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All the Flavors of Pringles: Mingling and Pringling at Summer Dinner Parties

I can’t eat just one Pringle.  But I am able to eat just one can. Typically.

It’s funny how the summer time itself can make you feel more popular and sociable than normal.  My wife and I have noticed that nearly every weekend this summer we’ve got some event planned with other people, not to mention the many dinner parties we’ve already attended in the past several weeks.  Since there’s always that item or two that we need to bring to the dinner, we end up at the grocery to the day before to pick up the garlic bread or salad.

And while I’m there, I sneakily mosey over to the potato chips isle to explore the local Pringles selection.  Despite how adamant/religious I am about what I eat (nothing processed, no pork, no shellfish, no sugar, only wheat bread, must drink a minimum of three liters of water a day, etc.) I am willing to admit that one of my surprising weaknesses is any random can of Pringles potato chips.  Maybe it’s this subconscious belief that regular potato chips are “white trashy” and Pringles are the sophisticated option.  Even as a kid who never cared about nutrition, I still have always preferred Pringles over any of the greasier and/or more fattening options out there like Lay’s or Doritos.

Anytime I’m invited to a dinner party now, I use the event as an excuse to buy a can of Pringles.  It would be against my self-imposed moral code to simply purchase chips and bring them into my house to eat, because that means I’m contributing to the junk food industry.  But if it’s for a party, with the intended use of sharing, that it becomes justified in my mind.  And with all the weird flavors that Pringles provide me with and my curiosity to try them all, often I come home with at least half the can still in tact.  Prime example: Last Friday night, Mozzarella Sticks and Marinara.  (Basically the distinctive ingredient is sour cream.)

Surely obsession with Pringles is that they give me the illusion that I’m eating unhealthy foods like Bloomin’ Onions, Quesadillas, or Cheeseburgers, though I’m actually eating low fat potato chips.  The flavors themselves provide entertainment.  Not the mention the labels themselves.

 

For example, right now I’m looking at an empty can of Pringles Xtreme Ragin’ Cajun.  I like how a serving size is 16 “crisps”, not chips.  It’s funny how “spices” is listed as an ingredient, then a few later comes “spice extracts”, then “paprika extract”- so vague and yet specific all at once.  Of course there’s some Red Lake 40 thrown in there for effect, which is extracted from petroleum (click healthnutshell: Red Food Dye to read more about that).  My favorite part of it is the last ingredient listed: “and natural and artificial flavors (including smoke)”.

Wait, I don’t get it.  Is the smoke real or artificial?  Or half fake, half real?  I really need to understand this…

Pringles.  So good.  So weird.  So mysterious.

Pringles Flavors: The Complete Guide

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My Rant about Ranting: Blowing Off Steam Vs. Being a Blowhard

Oh, you mean I get to listen to someone rant?  I love rants!  They’re my favorite!

Last October I was searching for pictures of stupid church marquee signs to use as bad examples of Christianity for Holy Smoke (click title to read), which I was writing at the time.  I came across a blog called “My Rant About Religion” and made it half way through the first sentence before thinking, “Who would want to read a rant?… About anything?”  I know I don’t.

In my mind the word rant translates as “whining about something that has no real resolution”.  One of my Rules for Life is that if you’re going to present a problem to me, either provide a realistic proposal to solve that problem so that we can do something about it or be willing to listen and possibly act on my proposed solution.  But for someone to rant open-endly is to simply spread negative energy.  It does no good for anyone, except the person ranting, who lives in the illusion that he or she is actually doing any good.

But a rant is a one-way conversation.  It’s not productive nor does it help human relationships in any way.  And despite the title, which I obviously coined for ironic effect, this isn’t a rant.  Because I am providing a solution with my presented problem:

Ranters worldwide, if you feel passionate about an issue, make it clear what listeners are supposed to do with your information.  Let them know how they can help you specifically fix the problem.  That makes you a leader, a passionate idealist who rallies troops.

Otherwise, you’re just blowing off steam.  And nobody likes a blowhard.

4 Comments Posted on People, Storytelling, Uncategorized

dad from day one: Where the Wild Things are Tame

Twenty-four weeks.

As my wife and I have begun registering at Babies “R” Us and Target, a major theme I couldn’t help but notice, particular to boys’ clothing, is the fact that wild, vicious animals are strangely friendly and helpful.  Smiling crocodiles.  Laughing gorillas.  Silly snakes.  Chipper tigers.

In real life, there’s no way I would let Jack near any of those animals unless it’s at the zoo. (Nor would I want anywhere near those animals unless I was at the zoo). Crocodiles, gorillas, snakes, and tigers all represent wild and dangerous elements of life.  But to a baby boy, these creatures resemble how he himself is adventurous and “in to everything”.  Of course, in a world where the baby boy is loved by all and has no concept of enemies, these dangerous beings become neutered, tamed, and enchanted to the point that they all want to be his friend.

The irony- as his parents, my wife and I will be Jack’s supreme protectors and guardians.  We will become the smiling crocodiles, the laughing gorillas, the silly snakes, and the chipper tigers: the paradoxical mix of strength and safety with love and happiness.  Even more ironic- Baby Jack won’t understand all this stuff about friendly yet wild animals and how his parents represent them to him.  All these “cute outfits” are for the adults to enjoy.  But we like to pretend Jack is aware of the fact that his shirt has a picture of a goofy blue beast on it with the caption reading “Mommy’s Little Monster”.  My, what imaginations we adults have!

All pictures with the “JHP” logo were taken by Joe Hendricks Photography:

Blog- www.photojoeblog.com

Website- www.joehendricks.com

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Mario Eugene Shell (The Person I Almost Was): If I’m Both Hispanic and White, Which Box Do I Check in Those Surveys?

If only I looked more ethnic.

It’s hard to fathom now, but the entire time my mom knew she was pregnant with me (from October 1980 to April 1981) her “boy name” for me was Mario Eugene Shell.  But of course, my name is instead Nicholas Shane Shell.  Why?  I “didn’t look like a Mario”.  In other words, I was too white.

In essence, I am a mixed race- technically only half white.  One of the main ways I determine whether or not a person is “white” (other than their skin color) is by looking at their last name- if it ends in a vowel, they are probably not white.  My mom’s maiden name was Metallo (Italian) and her mother’s maiden name was Mendez (it doesn’t end in a vowel but it’s common knowledge that Mexicans are not “white”- especially not the ones in my family- they have darker skin).

My dad (a Southern boy of English, German, Cherokee Indian, and distant Greek traces) had married this exotic black haired woman from the North (Buffalo, NY).  It was assumed that their child would take after the more ethnic features, like mocha skin and black curly hair.  But on April 20, 1981 at 8:37 PM, both my parents were amazed to hold a seemingly All-American baby.

They looked at each other, then my mom said to my dad, “He’s not a Mario.  We need a new name.”  A few hours later, before midnight, still on the day I was born, I was named Nicholas (a Greek name that is a popular Italian male name).  My middle name is Shane, which is a form of Sean, which is a form of the Hebrew (Jewish) name, John.  (Shane was considered for my first name but “Shane Shell” really doesn’t work.)

And that’s how I got my name- a quickly formed “plan B”.  To imagine, if I looked more Mexican (like my sister, though she’s often mistaken for Hawaiian) or even a dark-skinned Italian, I would have been Mario Eugene.  (My dad’s middle name is Eugene.)  That’s means that growing up, everyone at school would have called me Super Mario and constantly made references to video game series.  But I don’t think it would have been all that different from my actual childhood, where everyone sang “Nick-nick-nick-nick-nick-nick-nick-nick, Nickelodeon!” to me.  And some people still do… Aunt Rosa!

1 Comment Posted on Health, Nostalgia, People, Storytelling, Uncategorized

Reading the Backs of Cereal Boxes for Entertainment

The childhood habit lives on in me today.

An important part of being a kid at the grocery store with your mom was getting to decide which goofy cereal to commit to that week.  My mom always let my sister and I each pick out our own box of cereal to enjoy for the next seven days, given that the first ingredient was not sugar.  Back then, in the late ‘80’s and early ‘90’s, the Major Three (Kellogg’s, General Mills, and Post) were all about competing with each other by seeing who could give the coolest toy in the bottom of the box.

But aside from the rainbow colored oat bits, unnecessary marshmallows, and the free sticky octopus toy that would cling to the wall when you threw it, there was still that entertaining back of the cereal box to look at.  Mazes, crossword puzzles, “can you find?…” pictures.  Enough entertainment to stay preoccupied to the point that you almost forget your brother or sister is sitting there just a few feet away trying to find Barney Rubble hiding behind a Stegosaurus on the back of the Fruity Pebbles box.

Because without the barriers of those boxes in front of us at the kitchen table, that meant that we might accidently look at each other, or purposely look at each other, to “bother” the other person.  As a kid, there were a plethora of ways to be annoyed by your sibling, and for some reason, being looked at was one of them.  I thought it was just my sister and I that had to read the backs of cereal boxes so we “wouldn’t have to look at each other”, but after recently walking down the cereal isle at Publix with my wife, revisiting our favorite childhood cereals, I learned it was the same way at her house.  So I can only assume this is an American phenomenon- an expected part of Saturday morning breakfasts.

Now as an adult, I still read the backs of my cereal boxes.  Learned habit, I’m sure.  I have to admit though, the back of the box of Shredded Wheat isn’t quite as fun as Lucky Charms always was.  And of course, no free prize at the bottom of the box either.