The Summer of Sandwich

Our family likes to play a fun game when we’re all together and rehashing old times. They turn to me with a gleam in their eyes and ask “Matt, what did we eat that day?” This rarely provides a challenge, because my memory bank files everything away as an extended meal. We were simply doing other things in the time between filling our bellies. I’d say it’s my one weird thing, but you’ve probably figured out that’s a rather long list.

My wife is an artist at heart. She processes and interprets the world as a vivid color palette, occasionally pausing to accuse me of colorblindness (why isn’t “greenish blue” an acceptable description?). On the other hand, my lens is that of an omnivore. The spectrum illuminating my thoughts is that of deliciousness.  

Meals are one of the most immersive experiences one can have. Not to get too gross, but food makes your acquaintance from first sight, smell, temperature and taste all the way to…the sewer system. I can’t completely review a dinner until I’ve hosted the afterparty. Food is more than just fuel to me, it’s approaching religion.

When something occupies your thoughts to the point of obsession, it can be difficult to manage appropriately. I’ll read through menus like they are holy texts conveying a higher meaning. The thought of a perfectly cooked brisket makes my loins quiver. How then am I expected to behave appropriately at a classy brunch buffet?

That’s really where the rub comes in. I’ve been active since birth, but the aging process has finally caught up with me. My metabolism used to be a thing of pride, but lately has become a real drag. There was a fateful period I refer to longingly as “The Summer of Sandwich” where I really doubled-down calorically speaking on lunch. The bread I homemade with love, but the sheer quantity of meat, double cheese and external coating of mayonnaise (makes it perfect on the griddle) were not great for my waistline. But my word, those were some delicious sandwiches.

At the time, I was hitting my ambitious fitness goals every single day, maintaining an unbroken streak of insanity that lasted for over two years. That is a topic for another article, but needless to say I had absolute proof that you can’t outrun a poor diet. My weight was the highest on record, even as I regularly eclipsed twenty thousand steps a day. As fate would have it, my license, passport and two family christmas cards captured the perfect moment in time where my face achieved maximum squish. People still do a double take when checking my ID.

So what changed? This answer may seem overwhelmingly obvious, but here it goes. How about less mayo-slathered meaty and cheesy sandwiches. Fewer “snack pizzas,” as I like to call my Saturday late night indulgences. Y’all, I’ve never been accused of being a genius.

It took almost forty years to balance a very simple equation. I was just working it from the wrong variable. Turns out you can just eat better and less. Then you don’t have to exercise like your life depends on it. What comes in can simply get burned efficiently because that’s what is appropriate to run this factory. Call it hubris, but many humans (myself included) give themselves way too much credit for a workout when they sit down to that next meal. Our indulgent pat on the back can easily negate the calories we burned. 

When you do the math on processed food and our daily recommendations, it is pretty eye opening what the average American is willfully shoveling into their bodies. Evolved tactics for storing up sustenance in preparation for scarcity never see that lean period our ancestors would inevitably endure. The brain’s preference for sugary input wasn’t tuned to handle an era of thirty ounce soft drinks. 

This might be an odd marker in history, but I can remember when professional golfers were still downing a couple of hot dogs and chips at the turn. These were people doing athletic and mentally challenging tasks with millions of dollars on the line. Yet they were refueling with about the least healthy thing per pound that you can eat. Then Tiger Woods came along and proved the seemingly obvious case that being physically fit and eating strategically gives you a competitive edge, even in the more pedestrian of sports. The next thing you know, even NASCAR drivers are adopting nutrition plans between their swigs of Busch Light. 

I know what you are thinking. These people are rich and their livelihood depends on such a miserable in-season lifestyle. You don’t have the time or money and would be hungry all the time for nothing. I used to be in this camp and thought cheeseburgers would always be worth it, but I found some great advice and it has stuck with me since.

If you contemplate your next potential meal long enough, your vagus nerve and brain will stew on the outcome and reach a logical resolution about how to proceed. It’s the impulsivity that tends to take us down the wrong path. I’ve had stomach issues for years, which have helped refine the “is it going to make me feel terrible” sense, but I was largely ignoring my body. We are at our worst when we act impulsively and outpace that 15 minute delay on our fullness meter. If you start making methodical and informed decisions about what you eat, then that’s step one.

Once I took to eating more salads, nuts and vegetables, my day was less of a rollercoaster. It became easier to find the sweet spot where I still dabble in the less healthy stuff from time to time (you know I had to try that new stuffed-crust Donatos pizza) but the balance is more easily restored.

Growing at least some of my own food has helped a bunch. It’s one thing to toss out some grocery store produce that went bad immediately, and another disappointment entirely to miss the perfect window of freshness from a vegetable you have planted and tended since it was a seed. You tend to work these items into the family menu.

I used to think that culinary happiness was a dish that had to be served with heaps of butter, sugar, fat and salt (with a dash of hot sauce). Once you wean your taste buds off of that boisterous ride, then the subtlety and nuance of natural flavors start to shine through. Raw pecans are flippin delicious. Sweet peppers are my jam. Believe it or not, leafy greens do have taste under that mountain of ranch and bacon.

There’s meaning to be found in everything we do, but I can’t find a more meaningful idea than cultivating a more conscious consumer of our only energy source. Until we can biohack our bodies for photosynthesis, we’re stuck eating and drinking our way to survival. How many of us lose countless hours of sleep worrying through the myriad ways we and our loved ones could meet an early end, meanwhile the prime suspect is sitting in front us three-ish times per day if you are living in the United States of America (Anthony Bourdain would have added “greatest country in the world, by God.”).

I’m quite jazzed about building new food memories that start all the way from a tiny little seed that my daughters and I planted together. We’ll share colorful plates and lively conversations, all while being more rooted to the world around us, even if I grew that salad in my bathroom.

The Idea Phase

My favorite Golden Gate Bridge fun fact is that it takes so long to paint that the team walks right back across to start again as soon as they finish. The job never ends, it simply continues in perpetuity. One conjures up images of Sisyphus rolling his boulder up the hill each day only for it to wind up back at the bottom again tomorrow. The thought can be ominous if you linger on it for too long, because our lives aren’t so dissimilar.

Wild animals toil endlessly for survival, while we, the vastly superior beings, have eschewed our upright walking in favor of mechanized travel and plenty of other cushy modernities. sFire was cool and all but my Instant Pot has 12 cooking modes. So what then to do with all of the free time that such convenience affords?

What I’m quickly learning is that there will always be a task at hand if you are an impulsive human like myself. The very instant I’ve scrubbed the cars clean, vacuumed the house or mowed the lawn, the world immediately conspires to ruin my efforts. Without cause or direction, I find myself walking endless circles around the house, chasing one nibbling task after another. There’s a misplaced sock on the floor, so I take it to the laundry room and see a bathroom in need of toilet paper on the way. The cats are out of food, our recycling is full, and my mushrooms need another spritzing. So it can go for hours. Is this really healthy, though?

I’m on week three of this new adventure and the time has come for an injection of purpose into the routine tasks. I have a sense of what my weekly responsibilities look like at this point and some notable wife requests have been knocked out. In order to steer this ship in the right direction, here are a slew of goals I’d like all of y’all to hold me to in the coming months:  

Fun Dad Summer

I officially changed my LinkedIn status to “Stay at Home Dad” which they make as hard as possible. The dropdown menus judge you real hard when making such updates. It’s time to start living up to my illustrious title. And, by the way, summer is coming. With the advanced knowledge of my departure, Allison has not filled up our calendar with the usual slew of camps. This means it’s on me to entertain our little ladies and offer up experiences that make them better humans. Without breaking the bank, I’ll be planning an activity-filled curriculum to get us out of the house and have a memorable summer.

Feed Off the Land

I might have ten square yards receiving full sun around our house, but that hasn’t deterred my ambitions to grow as much food as possible. With an eye on limiting our dependency on the local supermarket and spreading the love around, I have set out to do two things. One is to plan days in the future where I will eat only items that come from our property. This is going to require an immersion in methods of preservation and even a little foraging, otherwise I’ll be lucky to get by on leaves of lettuce. Goal number two is to check out our local farmers market and start planning a product of my own, with any income (or leftovers) donated to the food pantry at our church.

Crank it up to 11

I love playing music. The rub is that I’m not terribly skilled at any particular instrument. Call it a joyful noise. To encourage routine practice and fluff up my rockstar dreams, I’ll be planning a live performance this summer at our annual fundraiser with the stipulation that my kids have to join me for at least one song. Typing that just made my palms a little sweaty.

Chef Chappy

For someone who hasn’t worked in food service since the age of 16, I sure do read a lot of books on what it is like to be a chef. My wife credits Anthony Bourdain and her gift of a Big Green Egg for turning me into an obsessed foodie. Cooking for people makes me happy, especially when I get to plan out a unique menu and push myself a bit. As circumstance would have it, I owe two groups a “Chef Chappy Dinner” from a silent auction that got out of hand. It is time to settle up and expand my repertoire of dishes. (Note: Minutes after I typed this, I sliced off a decent chunk of my thumb while making a salad. Need to revisit the knife skills as well.)

Stop Being so Selfish

I’ve dipped my toe in the waters of volunteerism in the last few weeks and it feels gooooood.  I’m ready to champion a cause, commit and show my face on a regular basis. If you have followed along thus far, it may come as no surprise that this will be a food-related charity. 

Yoga Posin’

I claim to practice yoga, but what I’ve really been doing is putting on my Yoga with Adriene videos and following a routine of my own making. Every now and then I add a new pose for giggles, but there really hasn’t been much growth in my skill level over the last two years. I asked my wife if scorpion pose would be an attainable goal and she just shook her head. We’ll give it a go anyway and see what happens.

Hold onto your butts! I’ll be posting updates on my progress for each of these challenges. Should be an interesting adventure.

The Sum Total of Our Inputs

How much water have you had today? 

This would be my Mother’s response to virtually any issue you may encounter. In a bad mood? Got a headache? Slept like crap last night? This seems like such an oversimplification, but your body is made of sixty percent H2O. If the system is malfunctioning, common sense tells us that is a pretty good place to look first.

Our bodies and brains are very sophisticated machines. We tend to forget that sometimes. Understanding the math of it all, however, is still pretty simple. What goes in is balanced with what comes out. Energy is conserved. Not only are we fueled by what we eat and drink, but every stimuli around us brings with it an impact. Your friends, hobbies, shows, phones, job and kids can have a significant effect on your well being. In the words of my homie Thich Nhat Hanh, “we are but a sum total of our inputs.”

With a big life change comes an opportunity to peel back the layers and decide whether your litany of habits are worth keeping or need to be tossed in the bin. To start, the general look on my face could use significant improvement. I do my best not to be photographed, but the rare exceptions have captured pretty sour looks. “Here is Chappy in his native habitat and boy he sure looks grumpy.”

Forty years of life do provide occasional perspective. I may be one of the most impatient people on earth (working on that) but it is unreasonable to think I’ll be a fresh new person immediately. The first week of this new life was about examining how I fill my hours and sorting out what needs to go. This list is quite impressive.

One admittedly caustic practice has been the need to give my phone some attention at least fifty times per day. This mindless routine offered up no substance or utility. It’s as if I didn’t know what else to do but fire that puppy up and doom scroll away. My first official act of unemployment was to delete Slack (and it felt so very satisfying), but let’s not pin all of our shortcomings on one application.

The troublesome element at play here is my overwhelming urge for distraction. I feel so distracted at times that I can’t even pinpoint what I’m diverting attention from. I’ll have an audiobook in my ears and a TV on as I dart about doing anything that keeps me from sitting still and hearing the cries of adoration (I can only assume) from my children. Question: How can you be a peaceful human if you don’t invite any peace into your day? 

On day one, I skipped the vitamin D3 supplement and headed straight out the front door. My walk was lovely. I worked in the yard, digging and planting until I had soaked through three shirts. Gardening is a medicinal exercise in my view because you can’t rush plants. You can walk circles around them and diligently tend to their assorted needs, but the bloom only appears when nature decides it is ready. How easily we trick ourselves into thinking that we can bend this world to our will. Order it online and it will be here tomorrow. Microwave on high for three minutes and voila - dinner is served. If we’re not careful, this persistent immediacy in all things can easily skew our perspective. I want to turn this tide with a lot of doing. From scratch, by hand, with love.

Many smart, quotable, and totally chill people in history have identified that giving of oneself for the good of others does wonders for your personal well-being. Also, facts. Having known this, you’d think I would be out every weekend, dragging the kids along for some humble acts of service. Not so much, and I’m a little ashamed of it, frankly. Time to change that! As if by serendipity, my first volunteer opportunity in this new era reunited me with a friend I hadn’t seen in many years. We caught up while planting seeds and learning a few gardening tips. I was all smiles on the drive home.

And on the third day, the Lord saw what he had done and proclaimed ‘Let there be golf.’ At least I think that’s how it goes. Anyway, I was blessed with a leisurely eighteen on a beautiful day with a good buddy. My phone stayed in the cart for hours.

It’s rare that we associate with friends outside our little bubble. In both human interactions mentioned above, neither exists within the two mile radius we Chapmans typically operate in. That is one thing I’d love to inject into my newly retooled schedule. I believe the mind goes on autopilot if you only do the same thing all the time. We constantly crave new, novel and deeper interactions.

The wife and I departed Thursday for a rare couples weekend at the beach. We had a house full of old friends and a marriage to celebrate, with a few evening events on the schedule. It was a hilarious social experiment seeing how everyone chose to spend their precious free days in the absence of children. I haven’t laughed that much in a long time. Best we could guess was it had been at least 8 years since we had done anything like that with this crew (legendary for our annual Festivus party). Time had aged us but it all felt familiar again.

Back at home, I’m not walking around grinning like an idiot at all hours yet, but I dare say that the look on my face is changing. Next week, we enter the idea phase.

‘I urge you to please notice when you are happy, and exclaim or murmur or think at some point, ‘If this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is.’ - Kurt Vonnegut

The Next Chapter

What do you want to be when you grow up?

Nobody tells you the challenging aspect of this question is actually pinpointing when grown-up status has been achieved. Maturity is an intangible concept. I pay bills with my name on them, eat the occasional chicken-nugget free meal, and operate motorized vehicles with some proficiency. But do I feel grown up?

From a career perspective, things have pivoted a bit since college Chappy envisioned that a job engineering race cars was on the table. Turns out you have to be pretty smart for that. For a brief shining period toward the end of my four year stint, I worked with a renowned graduate professor who was doing cool stuff in the automotive space. That door shut, however, as soon as someone showed him my GPA. Still gainfully employable with a degree in mechanical engineering, I accepted the first offer that came along. Hello disposable income!

My job was to get familiar with a 3D modeling program and draw up piping systems for factories. I quickly learned that all of that education was merely to serve as the sanity check. Building a virtual factory piece by piece wasn’t much different than following Ikea instructions. And when I pressed the button to simulate an earthquake, hurricane or other unsavory situation, I could look at the output and say “yep, that makes sense.”

That company was good to me, and it provided a relatively smooth transition into corporate life. It even turned a blind eye to my weekly email newsletter called (you guessed it) “Chappy’s Thoughts” where I penned (mostly immature) musings on life. After living semester by semester for so long, a year and a half doing the same thing felt like an eternity. It wasn’t their fault that I needed more than a computer to interact with for 40 hours a week. 

My next job kicked off a transitional phase where I occasionally did a bit of engineering but thankfully not enough to worry anyone. Much of my day to day involved developing relationships and driving around the beautiful state of Alabama. Not a bad gig, and they even threw in a pension (a term I initially had to look up). Two years in I took on a “sales” role, which was funny because I do not ever recall influencing anyone’s purchasing behavior. It would simply get cold, my customers would use more natural gas and my achievements would be lauded. 

Still I felt restless with the pace of things. Everyone treated me well and I had every reason to be happy where I was, but the challenge wasn’t there. I filled my extra hours writing, compiling a whole book of Chappy’s Thoughts and dreaming up new business ventures that ultimately didn’t go anywhere.

In the summer of 2012, an opportunity materialized. A friend from the local startup community had just launched an innovative product and was targeting a niche that I could wrap my head around. There were a lot of factors to consider. Common sense said to keep cruising with the cushy setup - eventually funding my own big idea. But I had a feeling, and that’s all I could go off of. Against the advice of many, I put in my notice and took a terrifying leap into the startup world. 

The last 12 years have been a wild ride. As expected, those early days were chock full of exciting challenges. My job description for more than a year was simply “everything the other guy isn’t doing.” Not only did I have virtually zero experience in most areas, but the two of us had to figure it out on a shoestring budget. As we grew, my role evolved to include customer support, sales, product management, and partnerships. I came to enjoy telling the story and acting as the front door to our company. Whether it was a customer, partner or coworker, my aim was to impart the belief I had in what we were doing. 

It may come as a surprise, then, that I turned in my resignation letter a few days prior to my 40th birthday. The decision wasn’t easy, but there was that gut feeling creeping in again. We were in a good place with a lot of talented employees. It has ultimately been a healthy turn to no longer feel like a pivotal cog in the machine. After a lengthy notice period, I gave a tearful goodbye last Friday and handed in my stuff.

So what now? 

I must admit, it has been a fun exercise talking through my plans for this next chapter with friends and strangers alike. “YOU HAVE TO DO SOMETHING!” was far and away the most common sentiment. We’re so ingrained with the idea that one must toil away at a job until you are 65, then you kick your feet up after a hard life’s work. I’m extremely fortunate to have this opportunity, so you can best bet I won’t be wasting it.

Call it a grand experiment. And if it doesn’t work out, there’s only one person to blame. For at least one year, I want to orient my life around the tenets below. I know these to be paths to my own personal happiness because I’ve experienced their impact in small doses over the years. I can also attest that they are corroborated in the stacks of self-help books I’ve plowed through as of late.

  1. Be curious. Experience and observe how awesome, huge and hilarious the world can be if one only pays attention. 

  2. Give back daily. I want to do more for other people than I do for myself.

  3. Embrace real work. It’s time to be a useful and skilled member of society who can grow food, cook proficiently, fix things, build stuff and create from scratch. 

  4. Go full Dad mode. I would love to give my wife and kids the best version of me, not the one they’ve been seeing a lot of in the last 5 or so years. 

  5. Write it all down. At worst, people might at least pick up a few fun facts. If it provides entertainment, then all the better.

The goal is a meaningful, purposeful and joy-filled life. Week one starts now. Time to find out what I want to be when I grow up.

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The Story of Frank

Does anyone really need a cat? Dogs, ever the predictable choice, tend to provide utility and generally seek to please. Lucy, our 13 year old mutt, has assisted with hundreds of vacuum-worthy spills while keeping us intruder free for the duration. She’s also never met a nature show she couldn’t ruin.

But back to cats. We already have one. His given name is Tiny Peter and he’s top notch. Practically every new visitor to Chapman HQ says something to the tune of “Hey, what’s wrong with your cat?” I’ve had a long think on the subject and Peter either truly thinks he is a dog or is actually a reincarnated five-year-old with a heart of gold. We’re currently shopping around for statue makers so we can capture his likeness in its prime.

Recently, however, Peter has been super bored. He has spent his entire life with another cat around, and since Leo has moved on to kitty heaven, Peter is flying solo. He tried to play with Lucy, but she’s basically hated every lifeform that has diluted her portion of our love. It’s been one demotion after the next in her eyes, and Peter was simply another middle manager who had been swiftly promoted through the ranks. With tons of energy to burn and not much going on, Peter’s favorite activity had become gnawing on my fingers, especially if they happened to be in motion on a keyboard.

A good friend of ours was fostering cats and shared that there was a kitten fitting our profile (orange + male) being taken in. The poor guy was found alone at a shady apartment complex in town. I saw the profile picture and was immediately sold. But when I called the next day to inquire, I was told that many were already interested. They must have seen what I did - all that voluptuous fluff.

But as a little time passed and the adoption window opened, I was notified that others had not been a “match.” That’s definitely not a red flag, right? Fondue (as his adoption papers called him) was open to meet us. We promptly made ourselves available and thought a lot about melty cheese.

Allison was out of town, so the girls and I loaded up the minivan on a Saturday morning for our official visit. The entire backseat was read the riot act since we were being evaluated as a candidate just as much as the cat was. Time to turn up that classic Chapman charm.

Let’s admit it was not a great sign when the hosts dropped immediately to the living room floor. Fondue required detachment from the underside of a couch. Our crew was cautiously able to pet him for a smidge. Indeed he was the softest thing imaginable. In my mind, the decision matrix was on full tilt with not much of a data set to go off of. Still young, impressionable, with a good role model chilling back at our house - I figured the odds of success were in our favor.

I’m not one to linger at a stranger’s house (or anyone’s for that matter), so I made a seat-of-my-pants call to adopt Fondue on the spot after we were asked for our thoughts. I’ve driven away from an adoption opportunity with Maggie before, and that’s how we ended up with the aforementioned Leo. The legally-binding paperwork was already out on the counter. 

After a quick stop at adoption headquarters for a last round of shots, the three of us and our new furry friend headed to the house. I called Allison with the news. Being married as long as we have, it’s the tone that you really pick up on. Through the excited words of congratulations, I detected a hint of doubt that maybe we hadn’t done our due diligence. She knows me so well (and vividly remembers my impulse buy of a new piano last year).

Upon release, Fondue McFluffins Chapman promptly bolted for the first item he could hide under. Dude was terrified. We went through a few rounds of extrication, attempted love, and scratches before we admittedly lost track of his whereabouts. Eventually he was located up inside the frame of a chair. I couldn’t help but be a bit impressed.

The very next day he scuttled to a more permanent location - this time, under a bathroom vanity who's opening was barely larger than he. This was a pickle. Since I have super thick man arms, you’ve probably already come to the realization that I was unable to reach Fondue at this point. We had ourselves an old-fashioned standoff. After a long day of fretting, it had become (in my paranoid imagination) legitimately possible for Fondue to no longer fit back through that hole in a few days. 

Mercifully, the dual contributions of teamwork and good smelling cat treats finally paid off. I hurriedly taped the vanity with every roll of tape on hand. When Allison arrived home, my open wounds were not signs of an optimistic start. Still, we kept with it. Our house guests agreed he indeed looked like a pleasant thing to hold and we had them sign a waiver prior to the scratches. Then it got a little worse. 

Young “Frank,” as we were now calling him, started pooping regularly on Lucy’s beds. Now, we totally expected to promote this little guy quickly, but (what seemed like) premeditated hate pooping was violating several notable HR policies. This was a double-whammy, as Frank had to be given a special wet food that was already an unsettling experience on the way in. 

On the upside, all the delicious meal times started to prove my worth in young Frank’s paranoid little eyes. I was permitted to pet him in passing. He farted prolifically, but that couldn’t mask the sweet smell of progress.

The soiled dog beds began to pile up, however, and overall improvement stalled. More scratches accumulated. This guy was obviously miserable and had a stomach that churned incessantly. The rest of the family never saw him, and hardly believed my tales of victory. It was not going well.

Then I had a slight epiphany. Frank was basically still a feral cat. What if he was binge eating his face off, thinking each meal was his last? I had left the kitty buffet wide open and he was taking advantage. I know I’m a real peach when I have the tummy troubles, and maybe portion control would make a difference. The change was almost immediate.

In a few days, young Frank walked up to me and meowed (which feels more like he’s yelling at you). I picked him up, feeling optimistic. Y’all. You can’t imagine how good it actually feels to embrace such a wonderful surface. Like heaven misplaced a pillow. 

After steadily working towards true friendship for a few weeks, Frank bestowed upon me the privilege to carry him clear across the house for feeding time. He made regular appearances in front of the whole family. Lucy grunted her displeasure as we all told Frank how good he looked. 

And then one fateful night…

Allison and I have become quite clear in our roles as our life together has gained efficiency. Sanitation, mess hall, critter control, light switcher-offer (we’ll group them together as “Facilities Management”) are all under my jurisdiction. Allison is President of Feelings and social chair while carrying the company’s key objective of “acting like respectable humans.” When she is out of town for a stretch, we devolve into pizza-crazed hermits - dressed in mismatched clothing and binging on Battle Bots.

Considering this delegation of responsibilities, note that on this particular evening, I was downstairs ensuring all our lights were off and properly sorting the recycling. Out of the serene quiet comes the piercing screams of my girls from above. “Daddy, there’s a bug!!!” 

I always spring to immediate action in these scenarios because I love them so much. When I arrived on the scene, however, the critter had already been dispatched. With a paw placed proudly atop the offending roach, Frank looked dignified and in his element. We had ourselves a new Head of Security. Lucy was beside herself.