Molly's Muffins

 as featured in Desert Exposure Magazine

  

RaisingDad

by Jim and Henry Duchene

 

Molly's Muffins

“it would have been nice”

   

My wife is not only beautiful but she’s also very generous. More generous than I am, that’s for sure. 

     We were at Molly’s Cafe this morning and my wife saw a young gentleman in a wheelchair. He was missing a leg.

     “Do you see that man?” she asked me.

     “No,” I said. 

     I told her no, not because I didn’t see him, but because I knew saying yes would cost me money.

     My wife wasn’t fooled. 

     “Your father was in the military,” she said, chastising me with a sharp elbow to the ribs. She was disgusted by my financial thriftiness. Getting up, she walked over to the young man.

     “Thank you for your service,” she told him, her eyes moist with tears. “I’d be honored to pay for your food.”

     “I was in a car accident,” the young man told her.

     He must have seen her embarrassment because he quickly added, “But you can still pay for my food.”

     My wife told me it was a long walk back to our table.

     “Now you know why I don’t do any good deeds,” I told her. I didn’t laugh because, man, her elbows hurt. 

     She's right, though. She usually is. My father was in the service. It would have been nice if someone had bought him a meal when he was heading home from the war. All he had was a bus ticket and fifty cents in his pocket. 

     Oh, and yellow skin.

     He had been stationed in the Philippines and had caught a nasty case of malaria when his discharge papers came through. As soon as he was well enough to be kicked out, he was sent on his way, yellow skin and all.  “Don’t let the door hit’cha where the good Lord split’cha,” the Army told him. Maybe they do things differently these days. Judging by the number of homeless veterans there are, maybe not.

     I show my appreciation for his service as a soldier and a father by performing the occasional good deed for him and then not complaining when those good deeds go wrong. That’s why I bought muffins on our way out of the cafe. He likes muffins, especially Molly’s. They’re even better than the food, and the food is excellent. I bought a variety, two of which were bran. They came in a clear plastic container that held exactly six.

     "Hungry?” I asked him as I walked into the house. "I‘ve got muffins."

     “Molly’s?” he asked.

     “Molly’s” I answered.

     "Ooooweee," he squealed.

     He was so excited he even got up from his favorite chair and forgot all about whatever baseball game he was sleeping through. I put the container down on the kitchen counter and went to get a glass of milk.

     "You want some?" I asked.

     "You bet," he answered. 

     So I got two glasses, took a gallon out of the refrigerator, and poured the milk. I’m following Fran Drescher's anti-white diet, so I added some chocolate syrup to my milk. That changed the color. Problem solved. Meanwhile, my father sauntered over to the container and opened it up.

     "There's two bran muffins in there," I told him, because he’s always complaining his photon torpedoes won’t fire, if you Star Trek fans get my drift.

     He doesn't say anything. What he does is...

     He begins TOUCHING the muffins. ALL of them. He presses down on one, then presses down on another. Testing their sponginess, I reckon.

     I didn't say anything, because, well, I was flabbergasted. I don't know why he was fondling the muffins. Maybe he was deciding which muffin to eat by its ability to spring back to its natural roundness. 

     I placed his glass of milk in front of him.

     "Which one do you want, son?" he asked me, still squeezing the Charmin.

     "I bought them for you, pop," I told him after a pause. "Go to town."

     "Oh boy," he said, and dug in.

     My wife walked into the kitchen right then, a pastry-craving sparkle in her eyes.

     "You want a muffin?” my father asked her.

     I shook my head to her. My father didn't see me. He was too busy eating.

     "No… thanks?” she said, making a statement sound like a question.

     “More for me,” he said.

     My wife looked at me, the sparkle in her eyes changing to curiosity, but she took my hint. Being married as long as we have, she gets the little nuances that might otherwise go missed. 

     Later, I told her what happened.

     "And you didn't want to eat a muffin because of that?" she said, trying to make me feel guilty.

     But I know my wife. She doesn't like people molesting her food either. If my father doesn’t finish the muffins then they will go uneaten. 

     I get those little nuances, too. 

  

    ************************

What kind of muffins do ghosts eat this time of year?

Boo-berry.

theduchenebrothers@gmail.com

@Alacazowie

  

A Big Sandwich

 as featured in Desert Exposure Magazine 

 

RaisingDad

by Jim and Henry Duchene

A Big Sandwich

“my own personal peccadillo”

   

My father just got over a cold that almost left us with an empty bedroom that would have converted nicely into an office for me. Still, the rest of us are not without our own issues. Just the other night I thoughtfully brought my beautiful wife two aspirins as she sat in bed reading.

     "What are these for? " she asked. "I don't have a headache."

     "Then it's a good thing you're already in bed," I said, giving her a lascivious wink.

     Okay, so that's an old joke... but it's not far from the truth. 

     My own personal peccadillo has given me a new eating schedule. I only eat twice a day, which isn't bad, BUT--and, as you can see, it's a big "but"--I can't have any bread or bread-like substances, and THAT'S what's killing me. I'm a BIG bread eater. Well, make that used to be. I'm not any longer. On the plus side, I can have all the fruit I want, which is another way of saying I go to the bathroom a lot. 

     The reason for this is my weight has ballooned to none-of-your-business proportions, enough that I had to take drastic action. I remembered reading in a book by Fran Drescher* that she was on a non-white diet. That is, she wouldn't eat anything white. That left out white rice, potatoes, dairy... and bread. It made sense to me. A lot of empty calories in white sugar and starch. If I was in half as good shape as Fran Drescher I could box in the Olympics, if you get my drift.

     But bread? 

     Man, that's all I live for. As a kid, I was famous for making anything into a sandwich. Even soup.** What has all this got to do with the story I want to tell you? Well, hang on. I'm getting to that.

     Today my wife drove my father to the PX. He wanted to do some shopping and she wanted to empty our bank account there, too. I tell her she doesn't have to spend money everywhere she goes, but, to tell the truth, when it comes to the PX I only pretend to mind because she always brings me back one of their sandwiches.

     It's a big sandwich. A BIG sandwich. So big it would be worshipped as a god in some impoverished third world nation. However, because of my new diet I told her I would just share with my father. He always gets one and he never finishes it.

     I won't lie to you, by the time they got back I was hungry. Really hungry. My father was all smiles. He was hungry, too. 

     I was at the kitchen table paying our bills. My father came in carrying the one styrofoam container the sandwich came in, while my wife had an armload of plastic grocery bags.

     "Do you need some help, sweetie?" I asked her.

     "No," she said. "I'm fine."

     That was good. I didn't want to stop in the middle of finding out how much money I owed everybody. I have no problem spending money, I just have a problem wasting money, but that's neither here nor there. Which is more than you can say about my money. It's here, but soon it will be there. 

     As my father sat the container on the counter he started. 

     Cough, cough! Sniff! 

     He covered his mouth and nose with his hands. 

     Cough, cough! Sniff, sniff! 

     I think you know where I'm going with this.

     I'm not a germaphobe, but I don't care to have snot all over my food. Sure, that might happen in restaurants, but as long as I don't know about it, it doesn't bother me. 

     The sandwich, undisturbed, slumbered deliciously in its cradle. I was hoping my wife would hurry up and use the wisdom of Solomon on it, but she began unpacking the grocery bags instead. I'd have cut the sandwich in half myself, but my father would have taken offense. When my wife does it, he just sees it as her catering to him. For some reason, he feels entitled to being catered to. Gone are the days when he'd fend for himself. Good thing he didn't have that kind of attitude during the war or else we'd all be speaking another language. 

     As far as my sharing his sandwich, well, it was not meant to be. My father lifted the lid on the styrofoam container, took the sandwich out, and placed it on a plate. All the while...

     Cough, cough! Sniff, sniff! COUGH! COUGH! COUGH! 

     Right on the sandwich. 

     He lifted a knife.

     "How big a piece do you want?" he asked me. Cough!

     I looked at my wife. She was too busy putting away the groceries to notice. 

     "Nevermind about the sandwich, pop," I told him. "It has bread and that's no longer on my menu."

     "More for me," he acknowledged.

     My wife, who hears everything, asked, "Do you want me to cook you something?"

     She’s wonderful that way.

     "No, thanks,” I told her, "I'm not hungry." 

     Anymore.   

     I decided to stick to my diet. I've lost eight pounds in two weeks, and since I'm going to bed hungry...

     I guess I'll be losing a little more. 

  

    ************************

*Don't judge me. I love The Nanny. **Don't judge me. I was a kid. ***Don't judge me. I'm VERY regular.

theduchenebrothers@gmail.com

@Alacazowie

  

Persnickety

 as featured in Desert Exposure Magazine

  

RaisingDad

by Jim and Henry Duchene

 

Persnickety

“the trouble with getting old”

   

I’d like to thank all my readers who wished me well in the aftermath of my full knee replacement surgery. I call it that to make the experience sound more dramatic than it actually was, but I’d like you to know that I didn’t mention my surgery as  a way to garner sympathy. I mentioned it hoping someone would start a Go Fund Me account.

     Of course, I’m only kidding.

     Well wishes weren’t necessary, my friends, but they were very much appreciated. It’s always nice to know that someone is out there reading these words I write, although recent correspondences have been more along the lines of “Where’s the end of your story?” 

     Just so you know, I have nothing to do with that, but the situation is similar to the old National Lampoon Radio Hour shows from back in the 70s. It was a very funny hour-long show that eventually became a half-hour show. The Lampoon was upset at what it considered a demotion, so it didn’t bother updating the name to reflect the change and, in fact, began to end every half-hour episode with an enthusiastic reminder to “stay tuned for the second half of our show!” 

     This led to a lot of angry calls from angry listeners to the radio stations which carried the show, and, believe me, you don’t want a gaggle of angry hippies after you. To get even they might just fall asleep on your lawn.

     I don't like to think of myself as old. I like to think of myself more as 25 plus shipping and handling, but all these aches and pains, I don't know where they come from. That's the trouble with becoming a senior. You never know if a particular ache or pain is a normal part of the aging process or something to go see a doctor about.

     That reminds me of a joke:

     A man goes to the doctor.

     "Doctor, it hurts when I do this," he tells him, lifting his arm.

     "Then don't do that," the doctor says.

     I’m not much for seeing doctors and neither is my father. The last time he was there his doctor, a friendly chap, told him, “You’re healthy for your age. In fact, you’ll live well into your 90s.”

     “I’m ALREADY well into my 90s,” my father groused

     “See?” the doctor said. “I’m never wrong.”

     I have an uncle who has long suffered from tinnitus. The first time he complained his ears were ringing, his doctor jokingly told him not to answer it.

     My new knee has been healing for about six months now, but my leg still aches. I don’t like taking pain killers, so I asked my doctor what else I could do for the pain

     “You could limp,” he suggested.

     I’ve discovered it’s the little things you miss after having your knee replaced. Like crossing your legs. It feels like I haven’t crossed my legs since disco was a thing. And don’t get me started on the delicate ins and outs of getting on and off the toilet. 

     The first time I went to physical therapy, my therapist asked what my main goal was in recovery.

     “To put on my socks,” I told her.

     She gave me a funny look, like she was expecting something more challenging, like climbing Mount Everest, but, no. I sincerely wanted to put on my own socks without having to ask my wife for help. I don’t want her seeing me as weak.

     It’s like the man who had delicate surgery on his hands. After the operation he asked the surgeon, “Will I be able to play the piano?”

     “Of course,” the surgeon assured him.

     “Good,” the man replied, “because I couldn’t before.”

     My wife recently had a bloody nose. Then she had another one. She had one for FOUR days in a row. It was only when  she woke up with a bloody pillow that she finally decided to get treatment. I told her she would be fine, but you never know. I was worried but pretended not to be.

     We went to an urgent care facility and sat in the waiting area. The man behind us sneezed. I would have said "Bless you,' but I didn't want to encourage him.

     “Hmm..." the doctor told her. "Your nostrils look angry."

     We'd laugh about that later because, well, what do angry nostrils look like? Turns out, her nostrils were irritated—from what, we didn’t know— so she was given various medicines and ointments to administer to herself. Fortunately, she hasn’t had a nosebleed since.

     To celebrate, we went to a fancy restaurant. A little FYI: restaurants can be a bit persnickety when it comes to substitutions. Although the waiter recognized my name and said he liked my column, he STILL wouldn’t let me substitute my broccoli for a glass of wine. But I’m not talking about waiters, I’m talking about doctors, so let me continue.

     In true Henny Youngman fashion, my much older and less attractive brother went in for a checkup. Seems he recently began feeling lightheaded, so he tells the doctor, "Doc, I get dizzy when I get up. It’s worse when I get up fast."

     With a concerned look, the doctor told him, "Then don’t get up so fast,” and left.

  

    ************************

I played hide & seek in the hospital.

They found me in the ICU.

theduchenebrothers@gmail.com

@Alacazowie

  

Fast Food Favorites

 RaisingDad

by Jim and Henry Duchene

Fast Food Favorites

“Who stole my Dilly Bar?”

   

My two favorite fast food restaurants are Dairy Queen and Chick-fil-A.

     Let me tell you why.

     It’s not just the Pumpkin Pie Blizzards and Peppermint Shakes, which are available seasonally. It’s the free food I get with each purchase. You see, at the bottom of their receipts are online surveys. Take them and, for your trouble, you'll earn a complimentary Dilly Bar at Dairy Queen or chicken sandwich at Chick-fil-A. And free, my friends, is my preferred price point.

     Unfortunately, the offer only comes out occasionally on the Chick-fil-A receipts, while they’re on the bottom of every Dairy Queen receipt. That makes Dairy Queen my favorite fast food restaurant by default. If you think I can be easily bought, you’re right.

     The only problem is, unless Dairy Queen’s policy has changed, customers can only get a free Dilly Bar once every thirty days. I think this is a scam, because why shouldn’t faithful Dairy Queen customers qualify for a free Dilly Bar with every purchase? When I go back for the free Dilly Bar, I usually buy something else, so that would be a sale they wouldn’t have gotten otherwise. Despite what it sounds like, I’m not cheap. Just frugal. Although, when I die, I’m sure when I go toward the light I’ll probably turn it off as I pass. 

     I get around the 30-day stipulation by first taking the survey on my computer. The next survey I’ll fill out on my smartphone. After that I’ll use my iPad. Then I’ll borrow my wife’s phone. Or my daughter's. As long as I have a family I’ll never run out of Dilly Bars.

     I go to Dairy Queen once a week. On Mondays, I take my nine-year-old granddaughter to her piano lesson, and, on the way back, I treat her to a kid’s meal. Usually a cheeseburger. She likes it plain and dry. She won’t eat it otherwise.

     “I want nothing on it but the cheese and patty,” I tell whoever is behind the cash register. “No lettuce, no tomatoes, no pickles. No mustard, no mayonnaise, no special sauces.”

     So far they’ve always gotten my order right, but you’d be surprised how often employees at other fast food franchises get an order wrong. I don’t want to name names, but, if you're familiar with the song The Name Game by Shirley Ellis, it rhymes with banana-fana-fo-fonalds.

     “Please, please, please make sure the fries are hot,” I’ll continue, because lukewarm fries are another deal-breaker.

     I don’t know why she’s so picky. Myself, I can eat anything. My wife, who is beautiful but also particular, doesn't understand how I can  eat something that didn’t come exactly as advertised.

     “I thought you ordered a hamburger.”

     “I did.”

     “That’s a fish sandwich.”

     “I’ll survive.”

     Now the reason I told you all that is because I ran into a situation recently. It was bedtime, and I was at the tail end of filling out one of those surveys. I only had a few questions left when my granddaughter came into my room.

     “Can you tuck me in?” she asked.

     She likes me to tuck her in.

     “I’ll be there in a minute,” I told her.

     Her eyes widened. I had never not jumped to her command before. I’m not saying she has me wrapped around her little finger, but if I did I wouldn’t be lying.

     “Why?” she wanted to know.

     “I’m doing a survey for a free Dilly Bar and I only have a few questions left,” I told her.

     She lowered her eyes.

     “You love Dilly Bars more than you love me,” she said and left the room.

     “Is grandpa going to tuck you in?” I heard her mother ask as she passed the living room.

     “All he cares about is his Dilly Bars,” she said.

     I hate to say it, but I finished the survey anyway. After writing  down the validation number, I put away my computer and went to tuck her in. She was already in bed.

     “You love Dilly Bars more than you love me,” she repeated.

     “That's not true," I told her, “I love you more than anything.”

     “Except Dilly Bars.”

     “I love you more than Dilly Bars,” I assured her.

     “More than Dilly Bars?” she said.

     “Of course I do.”

     “How about pizza?”

     “Yes, more than pizza.”

     “Even hamburgers?”
    “Even hamburgers.”

     She was satisfied, and I was able to kiss her goodnight without further incident.

     The next day, I came home after being out and my wife had some bad news for me. My granddaughter had eaten my last Dilly Bar.

     “Don’t tell grandpa,” she told her grandmother. “He’ll get mad.”

   

 ************************

I don't eat snails because I prefer fast food.

theduchenebrothers@gmail.com

@Alacazowie

  

Guilty Me

 as featured in Desert Exposure Magazine

 

RaisingDad

by Jim and Henry Duchene

Guilty Me

“adventures in chicken land”

   

My eight-year-old granddaughter and I were on the west side of town picking up her new glasses. We live on the far east side of town. Why we had to drive all this way, you'll have to ask my wife. She's beautiful, but she has no sense of distance.

     “Are you hungry?” I asked her as we left the eyeglass store.

     “A little,” she said.

     “What would you like?”

     “Chick-fil-A.”

     Fortunately, there’s always one close by. The last time we stopped at this particular one we took our food to a hiking trail and had an adventure. That was before the Great Toilet Paper Shortage. She must have been five or so. The time before that she was four. We were sitting next to the playground, but the rule was she had to finish eating her food before she could play. A lady was sitting next to us. She had a boy and girl my granddaughter’s age, and they were already playing inside. I had to, um, wash my hands, so I asked the lady if she would keep an eye on her. She politely said, “Of course.” I told my granddaughter to be a good girl. 

     “Of course,” she politely copied.

     I was only gone a few minutes. When I got back the lady told me, “Your granddaughter is a sweet girl.”

     “Thank you,” I said, and complemented her kids in return.

     “She’s so cute. While she was waiting she was singing Despacito.”

     Despacito by Luis Fonsi was my granddaughter’s favorite song. As it turned out, it was that lady’s favorite song as well.

     “Thank you for watching her,” I told her.

     “It was a pleasure,” she said.

     This time we ate inside the restaurant. Actually, she ate. I wasn’t hungry, so I just had a shake. A shake that she ended up drinking. 

     “Oh, the playground is open,” she pretended to notice between chicken nuggets. I think part of my granddaughter wanted to go inside and play, but another part of her realized she was getting to be too big for that. When she was three, she accidentally kicked another child in the head as she was climbing down the different levels. I’d tell you that story, but I don’t think the statute of limitations is up yet.

     As we were leaving, I saw a lady and her son sitting on a patch of grass on the other side of the drive-through. I also noticed they had a grocery cart filled with their possessions.

     “I think they’re homeless,” I told my granddaughter as we were climbing into my pickup truck.

     The smallest bill I had was a twenty. It wasn’t exactly burning a hole in my pocket, but something inside of me wanted to take my granddaughter over there and give it to them.

     “Let’s go and give them some money,” I told her. 

     I thought she’d jump at the chance. She has the kindest, most generous heart, especially when you compare it to mine.

     “I don’t want to,” she said, settling herself in the back. “You go, and I’ll wait here for you.”

     “I can’t just leave you here,” I said, surprised at her response. 

     “Well, we can drive by and you can give it to them,” she said.

     “No, we can’t. They’re not by the street.”

     “Besides,” she kept making excuses, “ I don’t even think they’re homeless.”

     Try as I might, there was no convincing her. I started my truck. In her carseat, she was looking at the book she got with her kid’s meal. As we were driving away I told her, “Later tonight, you’re going to think about them, and feel bad that we didn’t give them any money. You’re going to wonder if that little boy is hungry, and think about how you could have helped.”

     Sometimes I have to watch what I say, because it finally occurred to her that what she did was wrong.

     “Let’s go back,” she told me.

     “It’s too late,” I told her. “The time to do something is when you have a chance, not when you’ve already left.”

     “Please,” she said, starting to cry.

     “It’s too late,” I told her.

     She cried all the way home, Not just crying, but huge sobs from a broken heart. I tried to think of something to say to make her feel better, because it wasn’t my intention to hurt her, but I couldn’t find the words.

     She had stopped crying by the time we got home. 

     Before I turned off the truck, I told her, “What happened is between you and me. You don’t have to tell anybody what happened, okay?”

     “You didn’t even give me a chance,” she said.

     “I gave you plenty of chances,” I told her.

     In a quiet voice, she finally said, “I’m sorry.”

     Later that night I checked in on her and she was sleeping like a baby. 

     Me?

     Not so much.

     "What’s bothering you?" my wife asked me.

     "Nothing," I said, but I lied.

     I was wondering if that little boy was hungry.

   

 ************************

A guilty conscience makes for a lumpy mattress.

theduchenebrothers@gmail.com

@JimDuchene