to step up and make the most of this hellish situation. Besides, I had that “make a friend-strike up a conversation” thing going for me.

Once we were all sufficiently wedged into place I thought to begin the conversation by asking her name, but then I noticed that she had earbuds jammed into her ears, attached to her cell phone. No worries, I thought. It can wait. Then I caught a glimpse at the expression of the terrified guy who completed our threesome. He wouldn't even glance in our direction, his right leg dangerously close to being in the line of fire of any future beverage carts later in the flight.

After what seemed an eternity of taxiing down several miles of concrete, the pilot floored it and we were launched down the runway. The next thing I know, my seat mate whipped out this blanket and proceeded to cover herself with it…from head to toe. I caught a glimpse of aisle-seat guy as this was happening and he looked as baffled as I did. She said nothing to either of us while she was engaged in the great covering, but it didn’t take a genius to see that there would be no conversation between me and blanket-lady. So, I settled in and tried my best to drift off to sleep. But then something truly remarkable happened. About an hour or so into the flight I felt a sneeze coming on. Considering the close quarters I tried my best to limit the damage but the sound was probably heard by the good people in row 25. But then suddenly the blanket moved ever so slowly as if the woman was turning her head towards the sound of the sneeze. Then a voice from underneath the fabric, “bless you.” Stunned, I replied, “uh..thank you?” And that was it, the sum total of our conversation. The blanket stayed securely in place until we touched down in Atlanta, whereupon she removed it, stashed it in her carry-on bag without a word, jostled her hair back in place and silently exited the plane.

It should be noted that despite this bizarre experience, my whirlwind 24 hour trip to Atlanta was a raging success. I got to see the Nationals play the Braves with my Son!

What Happens When Democracy Lays an Egg?

Today we pause to remember all of those who made the ultimate sacrifice for our freedom, those men and women killed in the service of their country. This is a good and proper thing. We should never forget them and their willingness to defend our nation, especially since the nation they died to save has lost its way.

It has been said that Democracy is the best form of government to have been created in this world and I believe it to be true. The injustices and gross violations of human rights wrought by both monarchies and the various flavors of communism are fully on display in the historical record. But, what happens when Democracy lays an egg? No form of government is flawless, so it should be expected that eventually Democracy would hock up a hairball. The hairball in question is the 2024 presidential election and the choice the American people will be forced to make between Joe Biden and Donald Trump, two adult diaper-wearing spent fighters speaking gibberish as they shuffle across their campaign stages. This is what the two major political parties have given us. This is the choice we are asked to make. Of course, there is a third party candidate on the ballot…Bobby Kennedy’s boy, who claims that even though a worm ate part of his brain he’s still smarter than the other two guys put together. The Kennedy ego survives.

Is this what the boys who stormed Normandy died to save? The answer is Yes. Democracy is the worst system of government ever devised by the human heart…except for all the others. Even when the wealthiest, most powerful country in the world is reduced to making a choice between two incompetents, at least we get to make that choice. Yes, any system that would offer up these two men to lead us is gravely flawed, and make no mistake—we are reduced. But, this is America. Every four years we get a say on who will lead us. We should be thankful for that right.

Although I am at heart an optimist, it is getting harder and harder to be so as a citizen of this country. In my short lifetime things that would have forever disqualified a person from seeking high office are now worn like a badge of honor. This is something I will never understand. I watch it happening and a part of me thinks, our day has passed. But then the history major in me thinks back to darker times than these and I am reminded that America has overcome worse than even this. If not now, I know that someday we will once again be a nation worthy of the sacrifices made by the men and women we honor today.

The First Two Weeks

It’s been two weeks since my book’s publication day. Reviews have started to come in. Many of you have asked me questions about the story. Many more have asked how sales are going and my answer is—I have no idea. One weird thing I’ve learned about the publishing business is how difficult it is to get information out of…anyone. For instance, royalties are only paid out four times a year, my first such payment won’t arrive until the first week of July, and that will only be for two months of sales. Only then will I know how sales are going. 

It’s been fun hearing people ask me what I was thinking when I wrote this or that part of the story. “Did you do this intentionally? Why did this character react that way? My answers are usually something along the lines of “Don’t read too much into that” or “I’m not sure if that was intentional or not.” It’s hard because I wrote it 12 years ago. If you had asked me these types of questions back then I would have had much clearer answers. Writing fiction is strange. When you’re in the midst of the thing everything is fresh and alive. But years later it’s almost impossible to reintroduce yourself back into the story. It’s like every part of that universe, each character along with their thoughts are forever in suspended animation. 

Reviews are also strange. You would think that I would resent anything negative said about the book. Although I much prefer affirmation where reviews are concerned, it’s been surprising how I have processed the criticism. With very few exceptions I have felt that the negatives have been fair. I read something someone says about this or that and I think, “yeah, I can see that.” Of course, nobody has really panned it so maybe that will feel different. But when you read where someone really understood what you were trying to say and was moved by the story, it’s a great feeling. To make a connection with someone through the written word is a uniquely human interaction, to do so through fiction is magical.

Oh, and yes…I have plenty of copies for sale directly from the author!

Rolling With the Punches

Alert readers will notice that although quite lovely, this is not the Grand Cayman Islands. (It’s a long and throughly modern story full of bureaucratic incompetence, ghastly customer service, and plenty of old fashioned greed.) But first I should point out the obvious truth that Pam and I are lucky to be here in this wonderful condo in North Myrtle Beach for the next several days celebrating 40 years together. The symbolism isn’t lost on us that 40 years of marriage doesn’t happen without a lot of improvisation, much of our happiness together has been about making the most out of busted plans.

Ok, so I suppose I should first admit that all of the trouble started with a mistake made by…me. I was the one who booked our Grand Cayman adventure. I found the resort and booked the flights on Expedia—which will henceforth be referred to as…X. This has always been my job in our marriage. I am the adventure planner. I come up with crazy schemes and then run them by Pam who is either thrilled or silent. Anyway, she was happy with my Cayman idea, but on Tuesday morning happened to mention in passing that she had noticed that our names on the airline tickets were Doug Dunnevant, and Pam Dunnevant, which do not match exactly our names as written on our passports—Douglas Lee Dunnevant and Pamela Jean Dunnevant. “What is your plan for fixing this before we leave,” she asked? Since people in customs look askance at any discrepancy in names on travel documents, I promised her I would fix it right away.

I called X, explained the issue to a thickly accented customer service employee who immediately informed me that in order to change these handful of letters on our airline tickets was going to cost us $250 per ticket. In addition, the tickets would have to be reissued and unfortunately our original flights were no longer available at the original cost, and additional $190 per ticket would be required and oh by the way, the new flights would take 9 and a half hours and require two connections, instead of 5 hours and one connection. 

The following two hours were spent speaking with four separate customer service Nazi’s at both X and American Airlines. In between trying to understand these indecipherable Indian dialects, I was forced to listen to electronic music which must have been composed by a couple of menopausal women in the middle of heat flashes, the kind of humans in so much discomfort that they decided to create the absolute worst music ever written, then put it in a loop and make frustrated customers listen to it for ten minutes at a time until the entire world implodes on itself. At the end of my two hour phone call which managed to set back customer service at least 25 years, I made the executive decision to cut my losses and cancel the Grand Caymans. I was refunded the resort costs and now am in possession of a rather large credit for future flights with American Airlines.

I was devastated by these events, mad at myself for forgetting about the name thing having to match passports, and feeling like a failure for screwing up our anniversary trip. But, I was not about to give up. We had a dog sitter all set up—we had to go somewhere!! 

Somewhere ended up being here, and we intend to make the best of it. This happens to be pretty close to the place where we honeymooned 40 years ago. The entry code for the door to the condo happens to be the last four digits of my cell phone number. Coincidence? 

….I think not.