Showing posts with label mocha. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mocha. Show all posts
Wednesday, May 25, 2016
Monday, February 22, 2016
Changing Life (Change: part 3)
Weight:
Some number of years ago (no, I don't remember when, but I'm sure my wife could tell you), my wife and I dropped sugar from our diets. This was a significant change, especially for me. I grew up drinking soda and, when I say that, I mean I grew up drinking only soda. From a very young age, actually. I moved from apple juice to Coca~Cola, and soda was pretty much the only thing I drank for the next 30-odd years. Cutting sugar meant cutting the soda, which was one of the hugest changes I've made in my life. Ever.
The immediate result of that change was that I lost weight. A lot of weight. About 100 pounds in less than a year. At the time, I dropped to under 200 pounds for the first time since I was in high school. I kept all of it off for a while but, over time... well, you have to really stay focused, I suppose. At any rate, at my physical last year (during January or February), it finally hit me that I had let myself creep back up to about 245.
Well, that was enough of that.
So I started exercising again, something I'd let slide for a couple of years. [Seriously, why does exercising have to take up so much time?] And I started monitoring my portion sizes. When you don't eat sugar, it can make you feel justified with eating more. Well, me, anyway.
The short of all of that is that I am, now, under 200 pounds again, for only the second time since high school.
Coffee:
I think I have probably come off as a coffee drinker on here for years. I mean, with posts like this, I totally sound like a coffee drinker, right? But I was only barely a coffee drinker as I would only drink coffee if it was in chocolate. It took my wife a while to work me up even to that, because I grew up sans coffee. See above with the soda thing.
Basically, we could go to the cafe together because I could get a mocha, but my wife insisted that that wasn't the same thing. I... really didn't understand.
What we couldn't do, though, was sit around having coffee together when we went out for breakfast. My wife would have coffee, but I would just have water. (And, then, go to the cafe after for a mocha. heh) Again, I didn't get the big deal, but she assured me it wasn't the same as us sitting and having coffee together.
Well, she was right.
Long story short, I finally agreed to to try having coffee (just plain, old coffee) with my wife when we were out for breakfast one Sunday morning. No, I don't drink it black, but, I did buy her an espresso machine, something she has always wanted but didn't feel like it was worth it if she was going to be the only one using it. Now, we have coffee together every morning.
Beer:
As with coffee, I also grew up not drinking alcohol. Of any kind. My wife spent some number of years converting me to drinking wine (it was a slow process), but I still stayed away from beer. No, not on any kind of principle or anything; mostly, I just didn't like the way it smells. And not that my wife wants or likes to go hang out in bars but, every once in a while, she likes the option of going to share a beer in a bar. Except you can't do that when one of the people won't help share it. But, you know, I've been open to trying and tasting things over the years but, really, nothing ever really did it for me. Well, there was this one time years ago we got some blackberry beer at a local brewery, and I liked that, but they never had it again, and you can't buy it at the store or anything.
All of that changed this year. We were at an open mic night (probably the one where we first saw Parcivillian), and my wife got a beer... with the understanding that I was going to taste it. She got something called a Bitch Creek (because she liked the name). Well, we both loved it. Yeah, it was the first beer I ever really just liked. Or liked at all, but I liked it from the first taste. What we've discovered is that I like dark beers, especially stouts, which Bitch Creek was. That was not ever a thing we'd ever tried before. As it turns out, my wife tends toward darker beers, too, so that has really worked out, although she does have a broader palette than I do when it comes to beers and ales.
At any rate, we can now share a beer over dinner or grab a beer to share when we're out or whatever, so that has been a whole new thing for us, too, sort of like with the coffee.
Also, I have a new appreciation of the fact that some of the best breweries in the country are right here where I live.
Some number of years ago (no, I don't remember when, but I'm sure my wife could tell you), my wife and I dropped sugar from our diets. This was a significant change, especially for me. I grew up drinking soda and, when I say that, I mean I grew up drinking only soda. From a very young age, actually. I moved from apple juice to Coca~Cola, and soda was pretty much the only thing I drank for the next 30-odd years. Cutting sugar meant cutting the soda, which was one of the hugest changes I've made in my life. Ever.
The immediate result of that change was that I lost weight. A lot of weight. About 100 pounds in less than a year. At the time, I dropped to under 200 pounds for the first time since I was in high school. I kept all of it off for a while but, over time... well, you have to really stay focused, I suppose. At any rate, at my physical last year (during January or February), it finally hit me that I had let myself creep back up to about 245.
Well, that was enough of that.
So I started exercising again, something I'd let slide for a couple of years. [Seriously, why does exercising have to take up so much time?] And I started monitoring my portion sizes. When you don't eat sugar, it can make you feel justified with eating more. Well, me, anyway.
The short of all of that is that I am, now, under 200 pounds again, for only the second time since high school.
Coffee:
I think I have probably come off as a coffee drinker on here for years. I mean, with posts like this, I totally sound like a coffee drinker, right? But I was only barely a coffee drinker as I would only drink coffee if it was in chocolate. It took my wife a while to work me up even to that, because I grew up sans coffee. See above with the soda thing.
Basically, we could go to the cafe together because I could get a mocha, but my wife insisted that that wasn't the same thing. I... really didn't understand.
What we couldn't do, though, was sit around having coffee together when we went out for breakfast. My wife would have coffee, but I would just have water. (And, then, go to the cafe after for a mocha. heh) Again, I didn't get the big deal, but she assured me it wasn't the same as us sitting and having coffee together.
Well, she was right.
Long story short, I finally agreed to to try having coffee (just plain, old coffee) with my wife when we were out for breakfast one Sunday morning. No, I don't drink it black, but, I did buy her an espresso machine, something she has always wanted but didn't feel like it was worth it if she was going to be the only one using it. Now, we have coffee together every morning.
Beer:
As with coffee, I also grew up not drinking alcohol. Of any kind. My wife spent some number of years converting me to drinking wine (it was a slow process), but I still stayed away from beer. No, not on any kind of principle or anything; mostly, I just didn't like the way it smells. And not that my wife wants or likes to go hang out in bars but, every once in a while, she likes the option of going to share a beer in a bar. Except you can't do that when one of the people won't help share it. But, you know, I've been open to trying and tasting things over the years but, really, nothing ever really did it for me. Well, there was this one time years ago we got some blackberry beer at a local brewery, and I liked that, but they never had it again, and you can't buy it at the store or anything.
All of that changed this year. We were at an open mic night (probably the one where we first saw Parcivillian), and my wife got a beer... with the understanding that I was going to taste it. She got something called a Bitch Creek (because she liked the name). Well, we both loved it. Yeah, it was the first beer I ever really just liked. Or liked at all, but I liked it from the first taste. What we've discovered is that I like dark beers, especially stouts, which Bitch Creek was. That was not ever a thing we'd ever tried before. As it turns out, my wife tends toward darker beers, too, so that has really worked out, although she does have a broader palette than I do when it comes to beers and ales.
At any rate, we can now share a beer over dinner or grab a beer to share when we're out or whatever, so that has been a whole new thing for us, too, sort of like with the coffee.
Also, I have a new appreciation of the fact that some of the best breweries in the country are right here where I live.
Thursday, November 17, 2011
My Mocha Life
Okay, not really, but it's probably the title I should have gone with. Oh, let me explain:
Today is the day I update the next Tib story, which I have done. Go read it! Here's a link just in case you can't manage to get your mouse up to the tabby thing: The Kitchen Table.
Quite a while ago, I wrote the second chapter of Tib from a different perspective. It was a writing exercise for a writing group and went along with some theme or other (although, I can't remember what that theme was), and I had "The Tunnel" written already, so I thought I would just continue that story by jumping to Tib's mom. As I was writing it, I figured out that I didn't want any of the story from Tib's mom's perspective. I'd stick to either Tib or the man with no eyes. However, I finished the story anyway. So, as an extra special treat for one day only (okay, that's not precisely the truth), you get to see both versions of the second chapter of Tib. Tib's version (the real version) is up in the Tib tab. His mother's version is below. Read them both, and let me know what you think!
She sat at the table cradling the less than warm coffee mug in her hands wondering what had happened to her life. Where had it gone? She decided it was the like the mocha she was holding, the mocha that, no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t get to compare in the least to the ones the café in town made, slowly losing its heat. From moment to moment, you couldn’t tell the difference, but, if you weren’t paying attention, you’d suddenly find it was cold. You could reheat it, but, really, it would never be the same. Like fried foods. That was her life. Lukewarm going to cold. And she had never noticed it happening.
She remembered being beautiful. She remembered when men would fight over her. Literally. She hadn’t appreciated that, at the time. Had hardly noticed it. Had not realized what her life was then. And she remembered when it had changed. Michael. Devilishly handsome and not far removed from the devil himself, though she hadn’t known that at the time. Not that he was bad, that wasn’t it. But, if the devil had started as an angel, Michael was… Well, he wasn’t far removed.
He had taken her old life and given her something else in return. Neither of them had known it, at the time. If only…
She sighed heavily. If only she had left well enough alone and not insisted on the truth. She had come to the conclusion, since then, that truth was overrated. But, really, how was she to know? It’s not like there was some kind of handbook with a warning, “Hey, your lover is more than human; leave well enough alone. Don’t ask questions.” But she had asked questions. Over and over and over again until he had finally told her. And it had cost her her life.
And given her a new one. Two new ones, in fact, although neither of them had known that, at the time. At the time… But, really, would she have done anything different even if she had known she was pregnant? She had spent the last decade trying to tell herself that that was so, but she knew it wasn’t. She knew then just like she still knew, now, that she could not have gone on with Michael not knowing anything about him. She would have lost him with or without the truth from him. Still… Why had he told her? He could have just disappeared and left her wondering what had happened to him. It would have hurt her, yes, but, at least, that was something she could have recovered from. She had never recovered from the knowledge he had given her.
And here she was contemplating how in the world she was going to pass that knowledge on to her son. She didn’t want to do it, which was why he was about to turn 11 and knew nothing of his father. But he was about to turn 11, and he had to know. Had to be prepared. 11... She still didn’t understand why 11 was so important, but she knew there was truth in it. Could feel it.
As if thoughts of him had summoned him, the screen door squeaked open and slammed followed by the house rattling slam of the front door. That, of course, was followed by the crash of his backpack as he tossed it into the chair in the hallway, and the chair slammed into the table next to it. No matter how many times she told him not to throw his backpack. Sigh.
“Tib? Tib is that you?” She wondered for a moment why she asked that question everyday when he came in. It’s not like it was going to be anyone else, and there was the backpack. Really. If it was someone else, would there really be the backpack? But she compulsively asked. Everyday. She wondered, not for the first time, if that was because Michael had broken some ability in her to trust reality.
“Yes, Mom! It’s me! Who else would it be?” Just like everyday. Well, except those days when he said, “No, Mom! I’m someone else!” But today wasn’t one of those days. He sounded as if he had had a bad time coming through the tunnel, today. Not that he didn’t always have a bad time, but some days were worse than others. She didn’t understand that; it was just a tunnel!
She heard him start up the stairs, “Tib, come here, please!”
“Aw, Mom! What? I don’t want to do my homework, right now!”
“You know the rules; homework, first! But this isn’t about homework. Just come here!”
“I didn’t do anything!”
He still wasn’t coming back down the stairs… She sighed and shook her head, rolling her eyes at the repetitiveness of this scenario, “I didn’t say you did anything! Just come here!”
His footsteps fell more heavily on the stairs than they really needed to as he came stomping his way back down. Any chance to actively demonstrate his disapproval, after all.
“What, Mom?” as he came into the kitchen. Her mocha was completely cold, now, but she didn’t notice as she took a small sip.
“Sit down. We need to talk.”
“Mom…! I have things to do!”
She snorted without meaning to, “Video games are hardly something you need to do.”
Tiberius just glowered at her the way he did when he had no response to her. Generally, because it was hard to argue against the truth. Even when you didn’t like it. Something she knew well.
She stared back at him, finally saying, “I said ‘sit down.’”
Tib dropped into a chair as if he was a marionette that had just had his strings cut. She sighed again. Every time he did that, she had visions of the chair collapsing under him, impaling him on the wooden pin cushion it became in her mind as it broke apart. She shook her head and sighed, again, but held back her normal response. She had other things to talk about.
She looked down into her coffee mug, only just now realizing that her mocha had lost all of its heat. Not even half gone. She frowned at it, got up, and dumped it in the sink. From behind her, Tib said, “Well?”
She turned around and looked at him, leaning against the edge of the counter, “You turn 11, next week.”
He shrugged, “Yeah, so… It’s just another birthday. It’s not like I get to have a party or anything.” He said that with such bitterness, and she wept on the inside. Sometimes… sometimes keeping him safe just cost too much.
“I know… I’m sorry…” She stopped short of trying to explain it all to him, again, since there had never really been any explanation to go with that. She sighed. Again. She looked Tib in the eyes, “It’s time you knew about your father.”
Today is the day I update the next Tib story, which I have done. Go read it! Here's a link just in case you can't manage to get your mouse up to the tabby thing: The Kitchen Table.
Quite a while ago, I wrote the second chapter of Tib from a different perspective. It was a writing exercise for a writing group and went along with some theme or other (although, I can't remember what that theme was), and I had "The Tunnel" written already, so I thought I would just continue that story by jumping to Tib's mom. As I was writing it, I figured out that I didn't want any of the story from Tib's mom's perspective. I'd stick to either Tib or the man with no eyes. However, I finished the story anyway. So, as an extra special treat for one day only (okay, that's not precisely the truth), you get to see both versions of the second chapter of Tib. Tib's version (the real version) is up in the Tib tab. His mother's version is below. Read them both, and let me know what you think!
Life Is a Mocha
She remembered being beautiful. She remembered when men would fight over her. Literally. She hadn’t appreciated that, at the time. Had hardly noticed it. Had not realized what her life was then. And she remembered when it had changed. Michael. Devilishly handsome and not far removed from the devil himself, though she hadn’t known that at the time. Not that he was bad, that wasn’t it. But, if the devil had started as an angel, Michael was… Well, he wasn’t far removed.
He had taken her old life and given her something else in return. Neither of them had known it, at the time. If only…
She sighed heavily. If only she had left well enough alone and not insisted on the truth. She had come to the conclusion, since then, that truth was overrated. But, really, how was she to know? It’s not like there was some kind of handbook with a warning, “Hey, your lover is more than human; leave well enough alone. Don’t ask questions.” But she had asked questions. Over and over and over again until he had finally told her. And it had cost her her life.
And given her a new one. Two new ones, in fact, although neither of them had known that, at the time. At the time… But, really, would she have done anything different even if she had known she was pregnant? She had spent the last decade trying to tell herself that that was so, but she knew it wasn’t. She knew then just like she still knew, now, that she could not have gone on with Michael not knowing anything about him. She would have lost him with or without the truth from him. Still… Why had he told her? He could have just disappeared and left her wondering what had happened to him. It would have hurt her, yes, but, at least, that was something she could have recovered from. She had never recovered from the knowledge he had given her.
And here she was contemplating how in the world she was going to pass that knowledge on to her son. She didn’t want to do it, which was why he was about to turn 11 and knew nothing of his father. But he was about to turn 11, and he had to know. Had to be prepared. 11... She still didn’t understand why 11 was so important, but she knew there was truth in it. Could feel it.
As if thoughts of him had summoned him, the screen door squeaked open and slammed followed by the house rattling slam of the front door. That, of course, was followed by the crash of his backpack as he tossed it into the chair in the hallway, and the chair slammed into the table next to it. No matter how many times she told him not to throw his backpack. Sigh.
“Tib? Tib is that you?” She wondered for a moment why she asked that question everyday when he came in. It’s not like it was going to be anyone else, and there was the backpack. Really. If it was someone else, would there really be the backpack? But she compulsively asked. Everyday. She wondered, not for the first time, if that was because Michael had broken some ability in her to trust reality.
“Yes, Mom! It’s me! Who else would it be?” Just like everyday. Well, except those days when he said, “No, Mom! I’m someone else!” But today wasn’t one of those days. He sounded as if he had had a bad time coming through the tunnel, today. Not that he didn’t always have a bad time, but some days were worse than others. She didn’t understand that; it was just a tunnel!
She heard him start up the stairs, “Tib, come here, please!”
“Aw, Mom! What? I don’t want to do my homework, right now!”
“You know the rules; homework, first! But this isn’t about homework. Just come here!”
“I didn’t do anything!”
He still wasn’t coming back down the stairs… She sighed and shook her head, rolling her eyes at the repetitiveness of this scenario, “I didn’t say you did anything! Just come here!”
His footsteps fell more heavily on the stairs than they really needed to as he came stomping his way back down. Any chance to actively demonstrate his disapproval, after all.
“What, Mom?” as he came into the kitchen. Her mocha was completely cold, now, but she didn’t notice as she took a small sip.
“Sit down. We need to talk.”
“Mom…! I have things to do!”
She snorted without meaning to, “Video games are hardly something you need to do.”
Tiberius just glowered at her the way he did when he had no response to her. Generally, because it was hard to argue against the truth. Even when you didn’t like it. Something she knew well.
She stared back at him, finally saying, “I said ‘sit down.’”
Tib dropped into a chair as if he was a marionette that had just had his strings cut. She sighed again. Every time he did that, she had visions of the chair collapsing under him, impaling him on the wooden pin cushion it became in her mind as it broke apart. She shook her head and sighed, again, but held back her normal response. She had other things to talk about.
She looked down into her coffee mug, only just now realizing that her mocha had lost all of its heat. Not even half gone. She frowned at it, got up, and dumped it in the sink. From behind her, Tib said, “Well?”
She turned around and looked at him, leaning against the edge of the counter, “You turn 11, next week.”
He shrugged, “Yeah, so… It’s just another birthday. It’s not like I get to have a party or anything.” He said that with such bitterness, and she wept on the inside. Sometimes… sometimes keeping him safe just cost too much.
“I know… I’m sorry…” She stopped short of trying to explain it all to him, again, since there had never really been any explanation to go with that. She sighed. Again. She looked Tib in the eyes, “It’s time you knew about your father.”
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Sunday Coffee and Books
Every Sunday morning, after the kids have left for church with their grandparents (why we're not going to church is a very long story and one I won't get into any time soon), my wife and I go out for Aztec mochas. Yes, Aztec mochas. Specifically. Yes, it's important. Generally speaking, we make our own mochas at home. But not very often spicy ones. At home, I do peppermint, and my wife does straight up chocolate. The mochas we make at home are better than what you can get from Starbucks or any of the local coffee shops we've visited, so we don't often waste our money on buying inferior products. However, although we do occasionally make spicy mochas at home, and good ones, we can't quite get them to match the Aztecs from Flying Goat (don't you love the name?), so, once a week, we splurge and go out for our coffee.
None of that is actually important except that it helps set the scene. Sometimes, after we get our coffee, we stroll through downtown, which is what we did today. And, in strolling through downtown, we decided to step into an Antique store that we've never been into before. Actually, we haven't been into any of the stores downtown; we always just window shop. However, today, my wife said, "You know, I wouldn't mine going in here sometime." And I said, "Well, let's do it." And she said, "I didn't necessarily mean right now." So I said, "But we're here right now, so let's go in." So we did.
[That's probably not exactly how that conversation happened, but that's the gist of it.]
I have a problem with antique stores that I was reminded of this morning -- the frequent inclusion of things which are not antiques. It's like the over use of the word "classic" for things that it doesn't apply to. People seem to think that if it's slightly old at all or if it is something that's considered collectible, then it should be in an antique store. So there was a section with comic books, none of the ones I flipped through were more than 10 years old, there were toys that were from my lifetime, and lots and lots of stuff that I'm pretty sure was brand new but made to look like it was an antique. And then there was a whole section of books...
First, let me just say, that this was by no means a section of "antique" books. The sign said "Rare and Used," but what it really meant was "Used." Yes, some of the books were quite old, but I'm fairly certain that there wasn't anything in the store that could have been classified as "rare." However, if you can get past that, the book section was the best of what a book store should be. It was also the worst.
It was the kind of book store that makes you feel like a kid lost in a book store or library before you know how they work. You don't know that there's any kind of organization, so everything is a discovery. This place had no real organization. Or no standard kind of organization. I'm sure that the guy that was working there had some way that he organized it, and he could probably take you right to anything you wanted, but, for us, there was no discernible organization to the books. Although some of it certainly had to do with size. All the Harry Potter books were up on top of the bookshelves. See, not antiques.
But there were plenty of old books. Old Tom Swift books and Bobbsey Twin books. Rudyard Kipling. Old editions of Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew on the shelf next to virtually brand new editions. And other less familiar works like The Lord of Misrule, which is a great title but only a mediocre poem. And The Iceman Cometh by Eugene O'Neill, another great title and one that no one, today, could get away with. I haven't read much O'Neill despite an English degree with an emphasis on Literature. Which meant, I suppose, a lot of Shakespeare, because I've read most of Shakespeare. And, speaking of Shakespeare, so old editions of Shakespeare works: The Tragedies of Shakespeare, The Histories of Shakespeare, and The Comedies of Shakespeare.
Every time you turned a corner or went to a new shelf, it was like, "Wow! Look at this!" Of course, if you wanted to look for anything specific on your own, you were out of luck. So, yeah... It was fun to browse through those old books. Great smell. Old, brown pages. Something "new" around every bend. But, you know, nothing really worth buying. I mean, if you are actually a collector of old books, there was nothing of value there, so there was no point. And if were looking for something to read, mostly, you'd want to get something that wasn't at risk of falling apart in your hands, so, also, no point, despite the inclusion of a few newer books, it's not the kind of place you actually want to go if your looking for something. However, it was a great stroll while having the Sunday morning coffee...
None of that is actually important except that it helps set the scene. Sometimes, after we get our coffee, we stroll through downtown, which is what we did today. And, in strolling through downtown, we decided to step into an Antique store that we've never been into before. Actually, we haven't been into any of the stores downtown; we always just window shop. However, today, my wife said, "You know, I wouldn't mine going in here sometime." And I said, "Well, let's do it." And she said, "I didn't necessarily mean right now." So I said, "But we're here right now, so let's go in." So we did.
[That's probably not exactly how that conversation happened, but that's the gist of it.]
I have a problem with antique stores that I was reminded of this morning -- the frequent inclusion of things which are not antiques. It's like the over use of the word "classic" for things that it doesn't apply to. People seem to think that if it's slightly old at all or if it is something that's considered collectible, then it should be in an antique store. So there was a section with comic books, none of the ones I flipped through were more than 10 years old, there were toys that were from my lifetime, and lots and lots of stuff that I'm pretty sure was brand new but made to look like it was an antique. And then there was a whole section of books...
First, let me just say, that this was by no means a section of "antique" books. The sign said "Rare and Used," but what it really meant was "Used." Yes, some of the books were quite old, but I'm fairly certain that there wasn't anything in the store that could have been classified as "rare." However, if you can get past that, the book section was the best of what a book store should be. It was also the worst.
It was the kind of book store that makes you feel like a kid lost in a book store or library before you know how they work. You don't know that there's any kind of organization, so everything is a discovery. This place had no real organization. Or no standard kind of organization. I'm sure that the guy that was working there had some way that he organized it, and he could probably take you right to anything you wanted, but, for us, there was no discernible organization to the books. Although some of it certainly had to do with size. All the Harry Potter books were up on top of the bookshelves. See, not antiques.
But there were plenty of old books. Old Tom Swift books and Bobbsey Twin books. Rudyard Kipling. Old editions of Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew on the shelf next to virtually brand new editions. And other less familiar works like The Lord of Misrule, which is a great title but only a mediocre poem. And The Iceman Cometh by Eugene O'Neill, another great title and one that no one, today, could get away with. I haven't read much O'Neill despite an English degree with an emphasis on Literature. Which meant, I suppose, a lot of Shakespeare, because I've read most of Shakespeare. And, speaking of Shakespeare, so old editions of Shakespeare works: The Tragedies of Shakespeare, The Histories of Shakespeare, and The Comedies of Shakespeare.
Every time you turned a corner or went to a new shelf, it was like, "Wow! Look at this!" Of course, if you wanted to look for anything specific on your own, you were out of luck. So, yeah... It was fun to browse through those old books. Great smell. Old, brown pages. Something "new" around every bend. But, you know, nothing really worth buying. I mean, if you are actually a collector of old books, there was nothing of value there, so there was no point. And if were looking for something to read, mostly, you'd want to get something that wasn't at risk of falling apart in your hands, so, also, no point, despite the inclusion of a few newer books, it's not the kind of place you actually want to go if your looking for something. However, it was a great stroll while having the Sunday morning coffee...
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