Friday, July 16, 2010

Blueberry Sacrament

Blueberry crisp is like a summertime Michigan tea ceremony. “Eating dessert” is almost secondary to the simple process that honors a grandmother's recipe, kids hovering at the kitchen door in anticipation. It is a ritual, a sacrament that blesses the summer.

Conscious of the cold clear water running through your fingers and over the fat berries you hand-picked at DeGrandchamps a few hours ago. You're aware as your mouth waters, involuntary, as you squeeze the lemon. You're present to the texture as you knead the oats and butter and cinnamon. You peer with expectation through the oven window as the blueberries overcome their selfishness and give themselves over to marry with the buttery crumbles. Vanilla ice cream sits on the counter to soften.

Saturday, July 10, 2010

Momentary Rodeo

A typical range report reads something like: “Except for the Magpul polymer magazines and the Vortex SPARC red dot optics, my AR-15 was stock. I shot 500+ rounds of Hornady FMJ without any failures-to-fire or failures-to-eject. I did get a few jams with Brown Bear 5.56, but you’ll get that with Russian ammo.”

Some range reports read a little different.

After a month of 11-hour days, Friday feels like it should be a vacation day and I take it. I put my boys Sigmund and Gaston in their car seats (that would be, the Sig Sauer and the Glock secure in a padded range bag, a Christmas present from Jill). After a Starbucks stop to charge my cylinders with a medium blackeye, I drive east on State Road 38.

Windows down and a blue midsummer Indiana sky, I'm wheeling past farm implement dealers, well-maintained barns, and corn growing strong. Zac Brown and Toby Keith loud on the radio, it occurs to me that the older I get, the more I like country music.