Colonel Butter and the war of knives

 Daily News Column for Dec. 23.

Colonel Butter and the war of knives


We had so much aluminum foil covering our kitchen counter, we could have picked up HBO for free. But, instead, we used it to keep our holiday treats from sticking together.

Somewhat of a tradition in my family is homemade Christmas treats involving several pounds of powdered sugar, peanut butter and butter. No, heart problems are not a family tradition.

Now living in Missouri, five hours away from my family in Iowa, the job of assistant chef fell onto my male counterpart.

"Can you hand me a knife?" The Man asked, already covered head-to-toe in melted chocolate.

Men.

Knowing that my kitchen contains several types of knives, all of which I know how to use, I needed him to be more specific.

"What kind of knife?" I asked.

"A regular one," he said, still unhelpful.

Already frustrated with my assistant's inability to properly identify kitchen utensils as my mother would so easily be able to do, I continued.

"A butter knife or a steak knife?" I asked, holding up some options.

"The regular one, not a steak knife," he said with an eye roll and a snort.

In my little world, there is no such thing as a regular knife, and his sarcasm and slight display of disgust were just as irritating as his lack of knife knowledge.

"Yeah, that's a butter knife," I said snorting back.

At this point, it was clear, the war was on. Now calling it a "table knife" instead of a "regular knife," The Man was taking a new tactic.

Holding my ground, I continued to try and prove myself right — which, of course, I was.

"I've called this a butter knife my entire life, and I've used it to butter your toast and crescent rolls," I argued. "And I've never, in the past five years, heard you call it a table knife."

Snort.

Realizing neither of us would back down, it was time to call in reinforcements. After a quick flick of the laptop lid and some auto focusing by way of webcam, my mother was now there to help, even though she remained in Iowa.

Holding the knife just a foot from the computer screen, I took another shot at the stubborn Southerner.

"Mom, what do you call this?" I asked already knowing the answer.

"A knife," she replied. Oh. Dear. God.

"Mom, what kind of knife?" I pried.

Before the words were even out of her mouth, the victory dance had already commenced in our living room. Two against one. It was, in fact, a butter knife, and so it was settled.

Not so fast.

The Man has a mom, too. Another Southerner. And so the war continued.

When her answer of "table knife" came from the depths of the worldwide Web, it was clear this battle wouldn't be easy.

We decided to leave it up to our co-workers, only to be further irritated with answers of "dinner knife" and "just a plain knife."

Call it a truce, if you will, but this girl is an Iowan, and we butter our bread with butter knives.

*Take the Daily News' online poll and let Megan know what you call such a knife.*

A rock, a stick and a stone

 BDN Column for 12-16-11

I couldn't have made his Christmas shopping experience any easier.

As if the emails upon emails of high resolution photographs, website links and price comparisons weren't enough of a hint, I had even verified the payment and delivery methods of several locations, also included in the emails.

So when I got the, "besides jewelry, what do you want for Christmas," text message, I was a little peeved to say the least.

It was in fact, 11 days until the big, happy holiday and it was obvious that after weeks of hints and "help," that The Man hadn't even started shopping — or contemplated the idea of shopping. It was also apparent that he didn't find my hints very helpful. Bummer.

Not one to give up, I found another way to convey my wish for something round and shiny.

"A rock on a stick," I replied. After all, it wasn't jewelry but still painted a pretty good picture of what I was after — so long as the stick is round and the rock shiny. I'm not very subtle.

Not willing to play into my game he threatened me with no gifts at all.

Knowing that I would most likely not receive a ring coupled with the number of emails containing earring and necklace options in his email, I helped him out a bit.

"How about a stone? To replace the one you broke," I texted.

While I was trying to remain humorous and light, the fact still remained that my kitchen was short one rectangular baking stone, even though  I can't blame the poor guy for trying.

It was one of those rare occurrences, women like me have to take advantage of. The kind that only happen during a solar eclipse, NASA launch or when you're deathly ill.

A few days back, The Man decided to cook supper for me.

Filling my plate with yummy pasta, I was about to grab a few slices of garlic bread fresh out of the oven, when pop! My baking stone and what was left of the garlic bread went sailing through the kitchen.

With so little counter space in our new apartment, The Man had done what I find myself doing so often, using the stove for storage. Except this particular time, he forgot to turn the pasta burner off before placing the stone on the stove to cool.

And that was the last of my chances for a stone, a rock or a stick.

The Way It Is: Dreams of underwear heaven shattered

BDN Column for 12-8

"How would you even wear something like that," The Man asked, scratching his head.
While his question was valid, coming from the opposite sex, it didn't detour his attention, which was solely focused on The Angels on our TV screen.

It was time for the annual Victoria's Secret Fashion Show, and I had been excited for weeks.

Though there really is no answer for his question — because all women know that only The Angels can wear the complete ensembles — us average types can and do actually wear the basics.

So there I sat, just as enthralled as The Man, in my oversized sweats and hoodie with my bowl of ice cream.

Hey, just because The Angels don't eat, it doesn't mean I can't enjoy fine food when I see it.

"You know, I used to think I could be a Victoria's Secret model," I said to The Man between bites.

His raised eyebrow told me I could continue.

"But then I met ice cream, Diet Coke and a bit of a desk job."

The ice cream dripping from my nose made it clear that I thought I was funny. The Man looked on in disgust — or maybe embarrassment — either way, I wasn't getting any closer to being a model or funny.

I continued watching, and making my Christmas wish list for the Secret's Santa, but I couldn't help but wonder what my life would be like had my childhood dreams of the runway came true.

Not only would my dad have died of a heart attack after seeing his only daughter in undies with wings, but my poor dogs would have probably starved nearly to death right alongside me. Who else would give them their daily helping of table scraps if I were living off nothing but egg powder and water?

Being on stage with my arms and legs showing wasn't an issue. I grew up taking dance lessons. There was probably a time or two I flaunted a favorite dance costume up and down the hallway of our house.

So how's the list look so far? Eating nothing? Debatable. Modeling sparkly costumes? Check. Next stop? Those shoes!

Being a farm kid, the only thing I used a high heel for was to drive thumb tacks into my bedroom walls to hold up posters and photos. Not sure I even realized you could wear them and actually walk around.

The Man has already accused me of having "baby giraffe syndrome" the few times I've braved one or two inch heels. I'd look like a monkey on stilts if I had to wear those cute but extremely high Angel stilettos.

With two of the three major Victoria's Secret model qualifications a bust, I finished off my ice cream and popped in a movie.

Black Friday's Missouri Man Snake

BDN Column for 12-1-11

The fog was slowly lifting. The soft glow of our newly installed Christmas tree twinkled through the room. Thanksgiving was in full swing and while I was still trying to regroup from the food coma I had so happily put myself under, someone else in my house was fully awake and beginning to bounce off the walls.

It was clear that everyone's annual afternoon nap was nearing an end and we began to wonder if my male counterpart had consumed a bit too much of this year's "special" frozen fruit drink.

"Walmart's sale starts at 10 p.m." The Man announced with that sense of excitement generally reserved for 5-year-olds on Christmas day. It was only 5 p.m. The dog show was over, the leftovers were secured in the fridge and I had been awakened from my nap. Rude.

"Are you coming? I'm going to get some awesome blue rays," he said, still giddy. Quickly shattering the poor kids hopes and dreams for his first Black Friday experience in a big city, I announced that I was going back to sleep.

"Wake me up when it's time to leave," I said already snuggled up on the couch with our Shih Tzu. With nothing better to do for the next five hours, The Man attempted to nap himself. By my calculations — granted I was nodding in and out of ham induced semi-conscienceness — he lasted maybe 30 minutes before bouncing again.

The next thing I knew, I was being shoved and it was 9:15 p.m.

His excitement truly mounting, The Man made a final glance over our DVD collection before dragging my drowsy butt out the door. I wasn't going to admit my excitement. We'd done the whole Black Friday thing before, but on a much smaller scale and honestly, I was over it. Kohls, Target, Best Buy or even a mall weren't available to us in years past, but this year they were all within just a few short miles.

As we rounded the corner to the nearest Walmart, whatever little bit of excitement I had and all 500 ounces of his flew right out of our sunroof.

"Toto, I've got a feeling we're not in Kansas any more," was the only smartalic thing I could come up with. Cars, trucks, SUVs and even an RV filled every parking spot, cart stall and curb. It was apparent that we certainly wouldn't be doing our holiday shopping from the comforts of our old, small-town store again this year.

It would be a battle to the death.

Making a b-line through the front doors, past the jolly greeter and nearly knocking over the tweens with headphones, he drug me straight to the DVD crates. It was as if he had instinctual GPS. Crammed in between aisles of peanut butter and beer were the plastic wrapped displays of $9 movies and The Man was already drooling.

With dejavu of that time I was accidentally knocked away from the safety of Mom's hand at the state fair as I child, I jumped to the belt loop method. But it was no use.

Even though I was no longer a child, there were just too many people and The Man had only one thing on his mind — and it wasn't the safety of his fare lady.

My Man had morphed into some type of snake and after scooping up a shopping basket, he slithered between the traffic jam of carts I'm certain was left by soccer moms as a diversion and made his way through the sea of confused dads to the front of the display. Seeking safety, I parked myself against a frozen food cooler and pretended to send text messages while secretly photographing the moves of the native Missouri Man Snake.

Nearly 30 minutes later, The Man immerged from the depths.

"What happened to your basket," I asked seeing him cradling a large assortment of movies. "It got in the way, so I ditched it. Check out the cool movies I got," he doted. Amateur.

Luckily, he had slithered fast enough to finish his shopping with time to spare before I showed him how the pros do it. And we moved on — to our place as customers number 132 and 133 in the line outside of Kohls.

Will you vaccum me?

I was ill, which is no unordinary occurrence; sinus infections are hereditary in my family. (Thanks Mom.)
Feeling miserable at work and looking for a bit of virtual comfort via text message, I reached out to my male counterpart.
"I still feel awful," I whined. "I think I'm allergic to our apartment."
Having fought "the crud" for several weeks now - around the same time we moved into the interesting culture that is apartment living - I felt it was a somewhat realistic correlation.
Expecting to receive the closest thing to a bouquet of roses one can send on a smart phone, The Man's response was anything but.
"Maybe we need to vacuum more often," he stated — like that made me feel any better.
Using his response as a bit of self promotion in the realm of marriage material, as I so often do, I changed tactics.
"Nope, I think it just means that it's time for us to get married and buy a house," I replied with high hopes of quickly leaving the multi-family dwelling lifestyle behind.
"Yeah, that's exactly what I said. 'Will you vacuum me?'" The Man so smartly text messaged back.
OK Buck-o, two can play at this game.
"Yes!" I typed with the enthusiasm I expect to have on the day the "real" question FINALLY comes. "But you'll end up with suction hickeys for sure."
Though I had lost the marriage discussion battle, as usual, I had won the war on sarcasm.
Realizing I was going to find no moral support or any of the warm fuzzy feelings one hopes to find from another when allergy medications and hot tea just don't cut it, I gave up and called Mom. It was her fault I was sick anyway.
Letting a few days pass, I made another attempt at matrimonial bait.
With a caption that contained bribery, innocence and love, I addressed a crystal clear high-resolution photo of the ring of my dreams to Santa himself.
After all, I got a vacuum last Christmas.

Thankful for the pork chop coma

I was planted firmly in the center of our couch and wasn't moving. It wasn't that I didn't want to move, I couldn't.
Trying out a new recipe consisting of heart-stopping, fried pork chops with a honey glaze and real mashed potatoes — as opposed to those flakes from a box — I had stuffed myself beyond happy.
It's the little things in life.
Good food holds a special place in my heart — and along my waistline. But it's OK when the food is worth it.
This time of year is my favorite time of year, and not just because the songs or turkey say so. It's my favorite time of year for many reasons — the main one being food.
The pork chop coma I had placed myself under was just the precursor to what's to come, and I can't wait for the days of ham hangovers, turkey tremors and stuffing siestas. I can smell it now.
It's no wonder this is the happiest time of year. It's the only time one can eat for two (or maybe three,) nap the afternoon away and go back for seconds without judgement.
Now don't think I'm all about food. There are many things I am thankful for.
I have the two cutest fur babies who never judge my cooking, even if it comes from the floor, a male counterpart who eats my cooking and a kitchen to cook in.
OK so maybe I do have a bit of a fetish for food. On to other things — for real this time.
This year has given me more things to be thankful for than I ever imagined I would have.
It started a lot like the last few years, living the dream with The Man and our dogs. Our families were close and for the first few months, all seemed as normal as could be.
Boy did our year change in a hurry.
I sit here now wondering where the last three months have gone.
In Beverly Hillbilly fashion, we managed to move all our worldly possessions more than 200 miles from all we had known. In a matter of days we were unpacked and onto a whole new life in our tiny apartment in Columbia, Mo.
Without the help of family, no matter how crazy, I'm certain our television would be in millions of tiny pieces and our mattress still lodged in the stairwell.
Thank goodness for extra muscle and a case of beer.
Monday night television is another of life's little joys I am truly thankful for.
Had we broken the television this would be another story.
Sparky's Homemade Ice Cream, the iPhone, GPS when I need to find my way home and a good pair of shoes will never let me down.
My list goes on and on, like: a good mechanic, Google, fried pickles on a summer night, DVR and the ability to change the channel whenever Jersey Shore comes on.
But most of all I'm thankful for those who still believe in freedom of the press, those who read their local newspaper, soldiers over seas defending those freedoms, the loyalty of my family, friends and readers and let us not forget, Grandma's pumpkin pie.

—Megan Tilk is a reporter who also writes a weekly column for the Boonville Daily News. She can be reached at bdnmegan@gmail.com or through her blog: megantilk.blogspot.com.

Confessions of a worry-wart

Watching my male counterpart wrangle, and all but hog tie, our 90-pound pooch into submission prior to administering several drops of medicated ear treatment, I began to feel a bit horrified for any children we may (or may not) someday have.
Seeing my big, fur baby undergo a bit of routine ear maintenance left me covering my eyes and squealing like — a girl.
This is the exact reason why I leave any nail trimming, teeth cleaning and routine grooming to The Man.
When it comes to picking up the occasional vomit or acting as their human pooper scooper – I’m your go-to girl. Just don’t ask me to handle a task that, if under the right circumstances, could leave either of my fur babies injured.
Like I said, feel sorry for any future children coming our way.
Straddling the large and in-charge mutt, King Ace, The Man continued with the drops and massaging as grunts of delight told me the big lug — the dog, not The Man — was feeling better.
Had I tried to pin Ace down and administer medications myself, two lamps, an end table and a fish tank would have been replaced afterward. Much like when I try to give him baths in the bathtub.
With all of our family photos and a half a can of Diet Coke thrown from the ottoman, I would have been left holding the container of ear cream, now half empty and coating my arms.
Things with our "little one" aren’t any easier – though pinning her down sure might be.
Requiring a daily grooming, so her bow sits just right on top of her head, our Shih Tzu might as well be our child.
Though I would have trimmed her hair short, leaving the poof and bow behind, The Man insists his baby girl look like, a girl.
"If we cut off her pony tail she'll look like every other Shih Tzu," he whines. "And you can't ever tell if they're a boy or a girl that way."
As if the Mizzou doggie shirt and sparkly pink collar weren't enough of a dead give-away. Yet another reason to feel sorry for our possible offspring.
I've got to admit though, we've got a pretty good system with the dogs; and "they" say dogs just train you for children.
I handle the grooming, loving and worrying, while he handles the discipline, trimming and anything involving a q-tip, cotton ball, scissors or a prescription.
It works the same with children. Right?
Megan Tilk is a reporter and weekly columnist for the Boonville Daily News. She can be reached at bdnmegan@gmail.com or through her blog: megantilk.blogspot.com.