The art of buttering a hot Spring Creek BBQ roll

One of my semi-regular joys in life is when I take a son out for some alone time with Dad.  Every son is different, and I try to cater these evenings to their particular natures, but it is very easy to please my middle son Logan.   One of his favorite meals is ribs from Spring Creek Barbecue, and I often have a 'buy one get one free' coupon for exactly that... so it is a slam dunk of an evening from Logan's point of view.

For those of you who live near DFW and have patronized Spring Creek, I need not describe the singular joy of their rolls, for you are well acquainted.  For you unlucky souls located in other longitudes, these rolls are little miniature loaves of heavenly goodness, baked right there in sight of the dining room, and a large tray or two are upended into a wicker basket, whilst still steaming hot, and then distributed around the room.  These things don't just melt butter, they draw it off the little squares of paper from several feet away... little yellow riptides splashing onto or into crusty brown goodness.

Logan has inherited his Dad's love of hot bread.  He enjoys it with relish, and it is always a highlight of these particular "Daddy night out" ventures.  But what I find even more fascinating is to watch him prepare the roll for consumption.  In order to perceive the joy and humor of the moment you must understand that Logan is not a terribly meticulous child about many things in life... he has an artist's sensibilities and the attention span of a middle child, so one would **never** accuse this handsome young man of being OCD.

Except when it comes to rolls at Spring Creek Barbecue.

I watch in fascination as he wields the knife as a surgeon might a scalpel, making a careful incision down the side of the loaf, in the exact vertical center.  Then the butter is carefully inserted into the roll, there to melt throughout the doughy Valhalla within.  I feel like I'm watching Han Solo stuff Luke into the Tauntaun so he can stay warm.  And, of course, (Logan being Logan), he is describing every step of this process to me, as if I'm an apprentice in the centuries-old artisan craft of Roll Buttering.  Maybe we should carve a wooden sign and hang it up outside, for Logan is a Master RollButterer.  And the utter joy, so endearingly child-like, that permeates his voice as he shares with his Dad, it warms my heart as surely as that roll will soon warm his gullet.

And thus I realize wherefore the meticulous nature of this act, from this son.  This, to him, is art-- his forte.  This is not culinary necessity, but rather the Oleo Fresco brushed upon the Sistine Roll.  And then consumed with all the lusty gusto of one who enjoys beauty and the tactile pleasures of the plate.

And it's a privilege to witness.  It makes a night out with my son, already a precious thing, even more remarkable.

Watch it, young man!

The other day, in church, I looked over at my wife on my left, and saw a young hand draped on her right shoulder. It startled me for a second, even though I knew perfectly well that it was the hand of my ten-year old son, Matthew. I leaned forward to sneak another glance at them, and saw my son, sitting up straight as an arrow, his arm tucked lovingly over the shoulders of his mom.

My son will turn 11 in just a few weeks, and it seems like only a short while ago that he preferred to curl up in his chair and burrow into our sides during the sermon. (For the record, his incredible little mind pays full attention, and could probably summarize the pastor's lesson better than some adults in the room...). In fact, he still likes to cuddle and burrow, showing that he yet hovers on the cusp betwixt little boy and young man.

But this was the first time I had seen this. He looked so grown up. I was filled for pride for this young man, who went off to Maine for seven weeks this summer, and came back a blinkin' teenager. I was proud of all he had accomplished, and how he comported himself with dignity and grace so far from home, and how respectful he always is..... and that he still loves his mother and wants to put his arm around her.

He's a good kid. He really is.

And he needs to move his arm. Those shoulders belong to me, young man!

Sailing, of a sort

This past Saturday, my family was invited by a dear friend to spend Saturday afternoon sailing on a local lake. He had rented a temporary slip at the lake's marina, allowing him to sail for multiple days on this holiday weekend without having to launch and trailer the boat multiple times. As our time to join him approached, I could tell that it would not be a great day for sailing, as the wind was much calmer than forecast. What should have been a day of sailing at or near the boat's hull speed was replaced with much floating and barely enough steerageway to control the boat.

However, I was struck by how enjoyable the day was, even though the wind let us down. For someone such as myself, who is head over heels in love with the ancient craft of sailing, I had anticipated that I would spend the afternoon being greatly frustrated. And I was pleasantly surprised to find that the other aspects of the day were sufficient in of themselves, resulting in a wonderful afternoon.

What aspects? I was out on a lake with my precious family, and a very good friend. I was not at work, nor at any of my other myriad responsibilities. The sun was shining, but it was not overbearingly hot. Even with the motor being used, the ride was enjoyable: pleasant and relaxing. I took advantage of the lack of need for trimming sails or any of the other work involved in sailing, and stretched my legs out and fell into a delightful stupor of relaxation. I reveled in watching the joy of my boys as they floated along in our 'wake' while hanging onto a floating fender.

All in all, I was extremely relaxed and pleasantly tired by the day's end. The kind of tired that one gets from a good day spent outdoors. The moral of this little story? I guess it's that a day, whether a normal day or a holiday, is what you make of it. It's an old fisherman's cliche that "the worst day fishing is better than the best day working".... and it applies to sailors as well!

(Full disclosure: I had the idea for this post *before* we decided to pay our friend for another night of the slip so that we could come back on Monday. But Monday was much better sailing- 9.5 knots and much heeling)

Lord of the Rings: Book IV, Chap V "The Window on the West"

Whenever I re-read this chapter, my dismay at the egregiousness of Jackson, Walsh, Boyens et al continues to grow, like mushrooms flourishing in Farmer Maggot's fields in a good year like 1420.  I love the LOTR movies very deeply, and consider the period around their genesis and revelation to be one of the most exciting times of my adult life; still I have never hidden my intense dislike of the screenwriters' treatment of the character of Faramir.  And this is only driven home by further perusal of the "primary source", Faramir as penned by The Professor himself, revealed in all his Numenorean dignity in the chapter "The Window on the West".

Stories are hung upon their characters, and not on the plot as most like to think.  Rather, the plot is similar to a roof that rests upon the load-bearing columns of characters;  if the characters are weak, the plot cannot be much more than a garden trellis, suitable for only holding a few pleasant vines, but devoid of great substance and weight.  Strong characters, however, are like the massive stone columns of Dwarrowdelf, the great hall of Khazad-dum, and the majesty of the columns and of the great arching roof they help support can take one's breath away, leaving one in awe of the grand sweeping story that is built upon its characters.

When the screenwriters of LOTR changed the fundamentals of the Faramir storyline, they did alter the plot, and this in of itself was enough to give me dismay.  The whole point of Gandalf's design was that the Ring would creep in secret toward Mordor, in the hands of a hobbit, unknown to the Dark Lord.  This concept was obliterated by the movie's script, which had Frodo in Osgiliath, where he had been dragged by Faramir, standing on a tall parapet a few feet in front of a winged Nazgul, holding the Ring aloft in the air.  Not exactly my definition of "secret".

But even with this shattering of one of the primary threads of Tolkien's tale, the plot alteration of the Faramir portion of the story is a lesser charge in the indictment, for it is the fundamental butchering of Faramir's character that truly grieves the prosecution.  When one reads "The Window on the West", we get a poignant picture, painted by Tolkien, of a noble man of a noble race, a man in whom the blood of Numenor runs strong;  a man unlike his brother Boromir, despite their similarities, and one not swayed by the siren temptations of power and glory.

Let us delve into the character of Faramir, using the following as our palantir to see into the man of Numenor:

• "...but I do not love the sword for its brightness, nor the arrow for its sharpness, nor the warrior for his glory.  I love only that which they defend; the city of the men of Numenor; and I would have her loved for her memory, her ancientry, her beauty, and her present wisdom.  Not feared, save as men may fear the dignity of a man, old and wise."


• "But fear no more!  I would not take this thing, if it lay by the highway.  Not were Minas Tirith falling in ruin and I alone could save her, so, using the weapon of the Dark Lord for her good and my glory.  No, I do not wish for such triumphs, Frodo son of Drogo."


• [after learning of the Ring by the wayward mouth of Sam]  "We are truth-speakers, we men of Gondor.  We boast seldom, and then perform, or die in the attempt.  Not if I found it on the highway would I take it I said.  Even if I were such a man as to desire this thing, and even though I knew not clearly what this thing was when I spoke, still I should take those words as a vow, and be held by them"


• "Ah well, sir, " said Sam, "you said my master had an elvish air; and that was good and true.  But I can say this:  you have an air too, sir, that reminds me of, of --well, Gandalf, of wizards."  "Maybe," said Faramir.  "Maybe you discern from far away the air of Numenor. "

These examples are but a sampling of the many ways in which Tolkien portrayed Faramir as the rare kind of man that can resist the lure of power, and thus the lure of the Ring.  We are left with the impression that, had Faramir been the one who cut the ring from Sauron's hand, he would have tossed it into the fire at Elrond's suggestion, without hesitation and without delay.

Peter Jackson was quoted at one point during the making of the movies, saying in essence that they had built up this idea that men were weak, and could not resist the power of the Ring, and that it would have confused moviegoers if this one man had been able to do so-- that it would have been inconsistent.  And that is exactly what Tolkien intended!  Faramir was meant to be inconsistent.  He was meant to be the kind of man who could and would resist the temptation to seize the Ring and use it for his own purposes.  He was meant to be a man in whom we could "detect the air of Numenor".

And when the screenwriters changed that, they reduced the dignified stone pillar of Faramir to a mere plank of wood, and one wing of the great house that Tolkien built, this magnificent saga, collapsed on them.