THE LAST SUPPER

     My family plays a game called The Last Supper, which goes like this: If you knew you were about to eat your last meal in this dimension, what would it be?  Here's the fun part:  There are no rules and no limit to the number of courses or plates involved, and there's no Jiminy Cricket sitting on your shoulder reminding you to include a green vegetable.  Just list your favorite foods of all time.

     While you're pondering yours, let me share mine:

     Caesar salad with cornbread croutons.  Yes, I said you didn't have to include a green vegetable, but I happen to love salads, especially of the Caesar variety.

     Nachos with freshly roasted green chiles and enough cheese to block out the sun, the absolute history of cheese.  I don't want to be able to see even the corner of a chip peeking out from under it all.  

        Fettuccine Alfredo with lots of fresh black pepper.  'Nuff said. 

      A Maryland soft-shell crab with a side of Thrasher's French fries.  The crab speaks for itself, but if you're not from the Chesapeake Bay area, you might not be familiar with Thrasher's fries.  Let me enlighten you.  On any list of the best French fries in the United States, Thrasher's is always near the top.  They have shops on the boardwalk in Ocean City, Maryland, and Rehoboth Beach, Delaware, and you know you're getting close when you 1) smell the heavenly combination of peanut oil, salt, and vinegar, and 2) you see the end of the line, which is decidedly farther away from the shop than the head of the line, but it's worth the wait.  Anticipation is part of the thrill when it comes to these fries.  The line moves quickly because not one of the hot, sweaty, spud-slinging individuals behind the counter ever stops moving.  Ever.  When you reach the head of the line, you shout out your order, and when your money has barely left your hands, a large cup (or bucket -- go, you!) of sizzling fries is handed to you.  If you're a seasoned veteran, you know to move the heck out of the way and down to the fixings bar, a term I use loosely because it includes only two items: shakers of salt and bottles of vinegar.  Anoint your fries, and then again, get the heck out of the way.  And please, in the name of all that is holy, do not EVER ask for ketchup.  If you do, you will witness for the first time in recorded history all those hot, sweaty, spud-slinging individuals (as well as everyone on the boardwalk within a block of you) come to a complete halt while they pause to glare at you as if you had just . . . well, ASKED FOR KETCHUP AT THRASHER'S!  It's simply not done!  Trust me, the combination of freshly fried, crispy, salty, vinegary potatoes eaten while walking on the boardwalk on an Atlantic beach summer day is what heaven's all about.  

     Now, here is where most would probably include dessert, and there was a time when I wouldn't have hesitated, but these days, my cravings run more toward salty/crispy/cheesy rather than sweet.  If I were strung up by my thumbs, I'd say, "All right, I'll have a big piece of wedding cake, the corner piece with the huge buttercream icing roses, guaranteed to put me in a sugar coma until Tuesday."  But frankly, I'd rather go out with the taste of those Thrasher's fries. 

     So that's my last meal.  How about yours?  Please be sure to include all those dishes you're probably avoiding now because they're too fatty, too salty, too naughty, or too whathaveyou.  In fact, the first time I read through my list, it struck me that none of those foods had touched my lips in years.  I quickly remedied that by including one of my favorites on our weekly "Naughty Night" menu after realizing what a complete pisser it would be to lie on my death bed thinking, "I wish I'd eaten more nachos.  I really loved nachos."  Don't let that happen to you!

     Epilogue:  The day after my last supper, I arrive at the pearly gates, and when they are opened to welcome me, the first thing I see is . . . no, it can't possibly be!  It's the bathroom scale I cussed at for years and finally threw in the trash decades ago!  Nooooooooooo!  But when I step hesitantly forward, I see that the sinister looking eyes are gone, and in their place, my scale is sporting a happy face emoji with hearts for eyes.  It speaks: "Don't be afraid.  Step on up!" So I do, with closed eyes and a trembling tummy.  And before I have the courage to look, the scale exclaims, "Congratulations, Marilyn, you've lost five pounds!"  (Cue the harps and the angel choir!)  Hallelujah, this IS heaven!

WALKING TO HOUSTON

     I've been an athlete my whole life, from Boys and Girls Club softball and after-school kickball to high school soccer, golf, tennis, biking, weight lifting, and finally, my true love -- running.  After participating in numerous 10K and 10-mile races, I set my sights on a marathon and eventually completed two.  

     However, not long after the second one, I hit a health bump in the road that forced me to lay off pretty much everything except sitting still.  I suffered both physically and psychologically, unable to go for my daily run.  It took several years for me to recover to the point that I could consider any kind of exercise again, and when I did, I was forced to accept the fact that running was not going to be a part of my immediate future.  That led to a period of depression that only ended when I finally gave myself a swift kick in the pantaloons and decided I had to do something, ANYTHING except sit still for another minute.  So I started walking.  I grumbled a good bit the first few times because I remembered passing walkers while I was out running and thinking to myself, "What a waste of time."  Not any more!

      Fast forward to 2016.  Before long, I began to look forward to my daily walk the way I used to crave my daily run.  In fact, I became such an avid walker that I decided to keep a journal of my times and distances just for fun.  To my amazement, here's what happened last year:  

      I walked 1,166 miles.  I could have walked from Scottsdale to Houston!

     If someone suggested that you go out and walk 1,166 miles, your response would probably be the same as mine: "Okay, you first." But it adds up faster than you can imagine.  I walk Monday through Friday,  an hour a day, though if I have an unexpected day off, I often go longer or walk in the morning and again in the afternoon.  As for speed, I'm certainly not scorching the pavement, but I move right along.  And look what can happen.

      Now, this might seem like a story about me, but it's intended to be a story about what can be. If you're struggling with a new year's resolution that isn't satisfying or if you sometimes wonder what the point of it all is, I'm here to tell you that every little bit helps, every walk counts, and those baby steps really do add up.  Keep a journal of your own and see where you end up by the end of 2017.  Walk on!