Ode to Feta

Despite the myriad vegetables spending the prime of their lives in the bottom drawer of my refrigerator, this evening I was set to sup on a big bowl of cereal. As I pictured the sweet, sweet red peppers just rotting I was overcome with guilt and changed gears.

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When in Doubt, Shish Kebob

After hemming, hawing, hemming again and finally hawing one last time, I opted out of stuffed red peppers, favoring shish kebobs. In retrospect I guess I could have grilled the stuffed peppers but at the time I didn't think of that. The prospect of spending any amount of time in the kitchen with a 400 degree oven had me reaching for the cereal box, so I went with the kebobs.

If I was going to grill vegetables, I was going to empty the fridge of all veggies. This meant red peppers, onion, portobella mushrooms and russet potatoes. The potatoes would be wrapped in foil and grilled while I assembled the 'bobs; rice twiddling its thumbs on the stove (rice, why are you so slow?). I always estimate 45 minutes for baked potatoes, and I always wait 15 more minutes for them while the rest of the meal gets cold. Tonight was no exception.

During the final plating, I reached into the fridge for the sour cream to top my potato. What sat beneath the sour cream was a container of crumbled feta. I applied a generous portion of that to the vegetables, placed a dollop of sour cream on the potato and sat down to eat. After a quick reflection of things I was thankful for today, I took the first bite.

OH MY GOD, everything was so good. The veggies, rice and feta made for a smörgåsbord of deliciousness. The potato with sour cream, salt and pepper cleansed my palate between bites. Everything was perfect, but the feta made it even perfecter. Jebus that shit was tasty. So tasty in fact, that I sat right down to tell y'all about it.

Feta Cheese, why are you so delicious?

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You Can Learn a Lot From People's Trash

I went for a run this morning around the Josh route in the humidity and threatening thunder clouds. What's great about that route this time of year is that everyone is out getting in their last minute training, and I ran into people I know before, during and again after the run. The boat launch on Stockbridge Bowl in September (or any summer month, really) is a Mecca for finely tuned (and less-than-finely tuned) triathletes.

After the run I walked down to the water to look out on the lake and eat a banana while I cooled down. The water was perfectly calm save the tiny ripples following the handful of man- and woman-powered boats on the water. Mmm, mmmm, mmmmmmm. If it weren't for the humidity, the 72 degree air would have been oh so sweet. As it was, it was only regularly sweet.

I finished my banana and when I tossed it into the trash can I made a keen observation: "Dang, that trash looks funny". Not funny ha-ha, but strange. Then it dawned on me that it wasn't filled with the McDonald's refuse and empty beer cans you normally find in public trash cans, but rather orange and banana peels, Gatorade bottles, yogurt cups and some vitamin enriched water product containers. Yup, this place is frequented by healthy folks. I added my peel to the mix, slugged some water and set forth to mingle with some finely tuned athletes.

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Yet Another Request

While sitting here typing my memoirs, I got a phone call from a woman with whom I run/bike. She had picked up a book on tape by the name of The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid, by Bill Bryson. According to her, somewhere around middle age he left civilization, hiked the Appalachian Trail and now writes books. The reason she called was to tell me that she loved his books so much and that if she just tried a little she could believe they were written by me. As you know, in my small running/biking/paddling circle I've developed a bit of a fan base and she's probably #1 or #2.

Folks, I think opportunity may come a-knocking one of these days in the form of a check from Random House. It's too bad my company will have to close when I leave, and a thousand people will be out of work. That place can't run without me. Oh yeah, and I'll have to close my blog because otherwise none of you would have any reason to buy my book.

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Over and Out,
Old Coot