Even if the 49er’s will not be represented in the lineup, I’m ready for the Super Bowl. My summer sausage molded in the shape of a football is in the deli drawer waiting for cheese and crackers to accompany it to the table and my 7 layer dip recipe is dusted off and ready to go. Life is good. I am here to tell you I never thought hear myself saying these words, but of late I look forward to watching the teams perform each week. Who knew? Maybe it’s the body molding uniforms, or testosterone fueled grunting going on before hiking the ball, but when game time rolls around I’m in my seat and remain there until the last play goes down. Up until recently, half time, stats and bowl games I left to die-hard sports enthusiasts. Game days used to be good days to catch up on my reading, finish the laundry or do a little shopping. Seeing myself in the role of one of those dedicated fans with blue and green painted faces sitting undaunted in the rain or freezing snow in the stands, guzzling beer, and waving big foam hands with pointy fingers was never in the master plan for me. Up until now, that is. Perhaps it’s a virus? Maybe I’ve suffered a yet undiagnosed brain anomaly or all those times my grandmother thwacked me on the head with her wooden spoon for misbehaving finally caught up with me? Whatever the reason, I am hooked on football. I was seriously looking forward to the 49er’s soundly laying those loud Seattle fans and their annoying twelfth man to rest. They did not. Insert boo-boo lip here. They did muzzle them nicely for the first half of the game, which was the best part for me.
Fascinating the emotions elicited by football. Fights break out among players and players, players and coaches, coaches and coaches, coaches and officials, officials and officials, and fans and fans. Observers all over the country don their team’s colors and when provoked are ready to put up their fists and defend their teams honor. The originators should have saved some letters and simply called it war. It is soooo easy to sit in a recliner remote in one hand, bag of fiery Cheeto’s in the other, switching from one game to the next imparting pearls of wisdom to those actually involved. However, being dressed in uniform down on the field with the noise, pressure to perform, and possibility of injury dominating your thoughts,must put the stress in stressful. Guaranteed if I saw a three hundred pound man snarling insults and running in my direction, I’d hand that ball off to someone else highly paid enough to be willing to carry it. No pain, no gain, has never been my mantra. I simply stop chanting after no pain.
Let me begin by saying, I am by no means athletic, so would never presume to cast aspersions on anyone showing even a pinch of athletic talent. Somewhat gifted at tennis in my twenties, and an excellent swimmer for most of my years, when they were handing out athletic prowess mine was doled out in a thimble. As a child in Nova Scotia one was expected to be good at winter sports. Canadians historically consider the birth canal a slalom run, shooting out of the womb on snow skis. From infancy many are passionate skaters and ice hockey players, and children born under their flag generally are born snow ready. I was not. Ice skating was a favorite pass time for many youngsters in Halifax. I got my first beautifully crafted white leather skates as requested from Santa when I was six. They came packed in a pink skating case decorated with a diminutive skater twirling on one foot. Lessons were arranged at the local rink and a skating outfit was purchased for the occasion. Chubby at that age, stuffed into the pink fuzzy leotard with matching silk skirt, and white tights I must have arrived at the rink looking like a cherry sno-cone.
Even at that tender age, the list of things I possessed absolutely no talent for was growing rapidly. Young ladies from good Halifax families were expected to excel at the arts. Ballet, tap, modern dance, and highland fling, had already been tried and eliminated from the dance category by the time I was five. Appearing as lead candy cane in the school play after bending over and putting a huge tear in my costume, followed by a brief guest shot on a local children’s show wearing melted chocolate ice cream down the front of my new dress pretty much hammered the last nail in any hopes for a bright acting career somewhere in my future. After a short but memorable autumn being taught basic equestrian skills under the tutelage of the fine instructors at the Bengal Lancers they too scratched me off their list of hopefuls without so much as a parting glance over one epaulet decorated shoulder. Skating needed to be something I excelled at lest I be known mainly for having virtually no athletic talent whatsoever.
Stepping onto the ice was my first mistake. Chubby little sno-cones are not meant to glide effortlessly across slippery surfaces. With a loud thwack I hit the ice, splaying myself like an ungainly deer on a frosty pond. As the day progressed this became a familiar sight to those skating around me to avoid tripping over me. Soon the rink guards placed a cone by me to avoid unnecessary collisions. Lessons began on time. Our instructor was a large woman, with an under developed funny bone, who found no humor in my less than graceful approach to her beloved sport. Rolling her eyes every time she glanced in my direction certainly wasn’t helping to build my self-esteem. Looking back as I write, perhaps a little less glaring and a little more caring might have served me well here, but after many weeks of training I did learn to remain erect more often than prone, which for my mother was a win-win considering my previous track record.
As the years passed I discovered roller skates and to this day can spin and twirl on the eight wheels with some expertise and to the amazement of my grandchildren who assume if you’ve passed fifty your twirling days are far behind you. So, I remain in awe of those who can. Admiring an arm capable of throwing a ball past the end of their toes. Gifts come in many different packages, mine will never have a ball inside the box I’m afraid, but we all can’t be quarterbacks.
There’s always next year, and Super Bowl to look forward to. Yea.
Rain is actually predicted today. You can’t see me but I’m dancing over here, not very well naturally, but I’m dancing. Dry, dry, dry winter. My sinuses, if they could clap, would be doing so. A great day to be lazy and do a little baking. This recipe was handed down to me from my mom who got it, I believe, from Taste of Home. Quick and easy to put together, it is always a crowd pleaser.
1/4 cup butter, softened
2/3 cup granulated sugar
1 tsp. vanilla
1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
2 tsp. baking powder
1/4 tsp. salt
3/4 cup 2% milk
1 1/2 cups flaked coconut
1/2 cup packed brown sugar
5 Tbsp. heavy whipping cream
1 1/2 tsp. vanilla
1/4 cup finely chopped walnuts
Cream butter and sugar in large mixing bowl until light and fluffy. Beat in egg and vanilla.
Whisk together flour, baking powder, and salt. Add to butter/sugar mixture alternately with milk, beating well after each addition.
Pour into 8″ square pan sprayed with cooking spray. Bake for 30 mins. or until toothpick inserted in middle comes out clean.
Combine topping ingredients. Spread over warm cake. Place under broiler for 5 mins. until bubbly and golden brown.