This image you see above is of my delicious pineapple chicken salad sandwich that I made myself for lunch. You may also notice that there is a bite missing. That bite was not taken by me. It was taken by one important woman in my life (ahem—the human incubator in which I spent the first nine months of my life—ahem), who didn’t want a pineapple chicken salad sandwich of her own as mine was being prepared.

What’s the deal with that? Now, excuse me for over gen(d)eralizing, but why is it that women never want a particular kind of food until you have it.

“Hey babe, I’m going to get some onion rings. Would you like me to get you some?”…”no, I don’t want any”.

“I think I’ll get an order of nachos. Would you like me to get you some as well?”…”no, I’m fine.”

“Mmm, these fries are great. You should have gotten some”… “I did.”

Invariably, those slender feminine fingers will always make their way across the table to enjoy some of the finger food they just finished saying they didn’t want. I can think of another group of people who have this problem. 2 year olds. 2 year olds and women.

My policy, always buy two of everything. Expensive? Maybe, but problem solved.

This year, my family is having Thanksgiving dinner at our sister’s new house. My sister (who is now pregnant with her second child) and her husband moved into the house a few months ago and this Thanksgiving dinner is the first family even they’re hosting.

To make things easier, we’re all brining a different portion of the meal. The picture you see at the top here, is my contribution—two apple pies. Having made a third for general eating, I can say with confidence, these pies are amazing.

So, happy Thanksgiving everyone. Enjoy your time with family if you have it. And, on a more serious note, Psalm 97:12:

“Rejoice in the LORD, O you righteous,and give thanks to his holy name!”

Gone are the days of a forgiving metabolism that allows me to eat and eat and eat and never gain a pound. Instead, I’ve reached the unfortunate 20-something age of denial, in which I tell myself a 1:00am trip to McDonalds isn’t going to matter one way or the other. Unfortunately, I’ve only just begun to grieve.

The 34 my waste has been seeing since high school has started to flirt with a 36. Button up shirts I was lookin’ so slick in two years ago are threatening to start pulling. And, for the first time in my life I have a gym membership…that I actually feel guilty for not using.

But see, here’s the problem. You see, this is America and it’s my patriotic duty to eat (constantly) until I’m about to vomit, at which point a short break is necessary before returning to my patriotism. So how do I do my patriotic duty without slipping over the edge into greasy morbid obesity? Let’s keep in mind here that I haven’t found a woman with who’s judgment will slip long enough for her to enter a committed relationship with me.

These questions are of the utmost importance. It seems from my perspective that there are two major options:

1. Eat less. Pfft. What? Sounds like treason to me. The founding fathers would be rolling over in their graves if they could hear that!

2. Get some exercise. At first, this looks like a pretty good option. But then again, if food is ‘fuel’ for the human body and I’m gaining weight, it must mean that I’m simply eating ‘too much’. My daily activities simply don’t require as much fuel as I’m giving them.

But wait, let’s say that out loud. “I’m eating too much”. Will you listen to yourself. That’s crazy talk.

Oh well, looks like it’s back to the drawing board… right after dinner.

I never stopped to think much about the fact that Jesus commanded his disciples to gather up the leftover pieces of bread and fish after he’d multiplied them for the five thousand.

John 6:12:

“…Jesus then took the loaves, and when he had given thanks, he distributed them to those who were seated. So also the fish, as much as they wanted. And when they had eaten their fill, he told his disciples, "Gather up the leftover fragments, that nothing may be lost.”

It seems like, if there were ever a time where wasting food didn’t matter, it would be this one. I mean, they started with some barley loaves and two fish and Jesus turned it into enough to feed thousands, then still had twelve baskets of food left over.

Jesus created food out of thin air, then determined that it was crucial that none be wasted.

I’m sure there’s a lot to think about here. But my own first thought was about stewardship. Especially as Americans. We really are, in some ways, in a kind of Jesus-feeding-the-five-thousand scenario. This little fledgling country in just a few hundred years exploded into one of the most powerful, prosperous countries on the planet.

But now, in so many ways (from portion sizes, to the number of cars on the road), as a nation we’re really not treating the prosperity with the kind of reverence that Jesus treated the miracle.

It really makes you think. Waste, even when it doesn’t hurt anyone, isn’t something to be proud of.

My father made a trip to the wholesale club today. It’s something that he does every couple months to buy the things that get used up frequently—toilet paper, dish detergent, flour—mostly stuff like that.

Well, I happened to be around when he returned with a car load of groceries. After helping bring them into the house, I took the initiative to unload everything into their pantry.

A lot of it was bulky and difficult to nestle into tight spaces. At the frustration of moving thing around, I let out a frustrated sigh. Immediately I noticed how crazy that really was.

You know you live in a rich country when there’s so much food, it’s frustrating to find a place to put it all.

This is a weird place we live—but I’m grateful for it.

I love to cook and among my favorite things to make is pizza at home.

When I was a kid there was a pizzeria that made the best pizza in town. It wasn’t anything like franchise pizza. It was lighter, bigger and had a taste all its own. I later came to learn that everyone’s favorite pizza place was making a fairly authentic New York style pizza. Very thin in the middle, with very puffy crust on the outside.

Well, a few years back, our favorite pizza joint closed down to make way for a new gigantic grocery store,  which needless to say, didn’t sell our favorite pizza. It was a tragic trade off.

For some months, former employees of the pizzeria went and worked at similar joint 5 or 10 miles away. But for whatever reason, the new place couldn’t keep afloat in the sinking economy and it was forced to close its doors too.

Now, our suburban area is stuck with franchise pizza. Dominoes, Papa Johns, Pizza Hut. Don’t get me wrong. They’re not bad per se, they’re just not as good as the New York pizza we’d all grown attached to.

So, today, having had enough, I decided I wanted to learn to replicate the extinct pizzerias food. This means rethinking sauce, cheese and most importantly, the basics of making dough at home. Research suggested that I was doing nearly everything wrong if I wanted to accomplish New York pizza. I was going to have to learn to toss the dough. This is actually just as difficult as it sounds.

Well, after eight wasted lumps of dough, I finally produced an acceptable pie. Granted it was smaller than I’d wanted and the sauce, while similar to my goal didn’t quite hit the mark.

But, as they say, practice makes perfect. Next time, I think I’ll get it. Once it’s perfect, I think I’ll share my research so the world can benefit.

My mother had her knee replaced on Tuesday. She’s been in the hospital since. She’ll be returning home on Friday, but with a lot less mobility than she had before. To help ease the situation, my older sister suggested that I put together some meals that could be stored in my parent’s refrigerator and easily reheated without making too much of a mess.

Well, since my parent’s house always seems to be a busy hub of family related activity, I made a shopping list and preparations to make chicken chili, red curry, BBQ pulled pork and fresh pizza.

Hoping not to consume my entire day with cooking, I started almost all the meals at once. Boiling chicken and pork, rising dough. But, about the same time, it occurred to me that my father hadn’t had time to mow his lawn since most of his time was spent with my mother in the hospital. So, as the chicken and pork were cooking, and the dough was rising, I quickly ran out to mow the lawn, in hopes of beating an imminent thunderstorm.

I was successful at that.

Coming back inside, I got back to the food. The chicken and pork both needed to be shredded. Vegetables needed to be chopped and all of it needed to be combined.

The chili was first. Everything seemed to go fine. Then the pork. There was more fat than I anticipated and therefore less meat than I’d hoped. All is well, I thought to myself. Since there was a whole host of other food to eat. I seasoned the pork, then baked it. It turned out tasting okay.

Then came time to work out the pizza. Which, between finishing the lawn, chili and pork had risen way too much. It was nearly impossible to work with. One lump of dough was thrown away entirely. The other three were make-shifted into pizza crust, although they were ridiculously thin.

Meanwhile, as the pizza is cooking, my sister has a bowl of chili—only to discover I accidently used cayenne pepper instead of chili powder. It was almost unbearably spicy.

It was frustrating to look back and see that nearly every nail had been missed to some degree. But it all comes down to doing too much. Cutting any one of the activities out would have probably taken all the others to success. But as is, too much made too little. I guess I’ll have to remember than next time.