Crunchy Chicken Chili and Other Adventures

BYU Intramural Co-ed Softball--We played on "The Watermelons," named for the practice of sharing a watermelon together after every game. Being on this team was one of our favorite intramural experiences! :)

Michael has always been one to look out for me. In our first months of marriage, we played on an intramural co-ed basketball team together. My main purpose (and justification) in participating in basketball at this intense level was to give the other girls on the team a breather here and there. I didn't actually "play," per se; I just kind of ran in the same direction as everybody else and hoped not to get trampled by any Amazon women I was supposed to be guarding. I did not shoot, not ever. And at first, that wasn't disappointing to me. I was glad to be spared the humiliation. Every once in a while, I tried to play some defense, which usually resulted in a foul for my team because I have trouble staying "planted" with my feet, or swatting at the ball and only the ball. No foul was ever intentional or malicious, but no foul was ever helpful. So, I resigned to a quiet, "just give me the signal when you wanna come back in" position on the team and I was just fine with it.

Michael, however, was not. He had me practice shooting with him at the courts by the Wymount laundromat. He made sure I knew "BEEF": balance, eyes, elbow, finish. (Edit from Michael: Actually, the "F" is for "follow-through." But leaving it as "finish" makes the point--I am not a big basketball player.) At first I was skeptical. How could a volleyball-playing, tennis-attempting person like me be expected to become coordinated enough to shoot a basketball in the hoop? But, it worked! My percentage went up from 0 to at least 10. :) He taught me how to do lay-ups, too. I still get the footing all mixed up, but I can get 'em in thanks to his help. Unless there's a large Amazon woman in my way . . .

In our last game of the intramural season, I was still fulfilling my purpose as a sub (in the education world, I would have been called a "guest player"). I kind of wanted a chance to try shooting, but that desire was far outweighed by my NOT wanting to be completely embarrassed. So I ran along with the rest of my team, and tried to block out for rebounds when I could. (Michael taught me how to do this, too, without fouling and his coaching, along with the fact that guys weren't allowed to rebound if a girl was there, really helped our team out.) With only a few minutes left in our final game, I conceded that I would end the season score-less.

Luckily for me, I have Air Michael looking out for me. As he intercepted (what IS the correct basketball lingo?!) the ball and caused a turnover, he signaled to me to get to the basket. I did what he told me to--I had started to learn that when it comes to sports, he knows what he's talking about, and I will do a lot better if I just listen. Just a smidge in front of all the other players, Michael passed me the ball and I layed it in just before anyone could stop me. I tried to act like this was a normal thing, me scoring, but when I looked over at Michael and saw how excited he was for me, I couldn't hold in my smile any longer and just soaked it all in as we ran to the other end of the court. I ended the season with stats, thanks to Michael.

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Our sweet aprons. I really liked having pictures with both of us in them, but we didn't have anyone to take them, so we'd set the camera on the TV and pu it on the timer setting and snap away. That's why all these pics look the same. :)

In our first year of marriage I was both excited and overwhelmed by the responsibility of preparing meals for both of us. I loved cookbooks, but I'd never heard of half of the ingredients in the recipes I wanted to try, nor did I know that saute is the proper way to say, "Throw it in a frying pan until it's done." Needless to say, like many couples (at least, I'm hoping), we had our fair share of mystery meals. The mystery was how I got them to turn out so funky. :)

Once I got a McCormick mix for White Chicken Chili. We had had it at Michael's parents' for Christmas and it was fantastic! It seemed so easy--all I had to do was cook up some beans and chicken and we were set. That night at dinnertime, I dished up two bowls and we said prayer, and then I realized I forgot the beverages. And then I realized I forgot napkins. And then, I'm not sure what I was doing, but I was getting all the things I forgot for so long that Michael had all but finished his bowl of chili when I took my first bite, anticipating the spicy, creamy chili explosion.

Instead, my chompers made a "CcccRrrunch" noise and I tasted taupe. Yes, taupe. That bleh color that looks good when you have accents to it, but when it's all by itself, it's boring and, well, bleh. Also, it's about the color of the inside of uncooked white beans.

Gross. I had misunderstood the directions when trying to cook the beans. I had followed the "Quick Soak Method" to a T--up to the end of the quick soaking bit. I had missed actually cooking the beans at all, and had ended up with Crunchy White Chicken Chili. I put my spoon down in disgust and looked at Michael's bowl, saying, "Oh, honey, you don't have to eat all of that."

Too late. The poor guy says he HAD been eating slowly while I dashed to and fro in the kitchen, but hadn't said anything about the rare texture of the chili to spare my feelings. Evidence numero dos of Michael looking out for me. (Thanks, hon. This one probably takes the cake . . . er, chili? Ha.) And definitely the moral of the story is to always use canned beans. :)

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Poor Michael does not look sick because of my cooking this time. He really was sick. True, it didn't help that we were eating year-old wedding cake with slight freezer burn.

Recently after our move into our second home at the luxurious Wymount Apartments, I woke up in the middle of the night screaming. My sweet husband woke up, too, pulled me to him and said, "It's okay. It was only a dream." His waking me up to reality just made me laugh, which made him just a little confused. I explained to him that my dream was about a demon Mickey Mouse who had been singing "A Whole New World" from Disney's Aladdin and was walking slowly towards me with wide open, hypnotizing eyes. I screamed and woke up when Demon Mickey was about to bite me.

When I told him this, Michael rolled his eyes and rolled himself over and said, "Goodnight." Who could blame him? :) But the point is, he was there for me to soothe away any bad dreams.

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Today, Michael looked out for me by telling me the hard truth. He's been hinting that I should write another fun blog for weeks, but I'm just never sure what to write. He set me straight today.

"You're turning into a half-A.ed blogger," he said. (In this context, "A" means "A," not anything else.) This exclamation was followed with, "Sometimes I wish I used worse language." :) Ha. I'm so glad he doesn't, and so glad he's been looking out for me all along.