SCOTT hamilton

Addiction Paraphernalia

What is capable of speeds up to 21,000 rpm, has a 1 hp motor, and can purée a handful of frozen over sized strawberries in 20 seconds?

The KitchenAid Proline blender model KPCB348 with metal die cast base.

The sweet sound of smoothie slurping will once again fill the corridors of our humble abode. Joy has returned to the Hamilton household.

All is good.

 

One added benefit: If the starter goes out on my car I can just hook up the blender to get things rolling (idea courtesy of Dave G.).

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Tragedy Strikes

“For the love of all that’s good no . . . no . . . . . . . . no.”

Have you ever been rocked to your core by a tragedy in life? It just happened to me. I was doing one of my favorite things in life – making a smoothie for me and my bride. Half way through the mixing process I heard something askew. 

The motor whined at high RPM as if cutting air and there was no movement in the glass. A deep sinking feeling grew within. Lifting the glass from its cradle confirmed that the drive shaft was broken.
 

A tear trickled down my face.

 

My new Oster kick-butt blender kicked the bucket. Did I do something wrong? Did I expect too much? Were the frozen strawberries the size of swollen golf balls too much? Was the smoothie-a-day pace its downfall? Confusion, chaos, unanswered questions . . . 

Where do I go from here?

 

How about a KitchenAid Proline with a concrete crumbling 1 hp motor:)

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Gettin' Chicky with Christmas

With all the distancing of retailers from the term "Christmas", I found it interesting that a fast food joint is leveraging it. Check out what I received with my take-out from Chick-fil-A.

 

Looks like they’ll be having some fun.

(PS. Of all the fast food joints Chick-fil-A out classes them all in the customer service department too)

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Confessions of an Addict

Hi my name is Scott and I’m an addict. In fact most of family is too. We’re addicted to smoothies. How did this sorted story get started, as so often the case, very innocently at first. Here is a brief time line:

2001 introduced to smoothies at Jamba Juice by a supposed friend. Later that year discovered the Energy smoothie which apparently is no longer offered.

2002 started drinking Red Bull energy drink. Quickly developed a habit. June of this year suffered near spontaneous combustion after drinking 5 Red Bulls in one day.

2004 first trip to Inta Juice. It took a few visits to acclimate to the new style.

2004 – January. Encountered the Inta Juice menu item Intense Energy smoothie made with Red Bull. Later realized you could add two free shots of energy boosts.

2005 Started multi-smoothie days for first time.

2006 Introduced family to Inta Juice addiction.

• Same year let my youngest partake in the Red Bull smoothie experience. She didn’t sleep for 3 days.
• Same year considered home equity loan to sustain habit.

2007 received smoothie machine from mother-in-law. Didn’t save any money due to increased frequency of convenient smoothies.

• Same year wore out said smoothie machine. Broken handle. Smokey motor.

Today – upgraded to an Oster Fusion blender with six cutting blades and a 600 watt motor [insert primordial grunt].

Currently experiencing a decent smoothie buzz.

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Flustered @ Friday’s

The other night we retrieved the girls up from piano lessons and headed to TGIFs to throw some grub down their throats. As we sat down I started my usual encouragements to “Focus, focus,” without which a decision about what to order would take a solid 25 minutes. Our server came back with the drinks faster than expected and our table became a universe of questions and indecision.

In the midst of chaos another server sat down a shot glass filled to the brim as if we had ordered it.

My ability to manage the chaos was tested.  While trying to assist the girls in determining their culinary choices I missed my chance to let the other server know about his mistake. The additional burden of solving the ill-placed jigger of spirited juice cracked my composure. And it got worse.

The servers whisked off before I could voice “disownership”. I searched for eye contact and simultaneously saw scribbling on the napkin that the bunglesome booze was sitting on. It said:

"Way to go last Sunday - Great job!"

AAHHHH!! The foreboding inebriant had been sent by someone from church! Thoughts collided in my mind. There’s no way I was going to drink it. I couldn’t. I’ve struggled with the demon of alcohol in my life – I’ve never been able to just “socially drink.”

My brain synapses were melting down. Too much to process.

I didn’t want to seem ungrateful. It was a note of encouragement. They were obviously showing love. Maybe they were just messing with me. The longer it sat there the more chance someone else might see the pastor “throwing down some hard liquor.”  So what. There’s nothing wrong with drinking. What if I explained to them I appreciated what they did, but I couldn’t  drink. But what if they in turn felt bad about sending it then. Worse, what if I went around the corner and didn't recognize anyone. They sent encouragement and I couldn’t  even have the decency to know their names . . . . AAAAHHHH!

Then I started belly laughing at the situation and my inability to handle it. It was great.

Dipping my pinky finger in it, I tasted it on the off chance that it wasn’t firewater and someone was just giving me “the business.” (later my youngest asked why I didn't just smell it . . . good point.  I was flustered OK?!)

It was tea.

They got me! At this point Tess and I were laughing hysterically. Thinking about all my ridiculous angst made me laugh even harder. Sometime in the midst of the cachinnation I proudly grabbed the whiskey glass, assumed the shooting position, uttered the reminiscent, “through the teeth and over the gums . . . look out tummy here it comes,” threw back my head, and downed it in one fell swoop.

Thanks Joe and Katie for the laugh . . . but don’t think this is over by any means.

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Kissin' the Cow

 

This is what happens when you go to a Chick-fil-A grand opening with your buddies. I’m just bitter I didn’t set one of them up first.

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Death at 222

I found out that I would have to drink 221.81 cans of Red Bull before I would croak. To find out how much of your favorite caffeinated drink it would take to put you six feet under go here.

I once had four in one day - well within the safe limits.

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When Good Goes Bad

One of the best things about Brazil is the food. They love to eat meat. Not wussy meat like pâté. I’m talkin’ huge slabs of beef and pork hanging from steel skewers that looked like the instruments of the animal’s demise. It’s a guy’s paradise.

We visited many churrascaria, which is, in essence, an all-you-can-eat-meat-fest-that-pushes-the-
boundaries-of-gluttony restaurant. It’s great. 

Well into our stay we paid the price for our gluttony though. One night we hailed a taxi, and we quickly surmised that we needed more than one. Trying to be cost effective we put as many of the littler people in our only private car and the three biggest guys into one of the taxis. Guess where I ended up? 

As our taxi was following the caravan we rounded a corner and rising before us was a pretty steep hill. With a stop light at the top and the front cars of our caravan waiting at it, our driver hesitated a small distance from the base of the incline. I looked over at him and noticed two things. He had a look of concern on his face, and he too had visited many churrascaria. 

The light turned green.
The other cars sped away.
Our driver gunned the engine and tried to build up as much momentum before ascending the hill. EEEEEERRRRRRrrrrrrr . . . rrrr. . . rr . . .

We didn’t make it. The four of us churrascaria devotees broke the back of that poor little horsepower challenged taxi. 

Half-way up the hill we had to throw the ballast (us) over board to lighten the load. He eventually made it to the top where we packed back in and sped off to catch up with the caravan. 

I’m currently on a diet and have a restraining order against me from all Brazilian taxis.

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The Anti-Bread Platform

As we enter the political season I see once again the spewing of spin. I see statistics in the form of ratios and percentages floating across the TV screen bringing irrefutable evidence exposing the stained character of ‘The Opponent’. 

It has become mind numbing. I’ve been around the block enough times to know better than give credibility to these twisted taradiddles. So, in honor of deforming datum I offer these irrefutable proofs of why the dietary staple of bread is so dangerous.
 

• More than 98 percent of convicted felons are bread users.
• More than 90 percent of violent crimes are committed within 24 hours of eating bread.
• In the 18th century, when virtually all bread was baked in the home, the average life expectancy was less than 50 years; infant mortality rates were unacceptably high; many women died in childbirth; and diseases such as typhoid, yellow fever, and influenza ravaged whole nations.
• Bread is baked at temperatures as high as 400 degrees Fahrenheit! That kind of heat can kill an adult in less than one minute.
• Bread is made from a substance called "dough." It has been proven that as little as one pound of dough can be used to suffocate a mouse. The average American eats more bread than that in one month!

 

Statistics prove that bread is dangerous. I can’t, in good conscience, vote for a candidate that endorses the consumption of bread.

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Culinary Propensities – Full Disclosure

In an attempt at full disclosure I have to admit that I’m not the only one in my family with curious cuisine tendencies. 

• My wife dumps salt in her lemonade.
• My oldest daughter dips her fries in chocolate ice cream.
• My youngest daughter drenches her tacos in ranch dressing.

My guess is that everyone has their own unusual edible inclinations 

Come on . . . be honest . . . what’s yours?

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