A Lazy Carnivore's Guide to Delicious Dinners.

Just a little announcement before we begin: Reflections of a Shallow Pond, from this point forward, will be a food blog. No more twisted fiction, no more raunchy rhymes, future posts will contain nothing but photos of my food—a bag of pretzels from the vending machine, half of a stale maple bar from two cubicles over—you'll see everything I eat accompanied by three to seven funny hash tags.

Aw, I'm just kidding. I'm actually getting started on a young adult series where our hero is a clown with rabies. Somehow he only manages to kill bad people, and you really start liking him by the end of book four.

Today, however, I really do want to discuss cooking because it can be fun, yes? In my opinion, nothing beats a leisurely Sunday afternoon spent preparing something delicious. Pot roast, salmon, maybe some grilled kabobs—most things taste terrific when we're bestowed with a relaxed timeline to really cultivate a meal.

Problem is, on those weeknights where everyone converges at home around six, a deadly tandem of low blood sugar and teen-induced, finicky entitlement can force a nice evening to break bad in a hurry.

Whether we're tapped out after riding the bus for an hour next to a guy soaked in Axe and Olde English or just can't justify going to the taco truck for the third night in a row, we need to crank something out and move on. Hit it and quit it, as the kids used to say.

I know most of you feel my pain, so I'd like to share the dishes I prepare when confronted with whiny family members, profound lack of motivation, or both. None are accompanied by fruit or vegetables, so feel free to shake out a bag of salad to ease your parental conscience. And as a typical work week essentially consists of four dinner days (Monday through Thursday), here are my top four hasty tasty dinners:

4) Pizza: Ive eaten so much of it in my life that my DNA has become indistinguishable from the genetic code of Canadian Bacon. So why not learn to make it, right? You know, teach a man to fish, yada, yada.

It's pretty straight-forward. Buy two boxes of Appian Way pizza crust and stretch out the dough on a greased cookie sheet. Try using latex gloves to reduce stickiness. Bake the crust alone at 425° for ten minutes, then remove from the oven. The Appian Way sauce is good, but take it a step further and mix another brand in with it, like Contadina or Ragu. Add your toppings and bake for an additional fifteen minutes. You'll be watching Wheel of Fortune before you can Sajak!

3) Beef stroganoff: Your brood will come a runnin' for this fun frolic of noodle and cow. It's nothing but meat and carbs, but even a tattered coyote would taste good after marinating for nine hours in the crock pot. Combine stew meat, two cups of beef bullion, a tablespoon each of ketchup and Worcestershire in a slow cooker. Go to work or your local bar for the day.

In the evening, add mushrooms and two tablespoons of flour and stir until thick. Mix in a cup of sour cream and pour over egg noodles. Hot freaking damn it's good, and the back of the recipe book makes it even better:

In this woman's world, crockery is no mockery.

2) Sloppy Joes: This is a lowest-common-denominator meal, whether you're in a crunch to get to the science fair or in front of Netflix for the season finale of Broadchurch. On the bell-shaped curve of food preparation effort, it falls somewhere between unwrapping gum and washing a fork.

Fry up a pound-and-a-half of ground beef (or a combo of beef and ground turkey), drain it and combine with the Sloppy Joe seasoning, a cup of water and tomato paste. Throw in some of that sauce from pizza night to give it an added zing. Toast hamburger buns and top them with the bubbling, saucy deliciousness. Add shredded cheddar and you'll discover there's nothing sloppy about these Joes, yo.

1) French dips: In our house, French dips continue to dwarf the other easy dinners. Why? They taste as good as the restaurant version and you have no choice but to have them with frozen steak fries. You can go all Safeway on these, too, from the sandwich rolls to the frozen steak fries to the deli roast beef to the au jus.

With two minutes remaining for the fries to bake, lightly butter the rolls and broil. During that time, heat up the roast beef in the microwave. Everything comes together in a magical synergy as you top your French Dip with horseradish; grilled onions and melted provolone are optional.

Well, there you have it—a week's worth of dinners that take about the same amount of energy as scratching your tuchus. Try them and I promise you, your family will embrace their mediocrity with a watered down passion you haven't experienced since Ted Cruz picked a running mate.

2015: A Little Skin in the Game.

"Is that potato...or finger?" My wife poked through the blood-spackled chunks of Yukon Gold potatoes, brushing them into a ring and isolating the little morsel of pinkish meat.

I held my arm aloft, squeezing the paper towels so hard my bicep went to sleep. My stomach lurched at the sight of the kitchen knife she gripped, the same instrument that seconds before had pruned the tip of my left pinkie.

"That's finger," I said, tiny waves of nausea rippling through my entrails.

It was Christmas Day, which signifies the one meal of the year that my family indulges in a recipe originally found in Oprah magazine. The kids call it "Oprahtatoes," a heart-stopping mashup of gold spuds, butter, half-n-half and cream cheese, topped with cheddar and chives.

Seriously, if any food is worth spilling blood over, it's Oprahtatoes, but this bleeding wasn't stopping. Desperately desiring not to spend Christmas evening in the ER, I watched as my wife tightly wrapped the finger in Band-Aids, attacking from all angles.

To avoid boring you with a step-by-step account of the ensuing 36 hours, I'll just say that there's an urgent care doctor working at a facility in a strip mall in Vancouver, Washington, who knows fingers like the back of his hand. The dressing he crafted rolled on like Grey Poupon to a Little Smokie, and I won't even delve into my awesome pinkie hammock.

So yeah, anyway, that's pretty much how my 2015, shall we say, wrapped up. How was yours? Be honest, how much do you actually recall about what happened last year? I'm only asking because until I looked it up, basically all I remembered was watching the Seahawks blow the Super Bowl and reading memes about dogs and Obama.

But I also knew that A.D. Twenty-fifteen witnessed its share of extraordinary happenings—some good, some bad, some... well... meh. I found a great source to refresh my memory, a website called onthisday.com, which chronologically registered the year's major world-wide goings-on. And just to get a feel for the type of year it was, I'm going to randomly pick a few events and we'll see how things stack up overall. Let's dive in!

On March 26, King Richard III (1452-1485), whose remains were discovered beneath a parking lot, is exhumed then interred at England's Leicester Cathedral.

Conclusion: Bad. I'm from Seattle. Reverse composting is a gross misdemeanor.

On April 14, the world's oldest stone tools, dating back 3.3 million years, are found in Kenya.

Conclusion: Good. This proves that I'm not the only guy too lazy to get the hammer. Sometimes a big rock works fine.

On April 23, Loretta Lynch is confirmed as the first female African-American Attorney General of the United States.

Conclusion: Good, especially if you're Donald Trump ("I don't care who she is. It's goddamn amazing for anyone to be both an attorney and a general.").

On May 11, India's population officially reaches one billion.

Conclusion: Meh, it was a misunderstanding. Trump thought they said Indiana ("My people tell me Indiana has a billion illegals. Trust me, I will round these people up. What's that? It's actually India? Shut up, punk! Get him out of here.").

On June 17, the United States Treasury announces that the Alexander Hamilton ten-dollar bill will be replaced by a woman.

Conclusion: Meh, another misunderstanding. Trump was stoked because he thought they meant a real woman.

On July 20, The Impact Team announces they have hacked into the client list of Ashley Madison, the marital cheating website.

Conclusion: Good, except stock for Motel 6 and the makers of Febreeze for Car Upholstery tanked.

On August 21, the oldest known message in a bottle is retrieved on a German beach after 108 years adrift.

Conclusion: Bad. It was a list of Germany's top ten baby names, with Adolph coming in at a solid number three behind Axel and Gerd.

On December 7, Time readers voted Bernie Sanders Person of the Year.
Conclusion: Very, very good.

Wow, so it wasn't such a rotten 2015 after all. Our representative sample landed on four "Goods", two "Bads" and two "Mehs." Let's just hope things work out even better for 2016, if you know what I mean.

The Trump jokes are getting less funny.

Get Away From Me, Freak!

I hope you don't mind, but it's time to sound like an old guy. 

Please read on, though, because a lot of you are also old, and if you aren't, this could prove useful. It doesn't hurt to look ahead a little, because as our good friend Russ Wilson likes to say, "The separation is in the preparation."

At age twenty-one, a lot of us would've proven grossly incapable of predicting our lifestyles thirty years down life's unpaved road. I'm pretty sure if I hopped into the DeLorean, sped back to 1984 and asked a certain college junior for a couple of prognostications, it would be clear where the term "shallow pond" was derived. 

Here's what I mean:

So, twenty-one-year-old Tim, what type of car do you picture yourself driving in thirty years?

Wow, that's a long time. That's totally after the year 2000, right? 

Yes, that would be 2014.

Hell, then, I don’t know. It won't be an American car or a minivan, that's for sure. A moped would be sweet, or one of those new Camaros.

Right, but they won't be new in thirty years.

This is boring.

Okay, well, just to let you know, you will In fact drive a minivan. It will be manufactured in Korea, and your daughter will call it "Kiath."

That's bizarre. I'm having a daughter?

Yes, two, actually.

I don't want two daughters. How old are they?

One is a college freshman and the other is in eighth grade.

Listen, man, my fraternity is having a party tonight and I'm pretty sure there will be a few freshman girls hanging out. Thanks for making me think of them as my daughters, ass wipe. I must rise above this. 

Hang on a sec, I need to turn down the stereo. It's hard not to crank Sister Christian on these sweet woofers I just got from Speakerlab. You like Night Ranger, old man?

Yes.

Hey! You're not as crusty as you look.  What else did you want to ask me? I need to run down to 7-11 for some Copenhagen.

Okay, I'll be quick. How about cooking—who will do most of the cooking for your family in thirty years?

I don't know, man. It might just be like the Jetsons where you just push a button and boom—piping hot lasagna. But if that's not the case, if my wife cooks four nights a week, I don't mind ordering pizza the other three. My kids would appreciate it, I'm sure. Gross, did I just say "my wife" and "my kids" in the same sentence? Freaking shoot me.

What if I told you that you'll be the primary grocery shopper and cook for your family? How about if your wife is a fifth grade teacher who works harder than Chris Christie's heart?

Who's Chris Christie? That's a stupid name.

It doesn't matter. You just need to know that your wife will be such a dedicated educator that a couple of times, you'll wonder if she's actually spending an hour before school and three afterward, playing 21 Jump Street with Johnny Depp.

Who's Johnny Depp? That's a stupid name.

Well, he's merely the love of your wife's life, a youthful bad-boy actor who smells of Lucky Strikes and pieces of eight. 

Huh?

Never mind. Listen, I'll let you go, but here's some more food for thought. You've actually gotten a couple of recipes from a naked guy at the YMCA.

What? What's wrong with you?

Sorry, let me explain. You'll often see this guy in the locker room after your morning workout.

Hey, man, the words "morning" and "workout" should never be used together.

Anyway, he's into cooking and he's usually naked when relating recipes to you. You're occasionally nude as well.

Holy shit. Time for you to leave, Uncle Perverick. What the hell recipe did this wanker give you—pulled pork?

Umm, well, yes.

Get your ass out of my bean bag chair and hit the street before I grab my numchucks, got me?

Will do. Take care, clueless colt.

That didn't go well. Hopefully after this experiment, you won't hate yourself like I apparently do.

You'll Feel Better About Yourself After You Read This.

Hang on a second. 

Sorry about that, had to loosen up the belt a little. 

Okay, what the hell, I took it all the way off—it's been that kind of a weekend. 

What's the deal with belts, anyway? Oh sure, the man cons you into believing a belt is a useful accessory for keeping the old trou from sagging, but I submit that it's nothing more than an oppressive device whose roots can be traced to medieval dungeons. The belt is nothing more than an iron man maiden designed to punish my marbled middle.

Women seemed to have gotten the message years ago, burning not only their brassieres, but other confining devices propagated by men to keep them constricted and tamed. Girdles, curlers, high heels—even tweezers were shit -canned by a group of people fed up with a system which promotes torture in the name of fashion.

And that's why I'm about to burn my belt. I'm fed up—literally—from Thanksgiving weekend. During the past five days, I have exhibited the type of behavior that makes Caligula look like an even skinnier version of that chick who's married to Harrison Ford.

Fortunately, I've discovered there's actually a name for this culinary debauchery; I looked it up and it's called the "Nagev" diet. I know, it's sounds sort of Russian, but the term actually is "vegan" spelled backwards. It involves consuming only the bodies and byproducts of organisms which once had a face. 

It all started because I prepared Thanksgiving this year. All of it. Came up with the menu, shopped for it and cooked it all up. Fat was the common denominator. Each dish—turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes—contained at least an entire stick of butter, except the pumpkin pie, which I'm pretty sure still contained more lard than Rush Limbaugh tucks south of the elastic. 

I must have subconsciously decided that dairy products would not only stave off blandness, they would also curb any food-born hazards which may lie in wait for my bride and daughters. Ever since the e-coli scare with the under-toasted Pop Tarts, I've been a smidge paranoid.

The day went well, thankfully. Everything tasted pretty darned good, and nary a family member succumbed to the charms of our bathroom's only pottery not holding candles.

Still, everything would have been fine had I decided to eat with abandon on Thursday only. But when I rolled out of bed Friday morning, I'd barely nodded good morning to my wife and planted my swollen feet on the cold floor before pie had made me its breakfast bitch. 

From that moment on, every meal was a mini Thanksgiving. I understand I've taken a bit of journalistic license with this blog, but here's an indisputable fact: Out of the next four meals I ate, four of them were turkey, stuffing and mashed potatoes. By Saturday night, I'd thrown back so much sodium that I dreamed of Popsicle forests with Diet Coke waterfalls. 

My fifty-one-year-old body, after layering on a sedentary weekend of football watching, pleaded with me to purge the gelatinous globs of gluttony from its distressed bloodstream. By Sunday night, it begged me, "Dude, go to the gym. Or go for a walk. Hell, just move your toes."

Maybe I'll hold off on burning my belt for now. After all, what are the alternatives? A loosely tied rope? Nah, only Ellie Mae can pull that off. 

Suspenders? Nope, even though some guys can definitely rock that look, 

I don't think I'm one of them.

I'll see how things feel after a couple of salads.

My Top Ten Holiday Treats.

This Christmas season couldn't have happened at a better time.

I hadn't realized how profoundly burned out on politics I am right now. Plus, you know, Romney has gone away. He's probably lounging on a tropical beach staining his teeth with so much Strawberry Crush, he could play the lead in the new ABC sitcom, CEO Vampire.

And not only has Mitt git, but so have his Republican nemeses; no more Perry or Bachmann or Cain. The airwaves are no longer dripping in Santorum. 

If you'd like to know exactly how much I'd like to discuss politics, please read the following paragraph. Some readers may consider the subject matter disturbing and may choose to skip it. Bear in mind, it is intended solely for immature audiences. While it may sicken you, if you aren't disgusted, then wow, are you messed up.

I would rather discuss politics today than nibble savory opiated droplets of perspiration from the murky confines of Rush Limbaugh's inner thigh meat.

I knew you'd read it. Anyway, this time of year is meant for basking in the warm bubble bath of the holidays. Doggone it, I love this time of year, don't you?

It's a season of smells. I think that's what conjures such strong emotion—there's a six-week window of aromas that doesn't exist the rest of the year. Only then do vapors of peppermint hot chocolate meld with cinnamon and Douglas Fir to instantly remind you of your great aunt's house in Tacoma.

And, holy sweet mother, Yuletide is a season of tastes. Like I say when I walk into my daughters' rooms, "There's shit everywhere." Please reply with  your top ten or five or one or whatever. I know I'm just scratching the sweet, buttery surface.

Here are my top ten holiday treats:

10) Little oranges—Today, I've got three Satsumas at my eleven o'clock and a container of homemade truffles at my five o'clock. It's going to be a battle.

9) Pumpkin pie—Don't so quickly forget our friend from two weeks ago who gave his life for breakfast.

8) Almond Roca—I love it so much, the stuff in my cat's litter box looks tempting.

7) Russian tea cookies—Funny story, I've never had them with Russian tea.

6) Hickory Farms—A nice little stack of cheese and summer sausage on a cracker, combined with your favorite hoppy beverage can turn The Today Sponge Bowl into the championship game.

5) Chocolate mint Frangos—One time back in college, I ate nearly an entire box. That's all you need to know.

4) Divinity—My mom made it. I never liked it very much, but remembering her makes me love it.

3) Frosted sugar cookies—Preferably shaped like a tree and covered with red or green frosting (or both) and sprinkles. Oh, Christmas tree.

2) Irish Whiskey—A holiday tradition begun decades ago by none other than my papa, Lionel Haywood. Deliciousness.

1) Fudge.