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Sprouts by request

Here is my hyper-locally famous recipe for Brussels sprouts:

Cover the bottom of a large frying pan with sesame oil. Add minced garlic and sea salt.

Step 1: oil, garlic, sea salt

Step 1: oil, garlic, sea salt

Wash the sprouts, cut off the stems, and cut them in half lengthwise. Place them in the pan, cut side down. Drizzle more oil and sprinkle more sea salt on top.

Step 2: add sprouts cut side down and drizzle more oil on top

Step 2: add sprouts cut side down and drizzle more oil on top

Heat covered on medium high for 10-15 minutes until they are brown on the cut side. Under no circumstances should you leave them cooking while you check to make sure your chicken has food and water. This is what will happen:

Step 3: brown them, don't burn them

Step 3: brown them, don't burn them

Once they are browned, turn heat to low and cook for 5-10 minutes more. Add more salt if necessary to counteract residual bitterness.

That’s it: a crowd pleaser!

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Trish and Ed had mentioned the Jaguars’ halftime hot dog buffet for the media, but I’m not a fan of hot dogs unless they have the processed cheese in the center. Still, I decided to dig in, despite the unappetizing presentation of the dogs swimming in amber brack.

The famed hotdog buffet

The famed hotdog buffet

It was a decision I would regret.

The game was a blowout. The crowd started singing “Na na na na, hey hey, goodbye” with more than four minutes left. The Titans went home 0-4 and very sad.

I met up with Ed outside the press conference room. Inside, there were a dozen or so print folks and eight people with video cameras. Jaguars head coach Jack Del Rio read from the standard coach script: “It was a solid team effort” and “we were solid throughout.” I didn’t care about any of that stuff because something else had attracted my attention: a very large man doing illicit things to a cigar. He was wearing what looked like a fern-patterned muumuu.

The man in the muumuu

The man in the muumuu

He asked this astute question of Del Rio: “Is the quickness the key to being a better team?” Um, I don’t know much about football, but I’m going to say, “Yes.”

After we left the meat locker temps of the press conference room, we went to the actual locker rooms. The Titans’ one was quite wee and covered in discarded knee, elbow and ankle wraps. The Jaguars’ one is like the Taj Mahal. While I was writing down that note, Ed told me to look over his shoulder. And there was the tight end of a corner back. It was Ed’s way of making me more aware and cautious. And I was. I took a lot of notes so that I could better avert my eyes.

The players exhibit a lot more patience with people in their space when they are naked than I would. One TV guy was doing live shots — live shots! — in the locker room. They may be used to it, but I’m certainly not.

Fern muumuu was roaming around and gnawing his cigar. He is about 5-feet-4-inches tall and wide, and makes a “Where the Wild Things Are”-style cacophony when he walks.

Ed has one cardinal rule regarding locker room interviews: He won’t interview a player until he is dressed. The player, that is, not Ed. I would think Ed is usually fully dressed. Meanwhile, I’m standing next to the bins of sweaty shorts and towels, and I start to feel lightheaded. Then the hot dog asks to be released. I need to leave.

Ed follows shortly thereafter and we head home. He asks me if I’ve had a good time. I reply that every experience makes a good story.

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My friend Ed is the publisher of a sports publication. During football season, he and Trish the Human spend many weekends covering the Jaguars. I’m not sure how it transpired, but it was decided* that I would come with him today and cover the Jaguars/Titans game from behind the scenes. I think what led to it was the fact that I was intrigued by their tales of all the weirdo press people who cover the games.

So, Ed and I drove to Jacksonville this morning, listening to the B-52s (mine) and Ringo Starr (his). We arrived in record time, then paid a blistering $30 for parking — $30!! WTF? We parked and walked the trail of tailgating to the media entry. I would have been happy to stay in the parking lot. Fat Floridians were grilling burgers, drinking beer, and listening to live music. (I got out of the car to the tune of “What I Like About You.”) Yet we pressed on.

Clearly he knows how to grill something tasty

Clearly he knows how to grill something tasty

On the Tailgate Trail

On the Tailgate Trail

Ed and I went through the security cavity search, then headed to the press area to get food. On the menu: sandwiches, some meat product in goo, and over-oiled potatoes. Savory.

He showed me to my seat in the air-conditioned press box and he headed to the sidelines to shoot the game. I looked for him, but I realized I might never see him again.

That's me, working hard (hardly working) in the press box

That's me, working hard (hardly working) in the press box

It is a sea of teal Jones-Drew jerseys with shots of pink for breast cancer awareness. In the press box, I am painfully aware of my deceit.  Everyone here lives for football, and can discuss the nuances of the game. I am only here to observe and pass judgment.

And here is one call now:

What is the deal with radio and TV folks and their “broadcast” voices? It is ridiculous. There is no need to switch into some extra loud, hyper-enunciated vocalization as the guy a few seats down is doing.

Within the first few moments of the game, it becomes clear that it will be a good day for the Jaguars. No. 32 — a look at the media guide tells me that it is Maurice Jones-Drew of fan jersey fame — scored a touchdown. I was browsing the Museum of Bad Art’s Web site, but I sensed anticipation from my press cohorts. I looked up just in time to see him jog into the end zone.

More touchdowns follow. The mood in the box is jubilant, and I wonder what happened to journalistic objectivity.

View from the box

View from the box

It is halftime now, and my butt hurts. I think I’ll go get popcorn.

Stay tuned: more coverage to come!

* deliberate use of passive voice

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The Junior League Thrift Sale is an annual event where the ladies of the Junior League round up their castoffs and those of others, bring them to the Savannah Civic Center, and sell tickets for two days of bargains and chaos.

I always work the morning of the first sale day because I love to watch the stampede down the stairs when the doors open.

Shoppers wait outside

Shoppers wait outside

The herd is on the move

The herd is on the move

I also always choose to be a cashier. That I can’t explain. Each cashier has a bagger. Today, I was lucky enough to have the inimitable Sarah Copeland as my very own bag lady, and we set up shop in a prime location by the restrooms.

Silly Sarah and the tool of her trade

Silly Sarah and the tool of her trade

We laughed a lot today, and marveled at the the items people donated, and what people bought. A stuffed cat wearing a fancy sparkly coat and carrying a wreath, for example. One couple arrived at our station with a mound of books, purses and random other items. It appeared that they had just started dating; he was still in the “impress her by paying” mode. She responded with the title of this post. And we laughed.

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My mother always said, “If you don’t have anything nice to say, then I want to hear it.” No, she didn’t say that. But I do.

My friend Ed is stunted. He has lived his life without watching important, life-changing movies. Movies such as “Rear Window,” “Napoleon Dynamite” “Blair Witch Project,” “Seven,” “To Kill a Mockingbird,” anything Bond, anything with Clint Eastwood, any horror movie, etc. What stopped me in mid sentence tonight was his revelation that he has not seen “Tommy Boy.” Oh the shame.

To harass him further, I made him go through AFI’s list of the top 100 movies. Ed had not seen 38 of the first 50, so I had to stop. He was suitably heckled by the rest of the people over for Human Trish’s birthday, yet claims he would do better with the bottom 50. Sure, Ed.

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What can I offer?

My problem with Facebook and Twitter reared its head when I thought about blogging: What do I have to offer that “followers” would find interesting and not be able to get anywhere else? Yes, I could offer the minutiae of my daily life, but who cares about that? But what if that minutiae consisted of grammar advice with a liberal dose of commentary about chickens? Now that’s something different.

So welcome to my blog: Eats, shoots and lays.

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