Scott Hutcheson

Mending Both Bone & Spirit

Published in belly-filling newspapers on September 17, 2009

If the 12th visit was free, our punch card would be filled up by now. In just eight years as parents we've been to the ER much more than our share. Other families with boys tell us its par for the course in a testosterone-filled household.

I had my own share of injuries as a kid. There was the rusty nail through my foot from a less than adept kung fu move and a three-inch rip in meatiest part of my thigh courtesy of a rusty piece of sheet metal. You would think I grew up in a scrap yard with the sharp and rusty objects I encountered, but that wasn’t the case. I must have had a built-in metal detector that was stuck on the rust setting.

Since my sister will likely read this I have to also mention the time she “accidently” cut me with scissors and when she slammed my finger in the car door. Thanks, sis. It’s a wonder I reached my tenth birthday with all my digits still firmly attached to my body.

As an adolescent, my injuries came less from running around outside and more from sports – sprained ankles, bruised ribs, and jammed fingers. The black eye was the best badge of courage, not serious enough to put you on the disabled list but visible enough to solicit lots of compassion from the fairer sex. There’s nothing like a black eye to bring out a cheerleader’s inner Florence Nightingale. 

My children, my oldest in particular, loves to swap war stories. He takes in every detail of my tales of maimings and wants to see the scars. He then tells his own stories, exaggerating a bit more each time about the details, like the size of the rock his buddy Robbie pitched at his head when he was three.

As much daredevil as my oldest has in him, it is the youngest that is likely causing my insurance company to rewrite their actuary formulas. This week marked his third broken arm, all occurring within the last 14 months. This was the worst of the three, with the above-the-elbow break requiring a full-arm cast.

Seeing your own child hurt or sick is without a doubt one of life's must burdensome difficulties. My heart aches for families dealing with problems much more serious than broken arms. The most agonizing part of having a child in pain is the feeling of helplessness. Yesterday afternoon our little guy, although not in agony, was certainly uncomfortable. Aside from a dose of children’s pain reliever, there didn’t seem like there was much we could do for him.

As I thought ahead to dinner time, I decided that there was no better time for comfort food and when there was a broken arm in the house and that perhaps a version of macaroni and cheese with an extra boost of calcium might be good for both his bones and his spirit. I headed into the kitchen to whip up a version that included sharp cheddar, cream cheese, sour cream, and butter. It seemed to do the trick, filling his belly and setting him on the road to recovery. Good thing he’s not lactose intolerant.

Bone-Mending Macaroni and Cheese

• 1 lb elbow macaroni
• 4 tablespoons butter
• 4 tablespoon all-purpose flour
• 3 cups milk, heated in microwave
• 8 ounces cream cheese
• 8 ounces sour cream 
• 16 ounces sharp cheddar cheese, shredded
• Pinch of freshly grated nutmeg
• Salt and freshly-cracked black pepper to taste
• ½ cup panko breadcrumbs

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Cook macaroni according to directions, drain, and return to pot. While the macaroni is cooking, place a large sauce pan over a medium burner, add the butter and melt. Add the flour and stir with a whisk or wooden spoon until golden but not brown. Add the heated milk a little at a time, stirring constantly. After all the milk is added continue stirring until the mixture begins to thicken. Add the cream cheese in chunks so that it melts then add the sour cream and cheddar cheese. Add the nutmeg and salt and pepper to taste. Pour the cheese mixture into the macaroni and stir to combine. Spray a 9”x13" glass casserole dish with cooking spray and pour in the macaroni and cheese. Top with breadcrumbs and bake for 30-45 minutes, the lesser time for a creamier dish. This makes about ten servings.

The 12 (x10) Days of Christmas

Originally published in chewy newspapers on September 3, 2009

Nine hours and thirty seven minutes worth. That's how much new music I loaded onto my iPod on Tuesday - music about snow, bells, stars, and mangers. This has become a rite of passage for me each September 1st, my way of ringing in the first day of the 'ber months. SeptemBER, OctoBER, NovemBER, and DecemBER have their own special vibe. School is in full-swing, weekends are filled with soccer and football, and three of the most fun-filled holidays - Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas are on the calendar. I'm a bit of a holiday-music hypocrite. While I don't want to hear even a single jingle bell from the grocery store sound system before Thanksgiving, I'll joyfully sing along to "Good King Wenceslas" while running to the store for Labor Day picnic supplies.

My holiday music collection is eclectic with a good mix of old and new, sacred and secular. I grew up with the sounds of Perry Como and Bing Crosby echoing from the family HiFi. They remain favorites. I discovered the Rat Pack somewhere along the way so Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, and Sammy Davis, Jr. round out my collection of classics. My older sisters were fans of The Carpenters and it doesn’t really feel like Christmas until I hear Karen’s achingly beautiful “Merry Christmas, Darling.”

I have another set of favorites from my college years. I matriculated in the foothills of the Smoky Mountains and was there when Amy Grant put out her first Christmas album with “Tender Tennessee Christmas” on it. Hearing that one takes me right back to that beautiful place. College was also where I was introduced to the majesty of choral music. We had a top-notch music program at my school, with several choirs including the all-male one of which I was a member. One year for Christmas, all the choirs combined to sing Handle’s “Messiah.” I remember belting out every single “halleluiah” with heart-felt thanksgiving for both the birth of our Lord and the chance to sing with girls.

Speaking of girls, I met my wife during the ‘ber months. We had our first date in October, got engaged a year later in November, and were married a year after that in December. In the years we were dating, we spent those Christmases apart, each of us with our respective families. A whole new genre of Christmas songs took on new meaning. The pit-of-my-stomach longing while being separated from my wife-to-be gave me a first-hand understanding of what a “Blue Christmas” was all about.

As a child of the 60’s and 70’s the Chipmunk’s were a part of my Christmas-music upbringing. I guess Alvin never got that Hoola Hoop because he’s still asking for one nearly 50 years later. Now my own children and I get to enjoy that one together. Having children brought back a whole new set of Christmas songs into my life - all the ditties that tell the tales of Frosty, Rudolph, and Santa.

I usually jump the gun a bit in the kitchen too. I’ve been known to make a pot of chili or a pumpkin pie when the temperatures can still get up into the 90s and I’m already thinking ahead about our menus for Thanksgiving and Christmas.

I’m sure listening to holiday this early isn’t for everyone and that’s just fine with me. You can have your 12 days of Christmas. As for me, I’m going to be enjoying about ten times that many. So for the next few months, if you see me with my headphones on while taking a brisk walk down my street or doing cardio at the gym, or maybe singing in the car when you pull up next to me at a red light, I might just wish you a Merry Christmas and if you invite me to a Labor Day cookout I might bring eggnog.

Fireworks, Fast Cars, & Potato Salad

Originally published in snapping, crackling, and popping newspapers on July 3, 2008

“Blind! Jimmy feels that his life is over. No more swimming. No more Scout hikes. How can he ever have fun again?" These words are on the back cover of Follow My Leader by James B. Garfield, a book that sat on my boyhood bookshelf along with a collection of Hardy Boy mysteries, and classic adventures like Treasure Island. I’m not entirely sure how it made its way to my collection, perhaps a hand-me-down from an older sibling, or more likely a piece of propaganda placed there by my mother.

It is the story of a boy who is left blind after a firecracker mishap and Leader is the name of the his seeing-eye dog. I think the intent of the book was to help kids have a better understanding of people with disabilities. My mother’s motives were quite different - to keep me away from fireworks.

According to family folklore my very first word was not “momma” or “doggy” but rather “dangerous.” This, no doubt, due to a list of warnings that began when I was a baby. “The stove his hot.” “Be careful, you could fall down the stairs.” As I got a little older the areas of caution expanded to safety instructions about bicycles and skateboards. By the time I left for college the list of dangers was expansive covering everything from fast cars and fast women to expiration dates on dairy products.

My mom’s intentions were good. She wanted to do what she could to make sure her only son stayed alive and healthy with all four limbs securely attached to my body . Mission accomplished. I didn’t heed all of her warnings but a few took root. Fear of fireworks is one of them.

I’m not sure of Jimmy’s story contributed to my phobia or not but the very fact that I remember it some 30-plus years later is probably a good indication that it did. I don’t mind being around the rockets red glare, its just that I don’t want to be the one lighting the fuse. My own children are young enough that when dad breaks out the sparklers and smoke bombs, they think we’re living on the edge. I’m sure as they get older they’ll push me to up the ante a bit.

July, of course, is all about backyard explosions but another of my fears emerges this time of year - outdoor mayonnaise. I attended lots of picnics growing up. My step father was a pastor and we had an annual 4th of July picnic, often with 200 or more people in attendance. My mom would always caution me to steer clear of the potato salad and anything else with mayo in it. For years, when at picnics I would pass on anything that looked like it might have mayo in it.

I learned recently that my mom was wrong about this one. As it turns out, store-bought mayonnaise will not actually make you sick, even when left out in the sun for a couple of hours. University of Georgia Microbiologist Michael Doyle notes that there is sufficient acid (vinegar) in store-bought mayonnaise to keep harmful bacteria at bay. It might eventually spoil, resulting in an off-taste, but it will not make you sick (see the full mayo story here).

Learning this was pretty liberating. Since getting this new information, I’ve been a little more bold in filling my paper plate at picnics, dinners-on-the-grounds, and other outdoor eating occasions. I’m still not going to be launching any Roman candles or going to NASCAR fantasy camp but you may spot me enjoying a generous helping of picnic potato salad along with my baked beans and hotdog. Just don’t tell my mom. She’ll be worried sick.

Another Step Back in Time

I had a couple of genealogy-related emails this weekend - people looking for Hutchesons to whom they may be related. None of them were a match for me but it did cause me to spend 20 minutes or so trying to add another branch or two to my family tree. Several years ago I got stuck at six generations back, not including me. This weekend I found a seventh. I can now trace my family back to Mecklenburg, Virginia where my great-great-great-great-great-grandfather, William Caswell Hutcheson lived. I also learned that he was a member of the 1632 Virginia House of Burgesses - the very first elected assembly of the New World. This painting is of Patrick Henry addressing the House of Burgesses. I wonder if one of these powder-wigged dudes is my ancestor. 

Hey Nineteen

Nineteen years ago today, Lisa and I became husband and wife. I've posted recollections and thoughts on this blog each December 30th for the last few years. If interested, you can see these here (2006), here (2005), and here (2004). There are wedding photo at the 2006 and 2004 links. We've been to some pretty great places to celebrate our anniversary - New York City, London, New Orleans, Chicago. This year we spent a night in Dayton, OH. We went to Dayton because that is were we could find an overnight sitter (Lisa's sister).

We stayed the night in the Port Inn Bed & Breakfast in the historical Oregon District and had dinner at the Winds Cafe in Yellow Springs. Both were relaxing and enjoyable. Twenty-four hours without a six and two year old was so relaxing.

Nineteen years is a long time. Add the time we've been dating and we've been together 21 years - half our lives. It is a beautiful thing to have a co-traveler in this lifelong trip. I can't imagine being married to anyone else and could not pick a better partner with whom to help our two boys become men.

Forty-Three

Today is my 43rd birthday. Wikipedia makes these observations about the number 43:

• The designation of Interstate 43, a freeway in Wisconsin.
• The code for direct dial international phone calls to Austria.
• The number of different herbs and spices contained in the Spanish liqueur Licor 43.
• The album Dark Side of the Moon by Pink Floyd is exactly 43 minutes long

So perhaps during this next year I can call a buddy in Austria to see if he wants to meet me in Wisconsin to drink Spanish liqueur and listen to the Dark Side of the Moon.

My Last First Date

I had my last first date 21 years ago tonight - October 30, 2007. At the time, I didn't know it would be my last first date nor did my date, I'm sure. Lisa and I went to a play (Elizabeth the Queen) on campus and we've been together ever since. 

The 'ber Months

Originally published in warm and gooey newspapers on September 13, 2007

“You love Air Supply?, I love Air Supply!” Ok, so it wasn’t really the truth, but most guys, in search of romance, will establish common ground even if when it means bending the truth a little. Fortunately I did not have to live a life built on that particular white lie. The relationship didn’t last but I do have a musical-memory black hole in 1981 - eight months of nothing but “The One that You Love” and “Sweet Dreams.”

After several failed relationships, I decided to be myself from day-one of a new romance. So, when a pretty young co-ed and I spent hours getting acquainted by talking in the student union and even more hours in late-night phone conversations from our respective dorms, I told her early on that I liked Monty Python and the Three Stooges and she was fine with it. When I discovered she loved classical piano I didn’t sign up for lessons. When she revealed that her favorite time of year was the fall, I was being completely honest when I agreed. Common ground.

We took to calling these the ‘ber months -  SeptemBER, OctoBER, NovemBER, and DecemBER. Ber months became an important time in our relationship. We had our first date in a ‘ber month. We got engaged in a ‘ber month, We even got married in a ‘ber month. Lot’s more reasons to love the ‘ber months.

We love it all - cool mornings, drives to look at the turning leaves, and the trifecta of fourth-quarter holidays - Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas. I know lots of people get all bent out of shape when they see Frosty and Santa showing up in stores earlier and earlier each year. Frankly, as long as I don’t see them in August, I’m fine with it. Anytime after Labor Day is okay with me. We’ve been known to unpack the Christmas music on September 1st and start watching holiday movie classics long before the temperatures drop.      

Another great part of this time of year is the change we see in the foods we eat and cook -  the season’s first pot of chili, a belly-warming stew, soul-soothing soups, apple everything, and pumpkin anything. Sure I miss the garden-fresh tomatoes and beans but a platter of roasted root vegetables is a nearly-spiritual experience.

One of the many projects I would like to undertake is to build an old-fashioned root cellar. My grandmother had one and when we visited her at her rural Arkansas home, I was always amazed when, in the middle of winter, she would venture to the cellar and returned with potatoes, carrots, and turnips nested in her upturned apron. At the time, it seemed to me that she possessed some mystical powers. We were mere mortals, having to exchange money for food at the local supermarket. My grandmother defied the seasons and commanded the elements, conjuring food at will.

I probably won’t get that cellar built anytime soon so as we settle into the ‘ber months I’ll be enjoying the last few weekends of the farmers market and eventually settle for the grocery store produce. Roasted root vegetables will be on my dinner menu several times this fall. Here is a recipe that makes a great side dish for beef, pork, or chicken. It also takes advantage of rosemary which will grow well into the ‘ber months.

Roasted Root Vegetables with Rosemary

• 8 carrots, peeled and cut
• 2 russet potatoes, washed and cut
• 2 turnips, peeled, cut
• 2 parsnips, peeled, trimmed, and cut
• 2 medium yellow onions, trimmed, peeled and cut
• 1 celery root, trimmed and cut
• 1 whole head garlic, separated into cloves, peeled
• 3 sprigs fresh rosemary
• Extra-virgin olive oil
• Salt
• Freshly ground black pepper

Note: cut vegetables into bite-sized pieces

Preheat the oven to 400 degrees. Put vegetables in a large mixing bowl. Remove rosemary needles from the sprig and add needles to the bowl. Drizzle with olive oil and salt and pepper to taste. Use your hands to coat them evenly. 

Transfer to a parchment-lined baking sheet and spread into a single layer. Place baking sheet in oven and roast until they are golden brown, about 45 minutes. Stir and move around the vegetables a couple of times while baking.

Corporate Merger/Slider: White Castle, Now Featuring Krystal Hamburgers

I'm in Georgia and I am so near Krystal hamburgers I'm dreaming about them. I went to college in this part of the U.S. and Krystals were an important part of my extra-curricular activities - late night/early runs to bring a bag full back to the dorm. I now live in White Castle territory with no Krystals in site. I like White Castle but I love Krystal.

My dream was about the merger of these two institutions. Like when BP bought Amoco and went with the "BP now featuring Amoco fuels" co-branding campaign, my dream merger went with a "White Castle, now featuring Krystal burgers" slogan. It was so real, but alas, merely a dream.

The Witham Gala: The Prom I Never Had

Originally published in the Lebanon Reporter on May 24, 2007

Growing up with a Baptist preacher as my step dad, I had a pretty extensive list of ‎forbidden activities from which to refrain. This sins-of-the-flesh quartet was summed up ‎in the warning, “Don’t dance, drink, chew, or go with girls who do.” Last Saturday night ‎I violated at least a couple of these.‎

My wife grew up in a family with similar rules so neither of us went to middle school ‎dances, the prom, or the many other events at which young people writhed to worldly ‎rhythms. That is one reason, the annual Witham Health Services Foundation Gala is so ‎much fun for us. ‎

I imagine if I had attended the prom in high school, the afternoon before the evening’s ‎big event, I might have waxed my car to be sure my date was impressed with my sweet ‎ride. For this year’s gala, I at least found time to vacuum out the fishy-cracker crumbs for ‎the floorboards of our minivan.‎

I’m sure in high school, the conversation with my date would have included mention of a ‎cool new song by Hall and Oats (check out this for a stroll down Memory Lane circa 1983), my lame attempts to make her laugh, and tales of ‎soccer-field prowess, “Yeah, I’m pretty sure I’ll get a soccer scholarship or maybe make ‎the ‘84 Olympic Team.”‎

Last Saturday night’s small talk included checking with one another to make sure we had ‎enough cash for the babysitter, complaints about how badly our feet hurt after two ‎dances, and the worry that eating so late would keep me up all night, “Shoot, I forgot to ‎bring my Tagamet.”‎

Even though the gala wasn’t the prom, we still had a great time. It is one event we look ‎forward to each year - an elegant evening with friends and an annual reminder of how ‎fortunate we are to have Witham Health Services and the Witham Health Services ‎Foundation in our community.‎

Some of you know, that my day job is in economic development. There are two or three ‎key ingredients that must be in place for a community to have much of a chance for a ‎vibrant and sustainable local economy and quality of life. Access to first-class healthcare ‎is one of those necessary components. We’ve got that in Witham and we’re fortunate in ‎that regard. ‎

This is a food column so I guess I ought to mention the gala cuisine. The venue changed ‎this year to the Palomino Ballroom located between here and Zionsville. It’s a lovely ‎room and the cocktail hour and dinner was executed well by the Palomino staff. The meal ‎began and ended on solid ground. ‎ First up to bat was a salad of leafy field greens with shaved Parmesan, Mandarin oranges, ‎and candied walnuts. Batting clean-up were giant slices of six-layer cakes - carrot and ‎chocolate.

The main plate held both a bleu cheese-topped filet mignon and a pesto-stuffed ‎chicken breast with a twice-baked potato and sugar snapped peas as sides. Some of the ‎main-course items were better than others but considering the fact that 300 people were ‎being served all at once, everything was about as well as one could expect.‎

After dinner, most of us worked off a few calories dancing to the musical stylings of the ‎First Impressions, who’s set included a good mix of standards and classic R&B. They did ‎a fine job but the Flip Miller Band, who has played the last few galas, is a hard act to ‎follow. Somehow it wasn’t the same without Flip calling Chadd Wheat up to the mic to ‎take us all to Margaritaville.‎

Even though I don’t have adolescent memories of spring dances on which to look back, I ‎have no doubt that forty years from now, when I’m puttering around my condo in Boca ‎Raton, I’ll recall my near middle-age years cutting the rug at the gala, how beautiful my ‎date looked, and the great time we had with friends.‎