The Summer of Sandwich

Our family likes to play a fun game when we’re all together and rehashing old times. They turn to me with a gleam in their eyes and ask “Matt, what did we eat that day?” This rarely provides a challenge, because my memory bank files everything away as an extended meal. We were simply doing other things in the time between filling our bellies. I’d say it’s my one weird thing, but you’ve probably figured out that’s a rather long list.

My wife is an artist at heart. She processes and interprets the world as a vivid color palette, occasionally pausing to accuse me of colorblindness (why isn’t “greenish blue” an acceptable description?). On the other hand, my lens is that of an omnivore. The spectrum illuminating my thoughts is that of deliciousness.  

Meals are one of the most immersive experiences one can have. Not to get too gross, but food makes your acquaintance from first sight, smell, temperature and taste all the way to…the sewer system. I can’t completely review a dinner until I’ve hosted the afterparty. Food is more than just fuel to me, it’s approaching religion.

When something occupies your thoughts to the point of obsession, it can be difficult to manage appropriately. I’ll read through menus like they are holy texts conveying a higher meaning. The thought of a perfectly cooked brisket makes my loins quiver. How then am I expected to behave appropriately at a classy brunch buffet?

That’s really where the rub comes in. I’ve been active since birth, but the aging process has finally caught up with me. My metabolism used to be a thing of pride, but lately has become a real drag. There was a fateful period I refer to longingly as “The Summer of Sandwich” where I really doubled-down calorically speaking on lunch. The bread I homemade with love, but the sheer quantity of meat, double cheese and external coating of mayonnaise (makes it perfect on the griddle) were not great for my waistline. But my word, those were some delicious sandwiches.

At the time, I was hitting my ambitious fitness goals every single day, maintaining an unbroken streak of insanity that lasted for over two years. That is a topic for another article, but needless to say I had absolute proof that you can’t outrun a poor diet. My weight was the highest on record, even as I regularly eclipsed twenty thousand steps a day. As fate would have it, my license, passport and two family christmas cards captured the perfect moment in time where my face achieved maximum squish. People still do a double take when checking my ID.

So what changed? This answer may seem overwhelmingly obvious, but here it goes. How about less mayo-slathered meaty and cheesy sandwiches. Fewer “snack pizzas,” as I like to call my Saturday late night indulgences. Y’all, I’ve never been accused of being a genius.

It took almost forty years to balance a very simple equation. I was just working it from the wrong variable. Turns out you can just eat better and less. Then you don’t have to exercise like your life depends on it. What comes in can simply get burned efficiently because that’s what is appropriate to run this factory. Call it hubris, but many humans (myself included) give themselves way too much credit for a workout when they sit down to that next meal. Our indulgent pat on the back can easily negate the calories we burned. 

When you do the math on processed food and our daily recommendations, it is pretty eye opening what the average American is willfully shoveling into their bodies. Evolved tactics for storing up sustenance in preparation for scarcity never see that lean period our ancestors would inevitably endure. The brain’s preference for sugary input wasn’t tuned to handle an era of thirty ounce soft drinks. 

This might be an odd marker in history, but I can remember when professional golfers were still downing a couple of hot dogs and chips at the turn. These were people doing athletic and mentally challenging tasks with millions of dollars on the line. Yet they were refueling with about the least healthy thing per pound that you can eat. Then Tiger Woods came along and proved the seemingly obvious case that being physically fit and eating strategically gives you a competitive edge, even in the more pedestrian of sports. The next thing you know, even NASCAR drivers are adopting nutrition plans between their swigs of Busch Light. 

I know what you are thinking. These people are rich and their livelihood depends on such a miserable in-season lifestyle. You don’t have the time or money and would be hungry all the time for nothing. I used to be in this camp and thought cheeseburgers would always be worth it, but I found some great advice and it has stuck with me since.

If you contemplate your next potential meal long enough, your vagus nerve and brain will stew on the outcome and reach a logical resolution about how to proceed. It’s the impulsivity that tends to take us down the wrong path. I’ve had stomach issues for years, which have helped refine the “is it going to make me feel terrible” sense, but I was largely ignoring my body. We are at our worst when we act impulsively and outpace that 15 minute delay on our fullness meter. If you start making methodical and informed decisions about what you eat, then that’s step one.

Once I took to eating more salads, nuts and vegetables, my day was less of a rollercoaster. It became easier to find the sweet spot where I still dabble in the less healthy stuff from time to time (you know I had to try that new stuffed-crust Donatos pizza) but the balance is more easily restored.

Growing at least some of my own food has helped a bunch. It’s one thing to toss out some grocery store produce that went bad immediately, and another disappointment entirely to miss the perfect window of freshness from a vegetable you have planted and tended since it was a seed. You tend to work these items into the family menu.

I used to think that culinary happiness was a dish that had to be served with heaps of butter, sugar, fat and salt (with a dash of hot sauce). Once you wean your taste buds off of that boisterous ride, then the subtlety and nuance of natural flavors start to shine through. Raw pecans are flippin delicious. Sweet peppers are my jam. Believe it or not, leafy greens do have taste under that mountain of ranch and bacon.

There’s meaning to be found in everything we do, but I can’t find a more meaningful idea than cultivating a more conscious consumer of our only energy source. Until we can biohack our bodies for photosynthesis, we’re stuck eating and drinking our way to survival. How many of us lose countless hours of sleep worrying through the myriad ways we and our loved ones could meet an early end, meanwhile the prime suspect is sitting in front us three-ish times per day if you are living in the United States of America (Anthony Bourdain would have added “greatest country in the world, by God.”).

I’m quite jazzed about building new food memories that start all the way from a tiny little seed that my daughters and I planted together. We’ll share colorful plates and lively conversations, all while being more rooted to the world around us, even if I grew that salad in my bathroom.

Living in a House Full of Ladies

I like to plan things. Meals, trips, conversation topics, most efficient driving routes, you name it. Some things, however, are beyond my control. Family planning, for instance, was a bit of a crapshoot. But in an ideal world, I wanted two girls.

So here I am, a father to two lovely ladies of 5 and 3. Every day is a joy. There’s glitter everywhere.

As I tackle year five of being wholly outnumbered, it’s time to offer up my findings. The sample size, at this point, has produced many insights that are rooted in factual observation, and hopefully won’t get me exiled to the basement. The time has come to hand in my report on what it’s like being the only dude in a house full of ladies.

Exhibit 1: So Much Hair

You know you have reached peak hair when every shirt you throw on has a dangly one in the sleeve. This is an unbelievably consistent occurrence and ever since Maggie grew a head full of curly locks to match her mother, this is my life. Drains, floors, and stray toothbrushes lay fully at their mercy.

To top it off, I have no idea how to style and/or arrange the two small heads that have been presented to me. WTF is a barrette and what are they good for!? I pick up at least 10 per day off the floor, so maybe they are simply fun to play with.

When Allison goes out of town, I consider it a success if my girls return home from school with any implements I stuck on their head still intact. Corralling a fidgety child’s hair into a reliable ponytail still feels like throwing darts, but I’m trying.

Exhibit 2: Music

Taylor Swift isn’t terrible. There, I said it. 

Music is one of those things that I hold reasonably sacred. I was a radio DJ in college at WEGL, played in a band* and have a decent record collection. Once I married Allison (for mostly not her taste in music) it was already assumed that I would have to make some playlist sacrifices. 

We have a family agreement that a song can’t be played twice on the same car trip. Rules exist because they were, at one time, broken to an egregious extent. I’m warming up to that T-Swift, but a man can only take so much. Once you hear your 5 year old belt out the line “In the middle of the night…In MY DREEEAMS…You should see the things we do, BABY!” then you start to reign it in a bit.

The Frozen movies actually have some pretty solid jams, and Trolls is a musical triumph. Over time, my critical mind has opened a bit. I’ve embraced music that would have gotten me fired from the radio station, but rest assured I’m still racing to connect my Spotify library first when we get in the car.

Exhibit 3: Dairy Products (mostly cheese)

Lord have mercy the cheese. I can’t say that my single days ever involved a cheese board, but here we are. That fondue pot we thoughtlessly registered for is now a staple in the pantry. Needless to say, my dairy product paradigm has shifted on its head.

 Allow me to  recite the inventory of our refrigerator at this exact moment: Cottage cheese, 2 packs of string cheese, cheese dip, cream cheese, muenster slices, 2 lbs of grated parmesan, 2 blocks of mozzarella, havarti slices, shredded cheddar, feta, pimento cheese, ricotta…I’m tired of typing, and I bet you get it by now. I never knew the genre could be so versatile, for the whole of breakfast, lunch and dinner.

When I heard of the dairy industry’s recent decline, I slept well knowing that we are doing our part to supplement the demand curve.

Exhibit 4: Pee Pee Shame

I thank God every day for having a penis. It is a much more convenient and efficient lifestyle. Getting ready in the morning, packing for trips, and purchasing clothes are all very simple undertakings. So, understandably, I was rattled a bit once the shaming began.

Allison and I are constantly reminded that there is no privacy in this house. A locked door or missing parent is simply an excuse to raise more hell and bust down the barriers between. Unless they are deeply unconscious, there’s a very good chance our poops, showers, and mommy/daddy special time will be interrupted.

It was Maggie who hurled the first insult. As detailed above, my visits to the restroom are seldomly uninterrupted, so Maggie took an opportunity to examine my unorthodox standing method and deem it “super gross.” Her feedback included commentary on “peeing out of (my) front butt” which was obviously hilarious. She quickly got Libby onboard with her hate mongering, so now the mere sight of me taking a leak elicits all kinds of chastization from the duo. With a few months of therapy, I’ll get beyond it. 

Exhibit 5: Toilet Paper

When you get married, there are compromises to be made. Two people will never perfectly align on every single thing, so you meet in the middle…except in those areas where you totally don’t. In the early days of my life with Mrs. Chapman, I wondered where all the toilet paper went. Then I helped create two more females. What used to last me a week will barely survive one day. It’s uncanny. Call me frugal, but even a big situation is likely a 10 square commitment. Somebody report back and let me know what the deal is. I tried to ask one time but was growled at.

Exhibit 5: Feelings

Historically, I would classify myself as “emotionally challenged.” The Chapman method, which has served to give several of us hypertension, is to internalize your feelings. I can recount many instances where my mother incurred serious wounds or was presented with really heavy situations, and just got on with it. The most I ever remember Brenda crying was when she backed into my sweet ‘95 Ford Mustang (a gift for my 16th birthday) and dented the fender. She was so upset that I got an aftermarket spoiler added at the body shop.

Fast forward to February 2015. Allison and I are hosting a Superbowl party at Chapman HQ. Maggie is 3 weeks from debuting on the scene. Toyota’s commercial that year featured a father and his daughter through the years. When the flashback ends, dad is crying in his Camry while dropping his adult daughter off at the airport. She is waving goodbye and departing for her assumedly dangerous military posting. Y’all, I totally lost it.

These days, it doesn’t take much. Old photos of our children, commercials featuring Sara McLachlan and sad puppies, Queer Eye reveals - all guaranteed to make me well up.

Yet, even with this heightened sensitivity, I still manage to hurt little baby feelings on a daily basis. My children’s responses to adversity and what I consider to be proportional reactions are usually way off. Therefore, I am often called  “mean” or generally accused of lacking the appropriate amount of empathy. My snuggles are also apparently second rate.

Last week, our family was at the pool. For Maggie, the time had come to offload her floatation aids and swim like a big girl. It was a goal we had pushed her to take on, and things were going well in the shallow end. Then, she slipped off a raft in an area where it was just deep enough to scare her a bit. Maggie was rescued immediately, but that didn’t keep her from elaborately expressing her dismay to the entire pool-going audience. 

Her immediate intent was to find the nearest exit and retreat in embarrassment, screaming dramatically with a face full of tears. But the gates were child proof and after the first one failed to yield, she furiously tugged on it like someone auditioning for the part of “desperate prisoner.” Over the next minute, she made a full circle of the facility, applying the same over-exaggerated theatrics to each locked gate and the distance covered between. Each failed attempt only brought out more emotion. It was made so much worse that we couldn’t help but laugh at the silliness of it all.

Here’s the thing, though. That same child came back the next day with a vengeance. She established her own training regiment, setting increasingly more challenging goals along the way. By the last day, she was swimming like a fish, having conquered her fears and the deep end. I couldn’t have been prouder. 

And that’s why having a family full of ladies is pretty great.

*Gooch was an influential house party band formed by my roommate and I. We were terribly awesome

Distractions in the Time of Quarantine

It is a weird time to be alive. Whatever your perspective on the current happenings, we can all agree that 2020 has been challenging. With so many days of the same, everybody is looking for ways to get outside of the bubble and try something different. Our family has embraced this idea to the fullest, so I thought it might be fun to share our distractions. Chronicled below are my efforts to maintain sanity and keep things interesting around the Chapman house. 

Costco Bacon Bits

Love is a hard thing to explain, especially when it is between you and a very large package of meat crumbles that are somehow perfectly safe at room temperature. 

My introduction to this wonderful product came at the Chili Cook Off. Playing to the potential needs of the crowd, our team stocked up on the Costco double pack of bacon bits, as they complimented our southwestern chicken chili. The stinging disappointment of going home award-less wore off quite quickly when I was sent home with 5 pounds of unused bacon bits.

They were a revelation. The days following were certainly a “where have you been all my life?” honeymoon. Omelettes, salads, sandwiches, pizzas - you name it. Bacon, if you haven’t figured it out yet, goes well with just about everything. Easily accessible bacon that you don’t have to cook is a full-on heart attack enabler.

After about a month of delightful overindulgence, we had a family intervention after my children demanded a side of bacon bits with their dinner.

Making Bread

For the record, I was cranking out Sourdough weekly before it became the hobby du jour for everyone who was stuck at home with nothing to do. Rather than bore you with how fulfilling it is to bake homemade bread, we’re going to talk about what I do with it: create some amazing sandwiches. 

Alton Brown is a saint for many reasons, but his directive of applying mayonnaise to the outside of the bread was a particular game changer for me (and my waistline). It’s way better than pan frying with butter. Precisely at 11am, nearly every weekday, I bounce up the stairs and make a variation of the following.

I slice off some thick rounds of my honey sourdough and apply mayo to one side of each while an array of delicious deli cuts (usually smoked turkey + ham) and cheese get cooking in the pan. As the cheese starts to melt, all of the contents are folded together in order to mirror the shape of the bread.

At this point, both pieces of bread are added, mayo side down, to the pan. Working quickly, I pile the meat/cheese party onto one of the slices, topping with banana peppers and mustard. Once the naked slice of bread starts to brown a bit, you complete the sandwich and turn everything over to cook for a few more seconds. Slice that sucker in half, enjoy, and report back with how much I’ve altered your sandwich worldview.

Excessive Pacing

After reading the previous two sections, you must be wondering how I’m still alive. After all, we’re on month four of this lifestyle and I appear to be consuming a wild amount of saturated fats. I’ve found that the counterbalance for an iffy diet and 4pm happy hours is NEVER SITTING DOWN. In the last week, I’m averaging well over 10 miles per day on my feet…and it’s almost entirely in circles around our living room. Frankly, I have no idea why Allison hasn’t killed me yet. Our house isn’t huge (100 laps ~ mile) so you can hear every stab reverberate across the floorboards. This 717 mile challenge seemed daunting at first (average of 5.2 miles/day) and then I realized I go completely bonkers when cooped up inside all day. 

Planting Things

This hobby had all my attention for the first two months of shut-in life. We were going to live off the land. I was reading up on local chicken law. Much was accomplished in the days of clearing hillsides, filling up planters, and germinating seeds. It was all good fun for our entire family. But then we got to the part where we’re just watching it grow. Can’t they grow any faster!? I was beaming with pride when our first potato popped up…and then some cherry tomatoes appeared…a little bit of lettuce…yeah that’s about it. With any luck, we’ll have two ears of corn by 2021. Hey, at least I’ve got a sweet compost pile going that occasionally occasionally wafts the worst smell in the world onto our back deck.  

The oddest part of this whole experience is that my oldest child, who would prefer to live her life on French fries, has taken to making daily snacks out of the herb garden. I like cilantro, basil, oregano, mint and rosemary in my food, but handfuls of the raw stuff wouldn’t be my preference.

This could potentially be a potato I put in the ground and forgot about.

Purchasing New Friends

COVID-19 has made us so bored with one another that we needed someone else to play with. We are officially cat people now, because there are two of them. They outnumber the dog, who is less than pleased with her current situation. Petrie McFluffins Chapman made his debut almost three weeks ago now. He’s already slacked my entire company, played music through my headphones while I was on a call and decorated himself with a pink marker.

Cultivating Fungi

I’m filing this under its own section, simply because it was a separate (and stranger) operation. When you tell someone you have a box of mushrooms sprouting in a basement closet, their mind usually doesn’t go to Portobello. But here I am, giving a daily spritz to a musty cardboard box full of dirt. Unlike my outdoor farming efforts, I had detailed instructions with this kit, and it was basically dummy proof. Once the little white nubbins started appearing, they got huge in a hurry. Did they taste amazing and fresh, you ask? A mushroom is basically natures death sponge, so I’m having a hard time picturing the freshness. It was pretty excellent popping some of my homegrown sautéed mushrooms onto a super delicious sandwich, though.

Update - we have realized that the box, with its second growth of nubbins emerging, is starting to attract a large quantity of flies. Oh well, it was fun while it lasted.

Rock Crystals

Our first “how the hell are we going to distract our children?” impulse purchase was a rock crystal growing kit. This sounds fancy and scientific, but it’s basically some volcanic rocks and a sugar solution that grows in different colors on each. Gratification was nearly instant, as the colorful crystals sprouted almost immediately. Being our first family project of the quarantine, it was prominently featured on our countertop. That is, until I decided to touch a few crystals (after telling my kids not to). They crumbled all over the place. Daddy ruins all the fun.

Cup of Caterpillars

Gotta love this concept. Company ships you a cup with 5 tiny caterpillars and enough food to get by. Until time comes to take the top off and prop up their attached cocoons, you and your children simply stare at this cup of caterpillars on the counter. What they didn’t show us in the promo picture was the unbelievably gross web of poop that envelops these little creatures gorge themselves. It got to the point where the cup was disallowed from dining areas. Anyone that caught a glimpse of the mini poop factory was guaranteed to lose their stomach.

Our girls were quite interested from the start, and we were a bit distressed to leave the chrysalises dangling from their stand as we left for a quick getaway to the lake. Not one to let 5 emerging butterflies loose in a cat-populated house, I left them to break free on the back porch. When we returned, they were all gone. Having not actually seen any butterflies matching their description as of late, they either took off on a migratory path somewhere else, or they made for a nice bird snack. I guess we’ll never know.

Hope you find plenty of enjoyable new distractions in this interesting time. I’m off to load up an Amazon cart full of bird watching accessories.

Getting Spooky in the Suburbs

Growing up in the middle of nowhere, you have the occasional eerie experience. With the absence of humans and a lot of overgrown nature, it gets very dark, and very quiet. Howling, rustling, crickets and the occasional train compose a nightly soundtrack. Probably not a coincidence that both Pet Sematery 2 and The Walking Dead were filmed in our little country town south of Atlanta. So, it comes as a bit of a surprise that a moment in our suburban back yard last year gave me the worst case of the willies I’ve ever had.

To set the stage, I have to backtrack a bit first. On September 16th of 2018, we had to put down Artimus, who was a dear cat friend and a true legend. Because I grew up in the aforementioned boonies, the only way I know to handle the aftermath of this situation is to dig a hole in the back yard. I wrapped the little guy up, covered gently, and let the girls put flowers on top. For good measure, I found a large rock to mark the spot. Then I had a few too many beers because it was still 90 degrees outside in September and the only other dude in our household was gone.

His resting spot was up on the hill behind our house, along one of the main paths. Going up to the shed in the weeks that followed, I would usually stop and pay respects. We got a new cat (although he was frequently called Artimus), and life progressed.

Fast forward to the night before Halloween. Those of you that know me are well aware that I have an impressive costume collection. I was on the hunt for accessories to fit with our Jurrassic Park-themed family ensemble, so off to the shed I went with flashlight in hand…but something was different.

ARTIMUS WAS GONE. No doubt about it, either, because the stone was moved. Nothing left but an empty hole in the clay. Walking back into the house (after acquiring the perfect matching handkerchief), Allison could see the disturbance in my wide-eyes. Out of little girl earshot, I told Allison what I saw. “What do you mean he’s gone!? How is that even possible!?” Needless to say, I didn’t sleep super well that night.

I awoke with a million questions. First, we blamed the dog. Lucy is admittedly still bitter about us having kids and all. She fought with Artimus on occasion, but it seemed more playful than anything. Hard to believe she would stoop to that level. Plus, it would require physical exertion, which her tubby butt is wholeheartedly against. That was the sum of our suspects.

Being Halloween and all, we donned our costumes for the neighborhood celebration. We really do it up right, with a parade, occasional adult refreshment stations, and a strategically circular route. A handful of us adjourned back to Chapman HQ for some pizza and more breathable attire. It wasn’t until Joe and I were hanging out on the back porch that we heard suspect(s) number two: coyotes. 

One isn’t used to hearing a lively pack howling on a Wednesday night in the middle of suburbia. With the lack of a physical barrier between us, my skin start to crawl as I started piecing the mental puzzle together. The local stories and footage that started to pop up in the community in the hours that followed certainly did not help.

After considering all of the facts at hand, there is only one explanation for the vacant tomb. As far as I’m concerned, Artimus was Kitty Jesus. He died for the innumerable sins of his kind, rolled away the stone, cast away his robes, and sitteth up there chilling.

When I Was Your Age

Do you ever stop and think about how easy we have it? 

My two children are subject to this declaration constantly. Here I am, 35 years old, and sounding just like my parents. Last week, in fact, the power went out for a couple hours, and we weathered quite a few silly spoiled-people meltdowns. Try explaining to a four year old how the internet works, and what life before it must have been like. How did we even survive?

For a dash of reality, I occasionally brush up on my world history. It serves as a handy reminder that those who came before us weathered some legitimately crazy circumstances, and that we have a comparatively cushy existence. People used to poop in buckets, y’all, and they had hairs EVERYWHERE. Filmmakers tend to omit these details in the Downton Abbey’s and such. London, in fact, actually had so much poop that its citizens experienced a tremendously un-fun period known as “The Great Stink.” Meanwhile, here in 2019, my wife gets upset when I’m a few clicks late on a courtesy flush.

I fully acknowledge that I am part of the problem. Each airline experience brings with it my consistently negative feedback about tiny seats, tight connections and awful food. But maybe next time I lose my armrest to a McDonalds enthusiast, it is worth remembering that Allison’s great grandparents also did some light traveling. Their trip was one way, on a boat, all the way from Sicily. Once arriving in America, they continued their journey all the way to the un-air-conditioned South. They came all the way here for work in a steel factory, where more than a few people died from unsafe conditions. I love living in Birmingham, but primarily inside its modern, OSHA approved buildings.

If you really want a tall glass of humbleness, brush up on the well-documented adventures of Meriwether Lewis and his pal William Clark. Not only did their crew old-school their way back and forth across uncharted 1804 America, but they were the first white people to experience the untreated joys of syphilis. Throw in a whole lot of horse snacks and an “accidental” shooting on the way back - you’ve got one hell of a walk. Consider this next time a Prius takes your princess parking spot at the Trader Joes.

We could play this game for ages. Anybody remember the Vietnam draft? That was so recent that both our President and that dude who sings ‘Born in the USA’ had to dodge it. Imagine jogging down to the mailbox (that’s an “Outdoor Run” on your Apple Watch) only to open a real-live letter, on paper, from Donald Trump, saying - he’s sending you to China with a gun so we can get cheaper doodads. 

It would be fun explaining the concept of exercise to generations previous. We sit on our bottoms so much and consume a volume of calories that basically requires we schedule time to sweat. “Work smarter, not harder,” says the enlightened human. I’m right there with you, but maybe go outside and do some manual labor every now and then. And please don’t Instagram it.