JEN: Excuse me for interrupting. I need to speak to whichever one of you is Aunt Carol.
I badgered her for the recipe, and here it is. And just in case you are thinking, Great, Jen. I have the doldrums, and you are feeding me salad? just trust me. I am not playing. This is magical salad.
AUNT CAROL’S CRUNCHY SALAD
Salad
2 tablespoons butter
1 package ramen noodles (like the $.13 package)
? cup or so of chopped almonds
Handful of sunflower seeds
4 to 6 cups sturdy lettuce (I like romaine)
2 cups or so of chopped broccoli
Some chopped green onions
You can add any crunchy thing: carrots, radishes, snap peas, cabbage
Melt the butter in a skillet over medium-high heat. Add the uncooked ramen noodles (break them all up), almonds, and sunflower seeds, and saute until toasted light brown. Maybe 3 to 4 minutes. Let cool.
Pour the dressing (recipe below) into the bottom of your salad bowl.
Add the lettuce, broccoli, green onions, and toasted crunch mix. Toss when ready to serve.
Vinaigrette
4 tablespoons brown sugar
1 teaspoon salt
6 tablespoons rice wine vinegar
2 to 3 drops Tabasco
? cup oil (olive, sunflower, walnut, whatever oil you like. Aunt Carol uses canola oil, so no need to get trendy)
Mix all the vinaigrette ingredients with a whisk (or just shake this all together in a mason jar if you want to control the quantity or make extra).
This is so good. Cannot deal. Add chicken or shrimp, and it is a whole meal. This is a doldrum fixer. I’m so serious. Aunt Carol and I are here for you.
Related: I think Aunt Carol solved my issue with kale. The last time I made this, I chopped kale in bite-sized pieces and tossed it with the romaine and all the other goodies plus the dressing (which I could drink with a straw). It is the only time I have ever had kind feelings toward kale.
Don’t talk to me about it, Kale Propaganda People. Stop trying to convert us. I know all the things. I still don’t like it. Except slathered in Aunt Carol’s dressing.
Football is, after all, a wonderful way to get rid of your aggressions without going to jail for it.1
— HEYWOOD HALE BROUN
CHAPTER 16
IDENTIFIABLE SIGNS OF ATHLETIC GREATNESS
If it is possible to feel both judgmental about something ridiculous while at the same time fully participating in its jackassery, that is my complicity in Southern Football.
For southerners, sure, there are baseball and soccer. We have basketball and swimming like everyone else. But those are small planets orbiting the blazing sun of football. It is king and everyone else its subjects. The president of the University of Texas makes in seven years what the football coach makes in one season; add postseason bonuses, and the differential stretches out till, basically, infinity. Educate our state’s young adults? Sure, I guess, whatever. Serve up two losing football seasons in a row? BYE, FELICIA.
For us, the path to the NFL begins in prekindergarten when dads and moms alike begin to assess their sons for identifiable signs of athletic greatness. Never mind that he still wets the bed; the question is, Does he possess the hand girth to throw a tight spiral? With complete sincerity, parents defend the decision to enroll their glorified toddler in a competitive flag football league, because if they wait until second grade, “it is too late.” Obviously, at that point, he will be hopelessly behind the other boys who are just learning to subtract but can already run eleven defensive plays. (In case you are wondering where I fall on the “judge or participate” spectrum, perhaps I can show you this adorable picture of my five-year-old in football pads.)
It’s serious business, you guys. For every junior team, you will find a corresponding sea of parents in matching jerseys, hats, buttons, and hoodies. They will be rattling homemade shakers and waving matching pom-poms. There will be team moms, team snacks, team e-mails, team tents, team chants, team cheerleading squads, team signs, team fund-raisers, team merch, and team hysteria. So completely over-the-top is the system, an outsider would suspect it was fake, like a made-for-TV Disney movie in which an overzealous youth league is caught rigging birth certificates so middle schoolers can play in the Under 8 Division.
Our son Ben plays competitive youth football, and his team has given up six points in two years. He practices three nights a week, including one night devoted to Blu-ray game film from the week before (Jesus, be my strength). Six adult men coach his team, and they are as serious as Vladimir Putin. Ben has not one but two Kid-Sized Super Bowl rings, because this is a thing southern parents spend their cash money on to demonstrate athletic triumph.
These children still have Valentine’s Day parties at school.
Our fields have bleachers, but they are utilized only by attending grandmas and grandpas (of which they are legion). Moms and dads don’t require bleachers, because they stand at the fence and “help coach.” I’m sure this is a delight to the coaches. Dads are sure to yell alternative advice in case the play calls don’t showcase their sons’ particular skill sets. Before games, I’ve overheard many boys beg dads not to bellow instructions from the fence, at which point the dads promise they will not, which is an outright lie. In addition to sideline play calling, they are also useful for screaming out Obvious Commands: Hustle! Run fast! Block your man! Score!
Thanks, dads.
But they have nothing on the moms. This is where the train goes entirely off the tracks. I’m sure Football Moms act perfectly ordinary in their workplaces or at the mall or church. But you put their baby boys out on a football field as middle linebackers, and every bit of crazy they have been repressing all week comes out in full explosion. I’ve heard the following words screeched by FMs at top volume:
Zachary, hit him with all your might, son!
Ty, you better not let him past you, or you’ll answer for it!
Juan, put your shoulder down and block like a man!
I don’t know what the parenting books would say about this, but I think it’s safe to say this approach is off the grid. Football Moms—we simultaneously wield a wide-angle camera, spirit shaker, air horn, and terrifying aggression. And by “we” I mean “me,” because one time the referee got me so turnt, I waited for him at his car like a serial killer and demanded an explanation for his particular level of incompetence. (I need mentorship to check my life.)