Thanksgiving with the Vissers

Me: "How big is the turkey?"
Dad: "22 pounds?"
Me: "22 pounds?!"
Dad: "I got the smallest one they had!"
Me: "Where'd you go? The mutant turkey store?"
Staci: "It's a teenage mutant ninja turkey!"

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Mom: "Will you let the dog out?"
Me: "No, she doesn't want to go outside."
Mom: "She looks like she does."
Me: "It's 5 degrees outside. She only thinks she wants to go out."

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During thanksgiving dinner:
Kelly: "You spit all the time."
Bryan: "I only spit if I'm outside."
Kelly: "You make that same snotty noise, though."
Bryan: "I don't spit, I just swallow."
(collective moan)
Dad: "Okay, we're not talking about this!"

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Weston (1.5 years old) was covered in blue frosting from Mom's birthday cake:
"It's like he ate a Smurf!"

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Me: "What sound does a doggy make?"
Weston: "Meow"

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Me: "Do you think Kelly and Bryan will name their other children after towns in Southeast Idaho?"
Staci: "You mean like Preston?"
Me: "How about Malad?"
Staci: "Or Virginia if it's a girl."
Me: "Portage!"

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Staci: "I've never heard this song before."
Me: "It's got Kanye in it."
(pause)
Staci: "I was just trying to imagine a conversation between Jared Leto and Kanye."
Me: "I'll bet they didn't say much."
Staci imitating Kayne: "George Bush hates me."

Over the river and through the woods...

Two weeks ago, I made my annual pilgrimage to Idaho for Thanksgiving. Along with my Utah residency, it has become part of my holiday routine to get into the car Thursday morning for the lonely three hour schlep, salivating all the way.

It's an interesting drive, mostly because the interstate is a completely different experience. Instead of semis barreling cross-country, it's flotillas of mini-vans and SUVs loaded with children descending on grandma's house in Blackfoot or Rexburg. Occasionally, you'll see one of these Mormon assault vehicles pulled off to the side of road, adults scurrying about frantically. It's quite easy to guess that some sort of bodily fluid emergency has occurred. And then there are the typical car shenanigans, like the little girl who had crawled up on the rear dash and was making fish faces against the glass.

The pinnacle of the Thanksgiving tomfoolery, however, was my father's recent purchase: A TURKEY FRYER, because nothing says Thanksgiving like a medieval apparatus that boils oil to sufficient temperature to cook a bird the size of carry on luggage in under an hour. Of course, any device imbued with such great power must also come with great responsible, and the turkey fryer is no exception. And like a toddler with super powers, the turkey fryer has been known to to do the following in the hands of your average trailer park chef:

This is why the turkey fryer is accompanied with all sort of warnings:

1. Don't operate the fryer indoors. (For those of you who thought it would be cool to boil 5 gallons of oil on the kitchen stove.)
2. Make sure the turkey is completely thawed and dry. (Remember how water an oil don't mix? Now picture water and boiling oil.)
3. Turn off the flame before lowering the turkey into the oil. (See figure above.)
4. Do not operate the fryer barefoot. (Really?)

Fortunately, we followed the directions, and our frying went without incident. Looking back, though, I must think about what an odd sight it must have been, the three males of the household, my father in a lawn chair, solemnly gathered around the aluminum pot that contained our Thanksgiving. Rest assured, also, that frying does nothing to diminish the turkey's tryptophan content. I was still quite able to sleep through the football game.

Stuff I like...

My last post was unintentionally whiny. To make up for it, I'd like to highlight a few things that make me happy -- which seems very appropriate this time of year.

• Sleep: I am the king of sleep. Few things make me happier than sleep. Though I have a hard time reaching unconsciousness, nothing short of an air raid siren can wake me up. I set all my alarms (clock radio, cell phone, and atomic clock) to wake up in the morning. On Saturday morning, I love waking up and realizing that I can go straight back to bed. And I don't think I am ever more contented than when I curl up on the downstairs sofa and fall asleep in front of the afternoon football game.

• King size beds: With one of these, it's no wonder I love sleep so much. The ability to lie in bed with nary a hand or foot dangling over is the first step to sleeping nirvana. The great irony is that I only sleep comfortably if I confine myself one side of the bed. If I sleep in the middle, I lose all frame of reference and can't remember where things are when I wake up. Odd, I know, but there's a hidden benefit in that the unused side of the bed is great as a laundry staging area.

• Fresh sheets: does this really need an explanation? Every king size bed needs high thread count sheets, freshly washed. Speaking of, does anybody know which side the scrunchy sides go? I never get it right.

• Grape Nuts: when you stumble out of your king sized bed, you need breakfast. And though I know they are neither grape nor nut, I always have an industrial sized box of Grape Nuts in my pantry. The great thing about Grape Nuts is that they are three different foods depending on how long you leave them in milk. In stage 1, the pea-gravel stage, they function as mouth exfoliant; in stage 2, the soft outer coating lubricates the crunchy center enough so that they slide in between your teeth so that you have a snack for later; and in stage 3, the Grape Nuts and expand and fuse into some sort of impenetrable wheat lattice that is impervious to water and most soaps. (I discovered stage 3 by accident after leaving a bowl of Grape Nuts in the car all day. I envision potential aerospace applications.)

• Costco: Where else can you get an industrial sized box of Grape Nuts, a gallon sized can of semi-liquid nacho cheese product, and those really great uncooked flour tortillas that are just as good as Cafe Rio's? Costco people, Costco. AND, they have an unheard of 90 day return policy on electronics that lets you take back your perfectly good iPod for the new one that costs 100 dollars less? I like Costco so much that I have begun to call it "The Costco" in casual conversation. Don't fear, though, I refuse to say "Wal-Marts"
  

• Sunday Dinner: I am blessed with a mother of no small culinary talent who frequently dazzled on Sunday. She mastered the oven timer with such prowess that the smell of the roast as you came home from church was enough to bring you to your knees. And when I went off to college, she endured countless calls in my quest to recreate that perfect Sunday dinner. I have achieved a measure of success, and now I realize that Sunday seems eerily incomplete without some form of gravy at the afternoon meal. We may have traded the gravy boat for a Pyrex measuring cup (much easier for mass application), but the spirit of Sunday dinner is alive and well at my new house. Even though we're just a houseful of single dudes, there's something sublime about sharing roast medium well roast beef with friends before you go fall asleep in front of the football game.

Reddyville

This house above belonged to my great great grandfather. (Specifically: my mother's father's mother's father.) He was a dry farmer in southeast Idaho. My grandpa spent his childhood summers at this house. Every year, soon after Salt Lake schools let out, grandpa's dad would take the whole family up, and they would spend the summer living there on the farm.

It's hard to imagine what it looked like back in those days. Grandpa reports that It was probably 20 feet by 30 feet altogether. They stayed up in the attic, which was divided into two rooms by blankets hung from a line: boys on one side, girls on the other. They played in the creek, despite the admonitions of their aunt. They searched for lost cows and occasionally milked some. They rode the plow team with long willow switches at the ready to keep the team working together.

Sounds idyllic, doesn't it? Though I dearly love my modern amenities: plumbing, electricity, internet, a big part of me yearns to have spent my summers on a farm like that.

The very real irony for me is that I've driven past this house hundreds and hundreds of times, barely cognizant of its existence. My extended family mostly resides in Salt Lake, while I grew up and consider myself from southeast Idaho. Every single time I've made the trip from Idaho to Salt Lake and back (and in my adult years, the reverse trip), I've passed that house at 75 miles an hour without any thought.

I suppose that intellectually I was aware of its presence, as my mom told me about it on more than one trip while I was engrossed in my GameBoy or some book. It wasn't until I actually sat down with Grandpa and saw this picture that I really thought about the connection of this land to my own life. Driving past it now, you'd think it was unremarkable; the farmland lies fallow and desolate along perhaps the straightest 30 mile section of interstate you've ever seen. And yet, this very land kept my grandpa entertained for months on end.

You can never overestimate the value of knowing where you come from.

New Years

The transition from 2007-2008 is one that will go down in infamy. I'm moderately surprised by this; New Years is traditionally one of the most lackluster holidays. Even holidays that offer zero vacation time (like Halloween) easily trump New Years. In general, I wonder if instead of comparing New Years to Christmas or Thanksgiving, we should compare it to something like Arbor Day to keep our expectations more realistic. At least then you'd be able to say, "Yeah, that was a great New Years -- almost as good as the Flag Day of '99."

But, let's face it, the best New Years you ever celebrated wasn't that much better than the worst New Years you've celebrated. When you're young, you were so excited to stay up late and eat junk food that you tired yourself out well before the ball dropped. And when you get old, you're so tired that you celebrate New Years in EST even though you live in MST. And of course, let us not forget that News Years is second only to birthdays in marking the relentless march of time, just without the presents.

So, how do you celebrate a day such as this? Do you go to a dance? Ick. To a party? How passé. If you do go to these places, you'll inevitable find that one third of the people there are hooked up and anticipating that triumphant New Years kiss; the other third are looking for someone (anyone) for that New Years kiss; and the other third don't know why they are there (in the case of a Mormon party), or just realized that they were only invited to be designated drivers.

That's why I celebrate with the family every year. They've never let me down. Dad slices up the Pepperidge farm beef stick from his stocking, mom makes a veggie tray with enough olives to cover our fingertips, and the sparkling cider flows freely, while we bicker our way through the dice game, Settler's of Catan, Uno, and Scrabble.

This year, however, was a little different. I arrived home the day before New Year's Eve to find the family in various stages of illness. A virulent stomach flu was ravaging the clan. Yet, we soldiered on with our dry toast, green jello, and gallons of sprite, and ended up having a good time in spite of ourselves.

And all was well until the evening of the first day of 2008, when I, the healthy one, was attacked by 2007 while driving home from the holiday. It was terrorism in it's worse form: sudden, unexpected, and demoralizing. It was then, at 85 MPH, on that frigid and clear winter night, somewhere near the Idaho/Utah border, that my sister ralphed ALL OVER the passenger side of my car.

Happy New Year! (to be continued...)

King of White Elephants

Our Christmas Eve tradition involves the typical fare: excessive food, do-it-yourself gingerbread construction, lots of family and friends, and a white elephant gift exchange. For several years, the gift exchange has developed into a war of attrition to see who can bring that one wonderfully terrible gift which is simultaneously appalling, clever, and hilarious. One year, it was a box of potatoes. The next, a 3 foot tall plastic doll accompanied with a bottle of root beer, which was supposed to be a "date." (I ended up with that one...everyone thought it was quite funny -- I humored them.)

Last year's winner was from my brother. He gave, in a very elegant brushed stainless steel frame and signed "Best Wishes", a black and white version of his senior picture. Audacias? Yes. Completely worthless? Yes. Best gift ever? Yes. The fact that it landed in the hands of a recently married 19 year old woman? Priceless.

But, by far, the best gifts are the ones that last from year to year: this is "re-gifting" elevated to the sublime. The plastic doll was one of those. And, in a great irony, my brother's narcissistic picture survived the year in someone's trunk to again be passed around the white elephant circle and land in the hands of my brother's wife -- who is, in all honestly, the only person that might enjoy it.

We all thought that was the coup de grace; the gift of the year, until we we saw this year's gift from my brother, the following weighty tome:


Bryan, you are king of the White Elephants.

Grandpa's Computer

I know all my readers (the two of you) were anxiously waiting to hear what happened with Grandpa's computer. In an earlier post I explained that his computer was on the fritz and needed to serious scolding. The computer parts arrived this week, so I went out there this fine Sunday afternoon to spend the afternoon with them.

Grandpa and I watched football with the TV muted, because neither of us can stand the inane commentary. We talked about the fact that Coke is on sale at Albertson's -- five 12-packs for ten dollars (Grandpa drinks at least two diet cokes a day). We also teased grandma for filling every nook and cranny of the apartment with something (like piling the unused bathtub high with bulk paper products). I also went slightly insane because the battery in their smoke detector is dying and emitting that pitiful chirp every 2 minutes, but neither of them can hear it (Yes, I changed it before I left.)

When it was all said and done, it was a day well spent. Grandpa's computer is running like a champ, we ate some of my homemade lasagna, and I listened to them reminiscings. And while all their stories are interesting, one in particular is worth relating:

When I was about two years old, we lived in a little apartment in southeast Idaho. Grandpa and Grandma stopped by to visit on their way to Salt Lake from their home in Oregon. When they pulled up, I ran out to greet Grandpa, who hoisted my into the air and gave me a big hug. Grandpa says I was "cute as a button." When he put me down, I noticed Grandma opening the car door to get out. I immediately ran over and heaved my tiny body against the door to close it on her! I'm sure my mother was mortified. Grandpa thinks it was hilarious. All I can say is that I guess even at that young age, I was afraid of girls. Some things never change.

Traveling Pants

Growing up, I had a favorite pair of flannel pajamas. Gray, black, and green plaid with big pockets and wide ankle openings. Entirely hideous, but for most of my teenage years, they dutifully filled their role in my repertoire of sleepwear. Imagine my surprise, then, to see this week old picture of my marathon running sister:

Yes ladies and gentlemen, these are/were my flannel pajamas. They are now probably 15 years old. Countless Saturdays growing up, I would pad around the house in these pjs, driving my mother completely insane to know that it was 1 or 2 in the afternoon, and I still "wasn't dressed." Through countless washings and gentle abuse, I nursed these pjs from their stiff and too tight initial state to their current status as an article of well worn comfort.

When I left for college, I decided they were far too unsophisticated for my new intellectual pursuits, so I left them home both as a memento and to be worn on those weekends when my presence would again grace the homestead. But, on one of these return visits, they were conspicuously absent from the cache of clothes I kept at home. It wasn't long until I discovered them on my sister. I saw this as the ultimate affront, and demanded that they be returned and freed from their ignominious fate as female sleepwear. The furtive cry I heard was, "But ... they're so comfortable...!"

I didn't care. Something about college had made their hideousness decidedly cool, so I took them with me for that first year of college. After that year, I went on my mission to Brazil. Given the climate and humidity, I assumed that flannel would not make suitable sleepwear, so I left them home, where there were again subject to rape and pillage by my siblings.

Upon my return, I had to cajole, coerce, and threaten to get most of my things back (I think I'm still missing CDs), but the pjs were already back into my dresser, neatly folded -- waiting to be worn. The borrower finally understood the magic of the pajamas. And that's why, several years later, and just a few months since her recently married self moved to Washington DC, I sent her those ghastly flannels. Maybe they played a role in her finishing the marathon in an amazing 4:20 (that's slightly under 10 minute miles, folks), but I can't really say.

Amber and Nerds

Around noon on Friday my cell phone rang. Being a pretty slow day, I decided to answer it even though I was at work. It was Grandpa. His computer was on the fritz. I get these kind of phone calls all the time from family, but this is the first time from Grandpa. Most people have to endure a little needling from me when they call for computer help: "Sounds like a PBKAC error", "Are you sure it's plugged in?", "Computers only do what you TELL them to do." But I spared Grandpa; anyone who's 82 years old and uses a computer is pretty savvy in my book.

So, I went out to see them this afternoon. When I arrived, the computer seemed to be behaving itself. False alarm. This also happens a lot. Infernal contraption. Once the computer figures out that I'm coming, it decides to behave itself, just like a child that's no longer sick one you suggest that they have to see the doctor. But, for my trouble, Grandpa and Grandma took me out to one of their favorite places, the restaurant Amber.

See, I know what you're thinking. "Amber? That sounds posh." Well, let's clear that misconception right away. My grandma explained that Amber is probably a step below the Chuck-A-Rama. As we walked up, Grandma said, "This is where your parents had their wedding luncheon." Eying the drab brown exterior I asked, "Has it changed much since then?" Grandpa butted in, "I don't think it's changed AT ALL."

Amber is the antithesis of dining today. No rowdy mixed drink menu, no trendy decorations, no overpriced signature dishes. Here, the flatware is from Wal-mart, the mashed potatoes are still instant, and the only lettuce is iceberg. As Grandma put it, "We like this place because it's just ordinary. Ordinary people eating ordinary food." Grandpa then added, "Well, the clientèle does border on geriatric, but we're okay with that."

Anyplace that offers 10 dollar prime rib is okay in my book. I had mine with the instant mashed potatoes, doused in gravy from a mix, and a vegetable medley that I'm guessing made it's journey to the restaurant in a frozen bag. And you know what? It was all deeply satisfying, both the company and the cuisine.

During dinner, Grandma asked me about work. She said that she had tried to explain to one of her neighbors what I do but ended up saying that I was a "computer nerd." She said she thought "computer genius" was a little boastful and hoped that computer nerd was okay. I told her it was just fine by me. It's both a badge of honor and the simplest way to explain my job.

And that's quintessential Grandpa and Grandma. They don't mince words, and in a very complex world, they remind me of how simple life can be. Grandma explained: "Every day, I wake up and say 'Good morning Old Man', and your grandfather says, 'Good morning Old Woman'... Every night, it's 'Good night Old Man' and 'Good night Old Woman.'" Way to tell it like it is, Grandma.

And as I watched them walk out of the restaurant Amber, I watched those two 82 year-olds hold hands. That's them -- food and life: uncomplicated.

Congratulations Kelly and Bryan!

This weekend I was in the land of 10,000 lakes for my brother's wedding. He is now married to a really sweet gal who is easily twice as good as he his, (and he's a pretty good kid, himself.)

It was a truly eventful weekend, in so many ways. On Thursday, the day before the wedding, the Twin Cities were lashed by a crazy powerful storm. There were tornado warnings, marble sized hail, and torrential rains. As the semi-responsible person selected to pick up my aunt at the airport, I was dropping my folks off at the family dinner about the time the storm really picked up steam. In fact, as they ran into the church where we were having the family dinner, you could hear the dissonant howl of the tornado sirens.

As I navigated the streets by GPS, I had the windshield wipers flapping like the wings of a deranged duck, but I still couldn't see more than 20 feet in front of me. The hail sounded like buckets of pebbles poured onto the roof of the car. Everyone on the interstate was driving at ten miles an hour with their flashers on. Cars were pulled over underneath bridges and against the walls that border the roadway.

In retrospect, I was a complete idiot for thinking they'd let my aunt's plane land in that weather, but I went out to the airport anyway, waited a bit, and then received word that her flight had indeed been diverted to Sioux Falls. So, I worked my way back to the dinner, but traffic was still snarled from the weather. Parts of the city had their power knocked out, and there were branches all over the roads. Only a block or two from the church, I saw a telephone pole that had snapped off at the base and was being held up by the power lines themselves. All told, it took me nearly an hour to make it back to the dinner, by which point, everyone was leaving to go see what had happened at Kelly's house during the storm.

As we drove up, her house was totally obscured from view by a fallen tree. The ancient red oak in their yard had been struck by lighting and split nearly right down the center. Half was still standing, the exposed core blackened and scorched, while the other half of the 50 foot tree engulfed the whole yard. Miraculously, the fallen portion landed entirely into the front yard and did no damage to the house at all. By the time we stopped by the next morning around 10, the power was still out on their street, but ward members and family were hard at work dismantling the tree.

In the end, though, the wedding went off as planned, and that's the thing that really struck me about the whole experience: real love isn't deterred. The weather, the tree, the power outage, and all the other little things that might not have gone as planned simply didn't matter. Congratulations Kelly and Bryan!

And, in case you were wondering, the theme song for this trip was Carl Douglas' "Kung Fu Fighting"

Office High Jinks

Have I mentioned that I really do love my job? We have a great, low stress atmosphere, but are still quite productive.

Case in point: today was salsa day. We cleared the conference table off and then filled it with bowls of everyone's different homemade salsas. We sat around sampling the salsa and joking about the Patriots getting fined for spying.

The office is also very family friendly, which is something from which I hope I'll eventually benefit. Right now, a coworker has his four year old in the office as his wife runs some errands. She was running around with long strips of tape on her fingers. In her exuberance, she tripped on the carpet and hurt her ankle, starting to cry. Unconcerned, my coworker starts to talk to her. This is how the conversation went:

Dad: What happened?

Child: Ow! I hurt my ankle! [howls a little]

Dad: Well, are you going to die?

Child: [sniffles] Naw, I guess not.

Dad: Besides, you can't cry in here, people are trying to work.

Child: Oh, okay...

It's amazing that you can have such a logical conversation with someone that still sounds like a chipmunk.

Grandpa and Grandma...

Grandpa and Grandma are two of my favorite people. They've been married for 63 years. That's downright amazing any way you look at it. Like all married couples, they have their little tiffs and bickering, which, more often than not, are hilarious to the casual observer.

Once I called to get directions to their place for an upcoming visit. I got Grandma first, who dutifully transferred me to Grandpa, who began to describe how to find their condo. What follows is a transcript of the phone conversation:

Me: "So, I take I-80 North."

Grandpa: "Yes, take I-80 and get off on 13th East."

Grandma (who we had no idea was still on the phone) interrupts: "Morris! The sign doesn't say 13th East. It says 1300 East."

Grandpa: "LaFonda, I'm sure that John knows that 13th East is the same as 1300 hundred East."

Grandma: "Well, not everyone knows that sort of thing..."

Grandpa: "He's a bright kid, I'm sure he can figure it out..."

Grandma: "... even so, you never ... "

Grandpa: "Fonda, he doesn't take after your side of the family!"


I still laugh about that conversation today. It may have sounded mean, but I assure you it was just a little sparring match to keep things lively. I hope my wife and I are still poking fun at each other when we've been married 63 years.

Fish and Chips

I took yesterday off to go fishing with my Grandpa and brother. There's nothing quite like spending 8 hours on a lake and doing absolutely nothing -- it was man heaven. We didn't even talk that much; just three guys out there, dragging lines our lines in the water as the wind pushed the boat around..

Most of our minimal talking revolved around the tuna fish sandwiches Grandma made us. We wanted to bring those whole roasted chickens, but apparently Grandma was appalled at the thought of her husband and two grandsons out on the boat tearing at a chicken like Neanderthals. We concluded that's exactly WHY we wanted the roasted chicken.

When I got into the office today, I noticed that one of my mischievous coworkers had played with my Mr. Potato Heads. Someone took the bunny ears off of the Easter Potato Head and put them on Darth Tater. How immature is that?!?

Dogs

My parents have just about got all the kids out of the house. We have been replaced by dogs. I don't doubt that the dogs are more well behaved than we ever were...

You know the great irony of the picture above? The golden retriever in the middle isn't even our dog. She belongs to the neighbors, but has taken to sitting on the bench with my folks.