Christmas at the Mitchells aka Pumpkin Stew

Twas the morning of Christmas, and all through the house,
The alarm was screaming, cause the power was out.

I jumped from my bed, to see what’s up with that.
I naturally assumed, it was a terrorist attack.

It was five a.m.; I couldn’t see a single sight.
The only sign of life, was my tiny cell phone light.

I used it to check, my gifts under the tree.
Naturally my first thought, was all about me.

I ripped off the paper, with all my might.
It didn’t occur to me, to use a flashlight.

It was so dark, I was only wasting my time.
I went back to bed, to the sound of my chimes.

Back up at eight, to make sweet potato souffle.
I offered to make it, the sugar free way.

My idea to replace eggs, with pumpkin in a can.
Turned out to be, not such a smart plan.

Canned pumpkin has sugar, and my eggs are out of date.
But I’d opened the pumpkin can, so now it’s too late.

I used the old eggs, and mixed the potato paste
But I’ll use that pumpkin too, it won’t go to waste.

With a baking dish was too big, over twice the size.
The mixture was thin, with much room to rise.

The topping looked wrong, is all I can say,
But that’s alright, it only covered halfway.

With the dish in the oven, I was finally home free.
Then the power went off,  You must be kidding me!

I grabbed the pumpkin, and started a new mix.
With no evaporated milk, coffee creamer was my fix.

A couple old eggs, were mixed in the brew.
Without a pie crust, I’ll call it pumpkin stew.

The pumpkin was too much, required more than one pan.
Maybe I should have simply thrown out the whole can.

Two more pans full, won’t fit in the oven now.
But I can make it work, some way, some how.

I cocked one gently, on it’s side for the bake.
I’ll finish this job now, for goodness sake.

The power returned, just in the nick of time.
There’s just one more line, to my Christmas rhyme.

I’m off to my family, with dishes in tow.
I’ll keep the egg history, on the down low.

Barry’s Cold Cockle Cocoa Mix

Barry’s Cold Cockle Cocoa Mix
This cocoa is sure to warm the cockles of your heart.  After in depth research at the Mitchell Center for Cockle Research & Global Cockle Warming, it has been determined that no one really knows what cockles are, what they do, or where they come from.  However, the general consensus is that they are cold most of the time due to the carbon footprint of the Alaskan Caribou.  If you are one of the millions suffering from cold cockles, consult Dr. Barry’s Cold Cockle Cocoa Mix for instant relief!  Simply add one bag of cocoa mix with one-cup hot water (sprinkling white snowman poop is optional, but advised). Aaaaahhhh, . . . relax and enjoy . . . your cockles will warm in no time.

Make Your Own Dr. Barry Cold Cockle Mix
21.8 oz. Box of Nestle Nesquik
8 oz. dry Coffee Creamer
25.6 oz. Box of Powdered Milk
16 oz. Box of Powdered Sugar
1/8 T Salt
4 oz. Hershey Unsweetened Cocoa
Divide into 1/3 cup bags.  Makes 46 servings

Enjoy!

Knock Before Entering

Following my recent emergency room visit my doctor wanted more tests. By the way, why is it called an emergency room visit? For the price I paid I’m not a visitor, I’m family.

My doc said, “Since you’re in your late 40’s, let’s go ahead and schedule a colon-oh-my-gosh-to-me.” I figured, why not, that ER visit will certainly use up all my deductable. Oh, was I wrong on that one! It was just last month that I changed my insurance to a $5000 deductable to lower my premium, because I never get sick.

Part of the procedure for a colon-oh-my-gosh-to-me is buying a laxative and a really big jug of draino. It’s the first time I’ve done this and I noticed an interesting product placement at the Wal-Greens. The laxative and underwear are on the same aisle. The laxative was in a green box while the anti-diarrhea medicine was in a red box. It’s a little like a traffic light - green means go and red means stop.

When the pharmacy clerk sat my little green box and my really big jug of pipe cleaner on the counter, I said, “I’m going to get my pipes cleaned one way or another.” There was no response from her. I thought it was funny. Those pharmacy people just don’t see the humor in a good medical procedure.

For this wonderful occasion which was going to hurt right down to the bottom . . . of my wallet, I wanted to do something special. What could be more special than creating a memory for the doctor/pipe snake operator? I had a friend write a few words on my cheeks – yes, THOSE cheeks. The right side said, “No flash photography please.” The left side said, “Knock before entering.” Thanks to Steve Kissell for the idea. He’s had more colon-oh-my-gosh-to-me’s than any man I know. I think he’s starting to enjoy them. By the way, when a friend writes letters on your bottom with a Sharpie it tickles quite a bit. Be sure the laxative’s effect has completely worn off before doing this.

The procedure when off without a snag. At least they didn’t tell me if they snagged on anything. It was actually NO PROBLEM at all. Of course I haven’t seen the bill yet. BUTT, on a serious note. If you’re heading toward that age where you might need a little garden-hose-look-see, I highly encourage you to go for it. Don’t believe the people that might say it’s uncomfortable. It really was no problem at all and if they do find something it can SAVE YOUR LIFE. BUTT, don’t forget to write something on your cheeks.

And finally, for those of you that know me personally, I am officially no longer full of it!

Emergency Room

I woke up with a pain in my side. Little did I know the pain would turn out to be in my wallet. After a day and night of pain I decided to go to the emergency room. It must have been my lucky day as I was the only one there with insurance and was immediately sent to the end of the line.

During the Doctor’s exam, he pushed on my side and found the pain. He continued to push as if to say, “Are you sure.” I don’t like that doctor.

After removing half of my allotment of blood for testing, I was taken for a cat scan. I tried to explain that I don’t even own a cat. I knew this was going to be expensive. They say these scans don’t hurt, but I could already feel my bank account bleeding.

The machine looks like a giant donut. My appetite came back immediately. The doctor finally came in and said I have diver-tick-u-lie-tus. That’s Latin for “pain in the gut.”

They finally sent me home with a prescription. Be sure to carry a knife if you ever go to the ER. Without one it takes about ten minutes to gnaw through the hospital name bracelet.

A couple of days later, I went to see my personal doctor for a follow up. He asked if I was still in pain. I said, “Yes, but only when I breathe.” He had a suggestion.

He said my cat scan also revealed kidney stones. Oh joy! This means the rolling stones are just waiting to take the stage.

He told me to expect at least a week of pain. He said it could all happen again and told me how to eat. The good news is the diet during the infection stage is all junk food - white bread, potatoes without skin, and anything without fiber. As soon as he told me what I shouldn’t eat, I had an immediate craving for broccoli. But following the doctor’s orders, I’m going for donuts.

My First 5K in 28 Years

My First 5K in 28 Years, July 3, 08
It was a beautiful night for a run. Ok, it was a beautiful night, the only reason to run is if you’re being chased . . . nobody was chasing me. I began the evening with a group of friends at a BBQ joint. Yes, we dined on slow cooked pork before the big race. I’m told it’s a southern thing.

My friends told me fat people ran these things too but I seemed to be the only one. When we arrived at the race I saw an overwhelming number of “buff” people. It looked like an audition for a soap opera! They were walking around shirtless, their runner’s numbers pinned directly to their chest. I felt like a wus, but I wasn’t about to take off my $39 runner’s shirt. I wanted everyone to know I had expensive taste. To make sure I left the price tag on.

The race began and I took off at a steady pace. I was proud of myself. Not too fast, not too slow, but better than my practice pace. Then it happened. People started passing me. One by one they were bouncing past. These were not professional runners from west Africa. They were ordinary people from west Knoxville. Average people just like me, only faster. I didn’t see any of these ordinary people before the race. They just appeared from the back to run past and humiliate me. Didn’t they know I was there to humiliate them? I guess they didn’t read my email.

I was beginning to deal with the fact the average people were passing me when a fat guy trots right by. I say fat because he was 270 on his best low carb day. But he wasn’t just fat. He was older and had less hair, hard to believe I know. I began to formulate my plan for catching and passing him. I was confident that he would slow down to a walk when the course started up hill. He became my inspiration. I couldn’t let the fat guy beat me. I kept my pace knowing we would meet again.

Just after the half-way point there was a slight hill. My eyes were wide open. Where was my fat guy? With focus in my eyes I barely noticed when I ran past a couple thin guys walking. However, I did notice that my passing them gave them the inspiration to start running again. Then it hit me. I was their fat guy! Suddenly it wasn’t about passing my fat guy. It wasn’t about finishing the race. It wasn’t even about staying ahead of the two thin guys. It was all about remembering the spot on the road where I lost my last ounce of self-respect. To add insult to my certain to come injuries the really buff were now running the race a second time. Yes, these people would run it twice before I finished it once.

I finished the race in 36:06 minutes. I was proud of my accomplishment, happy to have the T-shirt, and wishing I could see my fat guy attached to an oxygen tank. But he beat me fair and square like most everyone else. He didn’t just beat me, he inspired me. He made me realize I didn’t need an oxygen tank. There was only one reason a man of his age and size could beat me. He had trained more. Better practice equals better performance. In my next race I’m going to be someone else’s fat guy.
Barry Mitchell