I’m not sure how proud of this I am, but I should tell this story for history alone. What I remember of it right now was hanging out, and overnights with friends in my basement. There was the work room as it was called was where all the tools were. (These were not my dads tools. The project manager in the house is my mother, but that is for another post. Or several other posts.) The main room had a pool table. Around a corner was a sectional couch that covered two walls and faced the TV. I spent a lot of time hanging out with friends in the basement because we could pretty much make as much noise as we wanted, and my room was too small to hang out in. My parents spent most of their time at night in the TV room on the ground level. The majority of refreshments and snacks were, however, on the ground level. After 10:30 or 11:00pm, I would be hesitant to leave the basement for fear of awakening or disturbing my parents. This left me wandering around in the basement looking for snack ideas. One of those magical evenings, I made a tremendous discovery: my mother had several rolls of frozen chocolate chip cookie dough buried within Downstairs Freezer.

Downstairs Freezer, it should be pointed out, was not an over-glorified cooler, and was not even a chest freezer, but rather a full-sized upright freezer that was in the back corner of the work room. Newman’s buy in bulk (this could explain many things). It’s more efficient that way and you always have what you need. What this also means is that we, out of necessity . . .

…and by necessity I mean, of course, to hearken back to forefathers on the Oregon trail who, if they had freezers instead of salt, would have done the very same thing…

…we, out of necessity maintained a dual-freezer operation. The two-pronged freezing installment allows for deeper inventory and more food options at the ready. Convenient. The multi-faceted freezer strategy also allows for inventory to become foggy. Upstairs Freezer contained everyday items. It was very noticeable if we went from, say, six ice cream bars in an evening to three. As a fat kid I would burn a lot of calories hiding the tracks of shame that led from all of the various snacking venues in my wake, so only one ice cream bar in a night. But if there are six boxes of thin mints downstairs, one (or five) cookies going missing at a time couldn’t be tracked as easily. Again – not necessarily proud of this story.

Towards the back of Downstairs Freezer on the right of the middle shelf there were several logs of frozen cookie dough. As it turns out, your standard metal teaspoon can carve through frozen cookie dough pretty easily, and I know this because many evenings from that night forward were spent passing around the frozen cookie dough log and then returning it to Downstairs Freezer. Growing up with this very special treat taught me that a frozen chocolate chip is better than a defrosted one. ergo a frozen chocolate chip cookie is better than a defrosted one. Not kidding. I’ll fight you over this. This is fact. The creamy and somewhat sugar-gritty dough holds the sharply contrasting burst that comes from striking through frozen chocolate. Simply Majestic.

I told you that, so I could tell you this. I will parlay this into a recipe of sorts, but first a side story about the first night I played Craps. When we Newman’s vacationed, it was often to destinations that featured incredible food, and often featured casino access. Mom taught us blackjack using shells or monopoly money or saltwater taffy as casino chips. That was her game. Dad, Grandma, and Grandpa played Craps. There were dice, some funny shaped stick, lots of money being thrown around, people yelling, people screaming. Very frenetic! A lot going on. Much more interesting to watch. And watch I always would. One night, when it was my grandmother’s turn to role, she asked the pit boss if her grandson could roll for her. If you’ve never rolled at a Craps table, it is quite the experience.

Imagine being the best surgeon at a teaching hospital. Step into the OR. Everyone is looking at you as you step to the table. Someone’s only job is to hand you the things you need. There is someone else calling out everything you do, because everyone wants to know. And everyone is watching you as you work. Reacting to everything you do.

This is being the roller at a Craps table. Step up to the table. Everyone is looking at you as you do so. Someone’s only job is to hand you the dice you need. There is someone calling out everything you do, because everyone wants to know. And everyone is watching you as you work. Reacting to everything you do.

I don’t know if you know this about me, but I don’t run from the spotlight. So this was quite the experience for me. I stepped up to the table. Grandma to my right, Grandpa to her right, and my Dad to my left. A huge intimidating expanse of green felt laid out in front of me. It’s Electric! Boogie-woogie Woogie! To start, everyone is shouting “Whirl!,” “Yo!,” “Hi-low!,” “Horn!,” “C and E!,” “Any Crap and a two-way Yo!” Chips of various colors are being literally thrown everywhere, and a team of three “dealers” are making them into little piles presumably anywhere.

With fervent efficiency the betting wraps up. “Dice out!”

Everyone draws silent as a man with a long stick with a short L-shaped end, like the profile of a very tall stick figure with tiny feet, or the world’s most ridiculous hockey stick, slides me the dice. The series of throws which follow I had no understanding of at the time, so I can’t remember most details, save two:

My grandmother would keep shouting “Whirl!!!”, and then put more money in front of me.

and…

At one point a very wealthy looking man with a huge cowboy hat walked down from the other side of the table and handed me a green chip and thanked me for making him such a tremendous amount of money. I remember the hat because it seems so cliché.

The “Whirl” that my grandmother was so overjoyed by is a single-roll bet that is placed before the “come-out,” or first role. It pays if a 2,3,11, or 12 is thrown, and pushes for any seven. It’s an ironically-termed “risk-management bet,” and it was winning her so much money that she started betting it for me, $5 every couple of rolls. “Whirl for Jeff!”, “Whirl for Jeff!” The profits from which left me with in excess of $75 plus the green chip ($25) the man in the impressive hat gave me. So it was some few dollars over $100. Which adjusted for how old I was (13?) and how much things have changed, that would be like finding $1.24 million in the change cup of a vending machine. Later that same night I had a chocolate chip cookie. That’s what made me think of that story.

What you need to know on the subject of cookies is this: most of you have been eating your longer-than-ten-minutes-old chocolate chip cookies wrong your whole lives. I specify longer than 10 minutes because I am many things, but I am not so bold as to deny the wonder that is a warm chocolate chip cookie. Enjoy them. They are great. But here’s what you do:

Cookie dough in oven. Undercooked. Cool. Frozen. Done. Eat from freezer. You’re welcome.

and…

The fat-kid-can’t-wait hot alternative is frozen cookie dough in a bowl. Microwave. 45 seconds.

You’re also welcome.

Both of these attack, from very different angles, the undeniable truth that cold chocolate chips in association with gooey or chewy cookie dough is your mouthparts in communication with, if only for a moment, wherever or whatever you think Nirvana (noun) is. None of my timely “Nirvana” (band; also noun), jokes seem to fit here because Kurt died when I was in fifth grade and it’s still too soon for me to talk about. Seriously.

The frozen chocolate chip cookie thing, though. It’s everything you ever needed to know. It’s magic. Give it a Whirl!

I Don’t Know If You Know This About Me, but I went to school at Purdue University, home of the Boilermakers, in beautiful West Lafayette, Indiana. When the various athletic teams are not playing, if you aren’t endlessly entertained by staring at corn, it turns out, there isn’t an incredible amount to do in northern Indiana. This meant that with occasion, My Friend and Yours, Andy Martin and I would plant ourselves in the window seat at Harry’s Chocolate Shop, Home of the Great Indoorsman (Go Ugly Early!)

I Don’t Know If You Know This About Me, but I love all things orange, but more on that later. Here’s what’s crazy about life: you never ever know if today will be the day you meet the new most important person in your life, or if later this afternoon, you’ll make a discovery that will change how you make decisions, or even if tonight will be the night you bridge a logical connection in your thoughts that lifts untold weight from your shoulders and stress from your chest. It is due to this unknowing that you must be constantly vigilent; ready to take in and react to anything the world might throw at you. Many years ago, on just any old day, I was given a gift that has stayed with me every day, and has even grown and developed with me as I’ve gotten older and wiser. To understand the impact of this gift, let’s consider for a moment the epic pairings of our time:

Ground coffee beans and hot water

Jobs and Woz

Peanut butter and burgers

Cheese and anything

This list obviously could not be complete without adding spinach and feta.

Feta – crumbly, sharp, salty, perfect.

Spinach – subtle flavor base, almost creamy, and Popeye. Hello?

Ultimately the Greeks win, as they have long held onto one of the hightest plateau’s in the culinary world — inventor of Spanikopita. Layers of phyllo dough (buttery, flaky amazingness – think outer croissant layer) seperate layers of more butter, spinach, and feta. Perfection. If you know a greek family, see if they make it. My high school girlfriend was greek. Her Mema (grandma) was off-the-boat Greek. No english, yes mustache, and I estimate 3.5 ft tall and 3 ft wide. Picture a wrinklier Danny Devito, but with hair. The things they did with feta in that house still bring a smile to my face. (see also Tiropitakia) But let’s get back to my gift.

I was in the kitchen of my aunt’s house. She at the time was big into weight watchers, and had a low-points recipe she thought I might enjoy. (my immediate family spent a lot of my youth trying to talk to me about my weight without talking about my weight). Let’s take a minute to examine different world views. People in weight watchers see the world as a series of points, and eat food like they play golf — always trying to shave points and get the lowest score possible. Fat kids see the world as a series of flavor profiles and textures, endlessly focused on finding new favorites, while shoving as many of the existing favorites into our faces as we can. The sheer volume of Mountain Dew I would consume in a day was a gentle combination of awesome and suicidal. And orange Gatorade. Oh, my! Orange gatorade.

Quick side note: So the average sized human might reach for a 20 oz. after a workout.

Lots of sugar and calories. Electrolytes, which apparently are important, and a size that should satiate most. This looked like a shot glass back in the day to me.

A long, enduring day spelunking or mountain climbing or preseason two-a-day practices or something like that might call for something a little more substantial. 32 oz. This used to be cracked open, tilted back, and it was gone before it left my lips again.

The 64 oz is the one you’d buy and throw in the fridge for the week. I was putting down 15/week. Thats on top of the Mountain Dew. (again, I’m not proud, merely reporting)

x15

Additional side note, and this particular topic will get more attention when the time comes, but for the moment it’s important for you to understand that orange is far and away the greatest color/flavor for food ever.

Ever.

EVER.

I’m not supposing. I’m not estimating. I’m stating a fact. Fruit. Starbursts. Gatorade. Skittles. Scented markers. Don’t even get me started on Tic Tacs. Everything is better when flavored orange. I know my homeslice Morris knows what I’m talking about… Point being – as I was listening to my Aunt describe what, at the time, was probably an incredibly healthy item, all I could hear were opportunities to fatten it up.

Here is what it has become: Cottage Cheese, a metric ton of shredded cheese, flour, and eggs give this a quishe-y quality. It’s sorta soufflé-ish. Kinda casserole-y. Add diced tomato, sun dried or otherwise, depending on preference, onion, spinach, feta, seasoned appropriately, baked until the top and edges get golden and crispy perfect. In a 9×13 it’s shorter and has more surface area so it will be more firm. In an 8×8 it will be taller and mushier in the middle. Both are delicious and neither are the wrong decision. Another phenomenal choice would be to line the pan with phyllo dough. Simply incredible.

Now, for those of you who have stuck around, I’ll unlock another secret for you: you were NOT reading a typo, but rather one of the most important social and scientific discoveries of our time, when you noticed I recommended pairing peanut butter and cheeseburgers. West Lafayette, Indiana is home to many things: The Purdue Boilermakers (Go Boilers!), The Boilermaker Special(which I have had the honor of driving), and XXX Burger (On the hill, but on the level since 1929). XXX is a all day diner, and where one might end up after a night at Harry’s (read about Harry’s in this post). XXX is home to another of my greatest discoveries, the Duane E. Purvis All American Burger.

A burger for the more adventurous! A 1/4 lb. of 100% ground sirloin with thick,
creamy peanut butter served on a toasted sesame seed bun with melted
American cheese, lettuce, tomato, pickle, and onion. A very special treat!

I’m not one for bold statements, but I have only two words: life changing.

Now for those of you who are cursing my name, or wrinkling your face in disgust, know this: that face you’re making is NOT cute, and you need to stop. Second – you’re wrong and the sooner you know it, the sooner you can move into a life where you benefit from such incredible knowledge. Knowledge is power, and more on that soon, but for those of you who are into history and causation, I’m fairly certain that when Steve and Steve melded minds and created the company that brought you the device you’re most likely reading this on (or the device you wish you were reading this on) they had sat down moments before and feasted on burgers with peanut butter, and some or several combinations of spinach and feta.

My parents kept an impressive liquor cabinent in the house, a fact I was almost entirely unaware of until I got to college and discovered alcohol. I was far too busy in high school for any of that. Dad was a scotch man, and though the everyday scotch was Dewer’s White Label, up in the back on the top were always a few of the Glens. Glenmorangie, Glenfarclas, Glenlivet, Glen Garioch, Glenfiddich, you know…the Glens.

Now – there are many benefits of being raised by an older sister and a mother who is the primary disciplinarian. I am, among other things, a great shopping companion. I instinctively carry bags and open doors. I have valid and reasonable things to say about fashion, and also know when not to share those things. Also – I am a planner. Many would debate whether this is a good or bad thing. It is unquestionably, however, who I am. And for those of you in my life now who think you are the first to determine this about me, My Friend and Yours, Andy Martin has been calling me “Plan Nerd” since somtime after Y2K and before 9-11. This is a much better nick name than many others in college got from Andy or myself. A mutual acquaintance in a social organization we were both a part of was “The Fun Sponge” because she could suck the fun out of any room. There was also “Rats” who was called such because her breath often smelled as if she had just recently been chewing on rats. “76” was another one we knew. He earned many nicknames, but this one came after he told a very long and very uncomfortable story about how he paid $75 for a happy ending at a gentleman’s club and still had to pay a dollar for the jukebox. Another time, this gem of a human, 76, answered a phone call from his girlfriend while he was in his car cheating on his girlfriend. I’ll spare the details, as I wish I hadn’t ever heard them, but he stayed on the phone while “not-girlfriend” was in the act. There were good nick names as well. “Hot Kathy” was a girl named Kathy who was hot. (Our wordplay wasn’t always super duper clever, just most of the time) And “Where the Wild Things Are” was a girl we were both “interested in” who had all the characters from the book tattooed everywhere. Neither of us ever saw all of them, but we did want to go “Where the Wild Things Are.” Andy and I were both called “Captain Peer Pressure” at times, in part because of one of our favorite bar games called “Prove It.” (Think “That’s what she said,” but funnier, and often with a much more entertaining outcome. Also – more interesting to say, as you can linger on the “it,” as encouragement.) Try it. It’s fun. “Prove Iiiiiiiiiitttttt!!!” All of these nicknames were used around said individuals, with the exception of “Rats” and “The Fun Sponge.” But I digress.

I am a plan nerd. This also makes me a pretty decent host. Come to one of my dinner parties and try and tell me otherwise. Everyone who is any good at anything started by learning. I’ve learned many important lessons from many important people. Here are a few.

The whole family was over, probably for Thanksgiving or something, and I was getting drink orders for the guests. I was young and always on alert for ways to make mom and dad proud. My Uncle Welles has worn many hats in his day. In addition to Uncle, Father, and Mentor, he has skills in carpentry, banking, and general awesomness. I was always very excited whenever he came by. Uncle Welles wanted scotch, and I knew big events called for the good stuff. Usually the stuff all the way on top. On this particular day was the 18 year single malt Glenmorangie. Always wanting everyone to have just what they want, I offered a few ice cubes for his drink.

He looked at me in that uncle way. It was a look of concern and a little confusion. Had I done something wrong?

When my parents gave me this look, I worried if I was in trouble or about to be. When Uncles give this look, its seems to mean “Oh, dear, we have so many things to teach you.”

“Jeffrey,” he said. “A wonderful, dedicated, and focused group of people spent 18 long years removing all the water from this fine fine creation. We shouldn’t dare put any back in.”

Noted.

Next – Also Thanksgiving. Uncle Mark this time. A year or two prior I had taken over turkey carving duties. This was a responsibility I took very seriously. Thanksgiving was always the biggest event of the year in the Newman household. Prep would begin days ahead of time, and the day of was always amazing. 20-30 family members crammed around several tables side by side. We’d move the couches out of the living room to fit everyone in. This was the one day a year my father cooked. (This has changed in his semi-retirement, but my whole childhood, the one or two nights a month he was in charge of dinner would usually mean KFC.) Cutting the turkey was the last event before the meal began, so it’s importance was magnified. As people were making it to the table, and I was filling the serving platter with steamy, juicy, incredibly fragrant, delicious turkey. It was as I was finishing up that Uncle Mark wandered by my carving station. “Let me show you something you’ll love,” he said as he reached towards my serving platter.

You know how they say never to try and pet a dog while they are eating, for fear they will instinctively bite in defense of their food? A similar warning should be delivered to anyone reaching towards delicious foods within proximity of fat kids. Especially when they wield large carving knives. My brain thankfully overtook my instincts and I did not chop off my uncle’s fingers.
He reached for a piece of skin (now he was pushing his luck), grabbed a juicy piece of dark meat, wrapped the skin around it, and a few shakes of salt later, it was gone. “That,” he said “is the best thing about Thanksgiving.”

I tried it. . .

OK. Listen. If God or Gaia or Buddha or whomever you do or do not believe in were to put together amuse-bouches, this would, without question, be on the plate.

If I had to choose between those bite sized morsels, and everything else in the oeuvre of Thanksgiving, it would not be a difficult choice.

If anyone else ever offers to carve the turkey going forward, I would fight them, for fear it would inhibit my access to this wonderment,. . . and J-Bird  does not get a pass just because I gave him life.

Uncle Mark said this was the best food at Thanksgiving, and not only was he right, I was mad at everyone with whom I’ve shared Thanksgiving for not bringing this to my attention earlier…

Fat kid side note:

Most people burn emotional calories worrying about the fat and calories they have consumed.
Fat kids burn emotional calories worrying about the fat and calories they haven’t.

There are so many important lessons I have learned from so many important people. These were two. More to come, and thanks for tuning in. If you liked this – share it with someone important.