If you ever need to borrow popcorn salt, stop by.
Heads-up to you serious cooks: This special buttery popcorn salt has synthetic cheese in it, I believe, and tiny micro-chips of faux butter. Might be a psychedelic. Might trigger religious re-awakenings.
But you’re welcome to borrow it. I sprinkle buttered popcorn salt on everything, casseroles, pies, my martinis. It’s what they call in the industry — the industry being fatherhood and life – it’s what they call “a Daddy Spice.”
Siracha is also a Daddy Spice. Little packets of taco-stand hot sauce you find in the glove box three years later? Daddy Spice.
By the way, my three best dishes are: 1. Glop (a type of Irish borsht); 2. Drippy-Doo (a type of doo); 3. muckety-muck (a Persian-inspired spaghetti dish).
Recently, I made a sausage-and-pepper dish so bad that the dog wouldn’t even eat it, though my son Smartacus had seconds. He may have just been trying to stay in the will. Even as I admitted defeat, he said: “This isn’t bad, Dad.”
So, to recap, Smartacus is staying in the will, and White Fang is out of the will. I will never make smoked sausage with peppers again, though I thought it would be a simple and hearty dinner, especially when served with week-old bread. Oh well…
Guy food is the only food for me.
Listen, if there were only women in the world, there would be no steakhouses, no tailgates, there would be no little street stands selling bacon-wrapped wieners. Technically, these are all “guy food” locations. They bring us comfort and joy.
You can’t order guy food from a Mackenzie catalog. You can only buy it illegally outside stadiums, or make it yourself, preferably on a work bench in the garage where the high heat and fish oils won’t ruin the tile.
Guy food makes you happy, in that same small way you are happy when you crush the dirty clothes a little further down into the too-full hamper, or skip cleaning the gutters because a football game is on.
When my dear Posh was around, I used to handle all the family laundry, till she realized that for five years I’d been burying it in the backyard, near where we interred the family pets.
It was like Three Mile Island back there. No wonder we could never grow tomatoes.
As I said, took her five years to realize it, so I consider this a solid success and one of my greatest contributions to marriage in general.
I argued that if I’d been burying the dirty clothes in the backyard for five years, and she and the kids hadn’t run out of socks, then it was a beautiful system that reduced a lot of day-to-day stress. It also meant – maybe???? – that she and the kids had waaaaaaay too many clothes.
Only guys understand other guys. You know what I always say: Women are from Target; Men are from Mars. That’s why the two sides have trouble connecting. Totally different time zones.
But when we do connect? Magic.
I’m currently dating someone who appears to be a baroness of some kind, or maybe a viscount. She is the kind of woman who darts off to marry Italian statesmen or Canadian prime ministers.
I’ll never forget Suzanne’s first words to me. One night, in front of a nice restaurant, she said: “Hey dude, could you bring my car around?”
So I did.
Look, life is nasty, life is great. It’s always about how you play your next shot.
The other day, I sent thank-you notes to all my buddies, because I felt a lot of seasonal Hallmarkian pressure, but also because I love them like the brothers I’m glad I never had.
Doesn’t matter if it’s at a tailgate, or over a quick beer, my buddies boost me, understand me, inspire me, disappointment me. It’s like owning a Welsh rugby club.
But, man, do I love them. Dads grind it out every week for 45 years, through bad bosses, bad economies, stupid trends, unappreciative offspring, doing the same thing over and over and over.
And every once in a while, dads wiggle loose and go out for a good time – at which point we talk about:
- Our kids.
- Our relationships.
- The sad state of (pick one): politics, the economy, the Rams.
Women really have no idea the things men talk about.
But I think they’d be pleasantly surprised.
Hope you had a great Thanksgiving. FYI, trying to sell a few books and gin glasses, if you’re in the market. The gin glasses come in sets of four. For info, on the glasses, t-shirts and other merchandise that helps fund this silly venture, please go to ChrisErskineLA.com. Cheers!
Meanwhile, from the kitchens of the lovely oldest daughter and Suzanne, two folks who do know how to cook.