It's a Good Thing They Weren't Served Drinks

Imagine you’re attending a cocktail party. Everyone around you is dressed nicely. Not to the nines, but definitely cleaned up for the occasion. You’re in a nice sized room; people are mingling with cabernets in hand and nibbling on a nice array of finger food like roasted pork crostini with raspberry mustard, shrimp, meatballs, and black bean and corn salsa. You get the picture. Now -- introduce into this lovely atmosphere thirty dogs... running free! Changes your image a bit, doesn’t it? Civility gives way to chaos. Wine refills occur at higher than normal intervals to replace the cups unhanded from folks who think they’re dodging bullets or freight trains. Dogs ricochet off legs, human legs that is. “Keep your knees bent” is the advice of the moment.

This was the scene I found myself in the other evening at “Planet Bark,” the place we board Mojo when we’re out of town. The irrepressible new owner, Mary, wants to more actively market Planet Bark in what has become a fairly competitive market for such places in suburban Charleston. When I arrive, I applaud her bravery. She acknowledges that she’s not sure the event might spin out of control, but she’s all smiles. And, she’s right. A good time will be had by all. Or, almost all.

And, the dogs? My God -- so many butts to sniff, so many legs to bite, so much rolling on the floor to be done! So much humping to be had! Mojo, not -- how you say -- calm when in the company of other canines, bursts at warp speed from one corner of the room to another as if he is on the receiving end of a life sentence to cease and desist from any butt sniffing except what he can take in over the next hour or so. Many are willing. Sunny, a lab mix and Sanford, an English bulldog apparently experience the same ecstasy Mojo has found as they roll around the floor in one undifferentiated hairy mass, teeth gnashing, tails wagging. Bliss doggy-style. Others are not so thrilled. Threading their way around and through the legs of the human guests, the more timid dogs -- with mixed success -- try to elude the more aggressive four-legged party animals (if I may use that term). They whine, sometimes growl in mock anger while their owners down their crostini hoping that it is not their dogs who are engaging in overly boorish behavior. Mojo assumes the always pleasing submissive legs-up position in wrestling bouts which appears to earn him a pass from most, if not all, party attendees. Mojo -- regardless of his many endearing traits -- earns me special attention from a couple of dog trainers in attendance who apparently believe my dog is -- shall we say-- a good candidate for behavior modification. Puppy exuberance, I assure them.

After almost two hours of this mayhem, I take my leave, probably to the relief of some. Mojo is wet from the absurd amount of saliva he’s been smeared with from the other dogs. His tongue is hanging out the side of his mouth and his countenance is oddly similar to that of a mad bomber’s. I get him into the back seat of my car. As I turn around to see where I’m backing out, I note he is dead asleep.

Richly earned, my friend.

Bringing Back a Memory

When I was a kid -- maybe 9 or 10, my family used to take weekend day trips from White Plains to Atlantic Beach out on Long Island. A real schlep, but my folks had the ocean in their veins, a character trait that would soon be hard-wired in me as well. The place we went had a pool, and while I was apt to spend my time on the beach, one weekend we found ourselves at the pool with the intent of swimming laps. I was not a swimmer, but my sister, Susan, was. She was a wonderful swimmer having done some time swimming competitively. A natural. Baseball was more my thing. Susan took to the pool and effortlessly did her laps. I got in and with some labor made it up and back several times, but I was clearly tiring. My father did not want me to quit. He kept urging me to do “just one more” and he walked alongside the pool as I swam cajoling, encouraging, and cheerleading to get me to finish 10 laps. I was getting exhausted; my body felt like lead. I thought there was a distinct chance I would sink. Why I kept going, I really will never know. But, I do know I will never forget that moment in my life. When I amazingly finished my 10 laps, I fell like a wet noodle into my father’s arms who gave me a big hug and then bought me a toasted bagel. Nothing ever tasted so good.

We flash forward a half century. I have been swimming laps of late, but I always have alternated the crawl with the breast stroke, mostly so I would have the lasting power to swim about an hour. But, part of me felt that I was in some way “cheating” in not swimming the crawl for all, not just half, my laps. This morning, alone in the pool, I set out to do only the crawl hoping to go as long as I could, but clearly understanding that I might not have the stamina to do very much.

The laps floated by. After the first few, I was in a zone, a rhythm. Some might have called it a kind of zen-like state of mind. It was wonderful. I just kept rolling. I swam fifty laps and by the time I had gone maybe 20 my mind was full of the memories of that day long ago bringing back, as best I could, the emotions and sensations of that day. It has been years since I've thought so much of my father, but, in a way, he was there this morning.

This one’s for you, Dad.

When Necessity is the Mother of Invention

Alex loves all things sports. As whacked out as he is in this very specialized domain of human pursuit, his love for NFL football dwarfs all other passions. It makes his love of basketball, which is almost unsurpassed, seem passive by comparison. When he left on his year long sojourn around the globe, his abiding concern was how he would get to watch football games from the other side of the planet. He got edgy when asked about it. And, here we are at the onset of the 2009 NFL schedule and Alex finds himself in Perth, Australia -- perhaps better known for its kangaroo steaks than its opinions on how to run the wildcat offense. Alex’s feverish pursuit of football mania included his recent all-nighter when he participated in not one, but two, fantasy league drafts that were actually taking place in far more civilized timeframes in the western hemisphere.

Opening day: Sunday, September 13. Alex is so pumped because he has discovered a website that will enable him to watch any and all NFL games online, and in hi-def to boot. The fact that, for him, these contests will take place in the dark of Perth nights when most normal Aussies are sound asleep is irrelevant. Alex has taken long naps during the day to prepare himself for his night-long, pass-happy vigil.

And then, disaster strikes: the website crashes leaving him -- in a football sense -- deaf, blind and mute. He stalks the streets of Perth, a pilgrim in search of answers and none are forthcoming. In a desperate "fourth and long" attempt to salvage a fighting chance to watch his beloved Washington Redskins, he reaches me on Skype knowing that in Charleston the Skins game is being televised locally. He asks whether he can watch the game with me by me arranging my laptop in front of the TV so he can watch on his computer screen Down Under. I oblige. I wrangle a crude platform about two feet in front of my very large TV, turn up the volume, adjust the laptop so it is taking in the full TV picture, and sit down “with” Alex to watch the game.

It is an odd experience. I am in Charleston; Alex is in the lobby of a sketchy hostel in Perth about as far away as one human can be from another and still inhabit the same planet. And yet, we are reacting to the same event -- which is taking place in New York -- as if we are in the same room. Which we are, sort of. Alex yells and so do I. We react to the same incident on the field and confer although when I catch myself I realize I am speaking to some disembodied voice coming out of a small computer sitting oddly in the middle of my living room.

We stick with this arrangement until the end of the first quarter when his sorely missed NFL website comes back online. I say good-bye to the voice coming from the computer, and put my laptop back on the dining room table from whence it came.

I confess for the rest of the game, when I hurled some epithet at the screen I would sometimes look over to the dormant laptop looking for a reaction.

Hell on Wheels

Why do they say -- when referring to a long lost skill -- it’s “like riding a bike,” as if this is something you never forget? Well, I forgot. It had been 35 years since I rode a bike. I guess the statute of limitations had run because this was an alien form of movement to me. When I was a kid I never had a bike. My mother made no bones about it. She had lost a younger brother to a bike accident when he was a late teen, and so I was not to have one. She fully confessed that this was irrational, but this was to be the law of the land in the Golland household. As a young lawyer I actually bought a bike in an effort to self-teach, but that was 35 years ago, and it was not a smashing success.

A couple of weeks ago, Lily bought a bike and encouraged me to do the same so we could share this activity. I asked her why she was in such a hurry to get her hands on the proceeds of my life insurance policy. She assured me she harbored no such thoughts. This morning, with our friend Maggie in town, the three of us set out on bikes --Maggie and I on rentals -- to explore the Isle of Palms. Why the bike rental folks let me have this contraption is beyond me. I took off in a style that can only be described most generously as “wobbly.” Madly over-correcting, and otherwise displaying the kind of erratic behavior that most sane folks steer clear of like the plague, I tried to make my way out of the small parking lot.

Allow me to get the bad news out of the way right away. Over the course of the next three hours, I fell four times. Once when I simply could not negotiate a left turn in the time allotted and spilled over into someone’s front yard. A second time when I ran headlong into an oncoming cyclist because of my paralyzing indecision of whether to stop or turn. This one was on concrete and left me suitably bloodied. It is a tribute to the other cyclist that he didn’t flatten me. The third and fourth spills were on the beach where diabolically placed pools of water appeared out of nowhere causing me to exit my bike as if it were fitted with an ejection seat.

I will say that once I got my sea legs, I loved seeing what was for me previously unseen parts of Wild Dunes and other parts of the Isle of Palms. Some pretty gorgeous neighborhoods, great views of the marshlands, and the picturesque intercoastal waterway and local marina.

I also came away with a vastly higher level of respect for Lance Armstrong.

I love thee not!

The legend grows. Mojo has by now firmly established himself as a force of nature on the beach during our early morning romps, but every now and then he accentuates his reputation with an exclamation point that is as large and black as he is. This morning was such a time. It is not unusual, especially over holiday weekends, for families having re-unions here to gather at the beach for an early morning photo shoot. Everyone is dressed to the nines; the kids are scrubbed; the photographer is restless to get the job done before the sunlight becomes too bright. Today, Mojo and I spotted what appeared to be one of these groups arrayed near the shore line, and we headed in that direction up the beach, as we always do. Unfortunately, Mojo took off to get closer to what he hoped would be “new friends” and he frantically dove into the mix. What I did not realize was that this group was a wedding party, and they were in the midst of the ceremony when Mojo crashed it! Naturally, he shook off all the loose water on him in the space between him and the bride and pastor, and he deftly dropped his tennis ball at the bride’s feet with clearly great expectations for further play. Some were amused; others were not. The bride’s maid and best man, in particular, were doing whatever they could to unceremoniously and forcibly usher Mojo to the exit.

As I approached the assembled wedding party, I knew I could not pretend to feign ignorance of the ownership of this beast. The ball launcher in my hand and a sandy leash were pretty much a smoking gun, if you know what I mean. So, I did my best sheepish routine but did not slow my pace. I will say that the bride -- in the midst of the ongoing ceremony -- gave me a furtive wave as if to allay my horror at the poor etiquette of my very own wedding crasher.

On the return trip down the beach, the wedding group was breaking up giving me an opportunity to apologize in a more personal way. Most everyone assured me it was all copasetic, except, that is, for the bride’s maid. I don’t know that she thought my apology was all that sincere.

Maybe it was the two bags of dog shit I was toting that dampened the mood.

Comfort Food, Jeff Style

For some people it’s oatmeal. For others it’s clam chowder. And, for others still it’s meat loaf and mashed potatoes or maybe some brownies. For me, though, it’s something much closer to what I prepared last night. A sumptuous bed of Israeli couscous laced with sautéed peppers, toasted pine nuts, and some chopped scallion. Atop this mouth watering base sit some sautéed shrimp which have just shared a pan with shallots and garlic. As a side, I roasted some leeks and grape tomatoes, and added the always welcome crusty bread that’s been sprinkled with olive oil. Oh yeah, this is good. And, really, not hard to put together. You will want to do this, I’m telling you. Well, that is if you like to eat.

Ok, here’s what you need: a box of Israeli couscous (sometimes called toasted pasta pearls -- it‘s larger and rounder than the more standard couscous you tend to see), maybe a pound of shrimp, one leek, chopped, a good handful of grape tomatoes, a chopped shallot, a couple of chopped garlic cloves, one red pepper, chopped, 2 cups of chicken or vegetable broth, maybe three scallions, a nice chopped chunk from a seedless cucumber, some chopped chives, a healthy handful of pine nuts, course ground pepper, and the ever-popular olive oil and balsamic vinegar.

As I am wont to do, I did all my chopping first, and so should you. You’ll be glad you did. That means your chives, shallot, garlic, red pepper, cucumber, and scallions. Shell and devein the shrimp (or, better yet, have a kindly friend do this). Pre-heat your oven to 450 degrees, and on a tinfoil covered pan, array your chopped leek and your grape tomatoes. Sprinkle the leeks and tomatoes with olive oil and balsamic vinegar and top with some ground black pepper and salt (if you like). Then, roast the leeks and tomatoes for maybe 10 minutes. Cook the couscous using the broth instead of water, following the directions on the box. Sauté the chopped red pepper in a pan with some olive oil until it starts turning dark. When the peppers are done, add into the couscous, and add in as well the chopped cucumber and scallion. In a pan, sauté the chopped shallot and garlic in some olive oil until nicely translucent. At the same time, separately toast the pine nuts in a little olive oil and add them to the couscous mix. (These little guys can burn easily so keep an eye on them.) Add in the shelled shrimp to your shallot and garlic mix and top with a healthy coating of ground pepper. The shrimp shouldn’t take long to cook -- maybe 2 minutes. While you’re turning the shrimp, heat up that crusty bread.

Place a nice mound of the couscous mix on the plate (next to the leeks and tomatoes) and top with as many shrimp as you dare to eat, and, finally, top the shrimp with your chopped chives.

That’s how you spell comfort!