Eat Like A Seal

Another classic from 2 years ago, and this week featured some of my best videos, the DanceWalk aside.

Day 1

Linda and I try to teach 7-year-old Daniel good manners but it's possible we may be sending mixed signals.

For example, last night at dinner, at the exact moment Linda was gently reminding him, "Elbows off the table, honey," I was flipping a handful of buttered baked potato bits two feet into the air and catching it in my mouth.

A minute later, Linda was trying to make me laugh by arf-arffing like a seal and clapping her hands in front of her, while I was tossing a morsel of pork chop skyward, then almost falling from my chair trying to catch it.

I'm eating like a seal this week--meaning all of my food has to be tossed into my mouth--so it may not be the best week for me to teach Daniel about polite behavior.

Especially when I'm wearing my food on my face.

I got the idea the other day when I casually flipped a cookie bit to myself and remembered how gifted I used to be at catching food.

In college, my friends and I would toss Jell-O cubes across the table to each other after dinner in the cafeteria. (When you go to a college in a cornfield you find new ways to entertain yourself.)

We were so good, we started flipping them across two tables, then three tables--a good 18 to 20 feet. One friend was ridiculously skilled; he'd sit 35 to 40 feet away and catch almost every Jell-O cube thrown in his direction.

He was so far away, it was hard to throw the cubes that distance without having them dissolve.

I wasn't as seal-like, but I got good enough to impress the ladies. If the ladies were impressed by a Jell-O-catching, mullet-haired, Journey fan.

However, as I discovered at breakfast yesterday, I haven't worked at my craft since Cyndi Lauper and the girls just wanted to have fun. The diced orange was hitting the floor like hail.

Then, as if a switch flipped, I got into a rhythm. After needing 14 tries to catch just five orange slices, I caught eight in a row.

The trick is to let the food roll off your fingers so that when it's released, it arcs in a gentle parabola back toward your face.

I may not be an expert on manners, but I'm the Stephen Hawking of flipping food.

Daniel tossed a few orange wedges to me, but didn't like it much, or to quote him, "This is boring and disgusting." This from a boy who'll play in mud for two hours in the summer.

I coaxed 17-year-old Caitlin into lobbing some of my lunch to me: a ketchup-covered bacon cheeseburger and fries. (Hey, I can't let my seal-ness interfere with my regular diet.)

I needed to squeeze the burger tightly before tossing it, otherwise it splintered in the air like a broken bat.

Ketchup ended up on the floor, on my shirt, and of course on my face, leaving me with so many red splotches it looked as if I'd shaved blindfolded.

I poked myself in the eye twice with the fries, before I finally cut them in half for better flip-ability. I finished with a soft chocolate chip cookie broken into pieces and sent airborne by Caitlin.

We were standing three feet apart, then four feet, and finally 10 feet and still connecting. She was as determined as I was, altering her technique for better results. "I need to step into it," she said, bending her knees and swinging her arm like a bowler.

She was impressed: "This is only your first day? Why are you so good?"

Still, she grasped the reality of what it means to be talented at catching food like a seal, saying with a laugh, "What a wasted skill."

A skill nonetheless, as I proved when I caught peas and mushy baked potato bits for dinner. Linda forgot I was a seal this week and made a meal most seals would have turned up their noses at.

I forged on, however, but it wasn't easy. "You have potato in your hair," Linda pointed out. And Daniel said, "Can I sit somewhere else? I don't want to be hit in the eyeball with food."

Been there, Daniel. After dinner, the floor was littered with misfired olives, pork chop pieces, and baked potato bits, turning it into what Daniel called an "obstacle course."

I definitely need to stick to toss-friendly food. Otherwise, as Linda said to Daniel while I flipped my sauteed onions, "I think this is the last dinner we eat this week with Daddy."

Day 2

I may set a personal weekly record for the number of times I cause my wife to say, "You're kidding me, right?"

After Linda twice said it Monday while watching me launch my food, she said it again today as I cut my peanut butter and jelly sandwich into bite-size missiles.

"This is what I have to do," I explained. I can't flip half of a sandwich. I mean, that'd be such a strange way to eat.

I caught the sandwich bits with ease, though the jelly sometimes stuck to my fingers. That's what my Dirty Shirty is for.

I wiped my fingers on the orange shirt I wear every time I eat this week. I'm not going to wash it, so I hope by Sunday I'll have stained remnants of all my meals. One can only dream.

Anyway, the hard part of lunch was the potato chips. I'd bought Lay's Classic, the thin, wispy kind that simply don't follow the laws of gravity.

I'd throw them in the air, and they'd float sideways, they'd drift backwards, they'd tumble end-over-end. They were as unpredictable as jazz.

I'd missed several attempts with one particular chip before Linda started counting my drops. She got to 25 before I finally caught the thing.

That chip fluttered better than a butterfly, and I was a little lightheaded after flipping my head back and forth more than AC/DC's Angus Young on guitar.

I was back in the groove for an easy dinner of bowtie pasta, meatballs, and garlic bread, though the crowd had its doubts. "Mommy, get ready for the food rain," said Daniel.

The meatballs and bread weren't even a challenge, and the only wrinkles with the pasta were the sauce, which would stick to my fingers.

That's where my Dirty Shirty helped; I wiped my fingers on the shirt, and it also absorbed the flying flecks of parmesan cheese when I'd lob the pasta.

Linda pretends not to even watch now, but I know what she's thinking: "You're kidding me, right?"

Day 3

Wednesday night's dinner was bound to happen sometime this week. Two words sum it up, which Daniel yelled to start the festivities: "Food fight!"

When your 7-year-old channels John Belushi from Animal House should you be proud or worried?

It was actually a tame dinner until the end, with me flipping cut-up chicken and potato pieces skyward and into my mouth.

I had nothing left on my plate except two russet potato morsels Linda wanted me to try because they're high in antioxidants. They tasted like it.

So I told Daniel I'd toss them over his head to eat them. I flipped one, and as he lost sight of it, I hid it up my sleeve, but pretended to chew it so Daniel would think I was doing as I was told.

Linda was horrified that I wasn't going to eat something healthy. Imagine that.

"I'm going to rat you out," Linda mouthed, before turning to Daniel. "Daniel..."

I jumped in. "Watch, Daniel, I'll do it again."

"Watch the whole time," Linda emphasized to him. This time I flipped it, caught it, and ate it.

But I still had my hidden first one remaining. I got ready to suffer and eat the antioxidant-flavored potato when Daniel, dejected that no food had landed on his head as it sailed over him, said, "Throw it at me."

He smiled. His face looked so innocent, so happy ... so I did. The potato wedge hit him gently on his cheek.

I rebounded the potato off the table and threw it again, but this time he lowered his head and it bounced off his noggin. Another rebound, another shot, but this time he stood up and dodged my toss, and the wedge hit the wall behind him.

That's when he pulled a Belushi and the fight was on. I cleared the drinks so I wouldn't have an even bigger mess to clean up, Linda ran from the room, and Daniel and I took up our positions.

I stood facing the windows, underhanding chicken skins and tiny chicken bits at him as he tucked his little body under the table.

He returned fire by quickly standing, throwing red peppers, chicken, and potatoes before ducking hurriedly back under the table.

The battle raged a good three minutes, with several of his shots landing on my chest, adding to the array of stains on my Dirty Shirty.

It ended when Daniel launched the last decent-sized morsel into soapy kitchen sink water.

Afterwards, I was never so happy to clean the kitchen floor. And counters and walls and windows and cabinets. "That was awesome!" said Daniel. "Can we do it again?"

There are still four days left in the week--I'd count on it.




Day 4

For the first time all week I actually ate something a real seal might eat. The SeaWorld website lists a harbor seal's diet as squid, crustaceans, molluscs and a variety of fish, including flounder and salmon.

I had tunafish for lunch, so I'm feeling more sympatico with my aquatic mammal brethren, though seals don't mix in olives, mayo, potato chips, and Coke.

I've also learned to move fluidly like a seal as I make a catch. It's all in the head-and-shoulder shake, like break-dancing from the waist up.

You see, there's more to snagging food in your mouth then simply flipping the food and awaiting its arrival. Sometimes the throw goes to one side or the other, or carries a little long, so a good seal needs to react and respond.

Especially when the clump of food breaks apart in mid-flight, which is what the tunafish did, and you have to decide which clump to catch. (Now I see why Daniel moves away from me at the table when we eat.)

It probably doesn't help that when I flip my food, I typically aim for substantial hang-time. It's no fun merely shooting food into my mouth from a short distance like it's popcorn when I can skyrocket it like an NFL punter's kicks.

Hang-time and graceful adjustments to the throw separate the truly great seals from the merely average ones.

Speaking of football, our friend Gray dropped by and decided she wanted to snap a pretzel to me as if she were hiking a football in shotgun formation.

From a distance of about six feet, I caught the third one. That's not bad for a rookie long-snapper and a hands-free quarterback, especially compared to another recruit I brought in to hike the pretzels.

She'll remain nameless, but her line-drive throws shattered numerous pretzel bites against our kitchen wall before she eased up and I finally caught one without chipping any teeth.

Days 5 & 6

I love hoagies, but I'd never made one until Friday. And even that was by accident, as in, I threw a hoagie bite into the air, didn't catch it, and had to piece together the scattered remnants.

Who knew there were more pieces than a jigsaw puzzle?

I was horrified to find the secret ingredients in a hoagie--vegetables!!! Lettuce, tomatoes, onions, some green thing, another green thing.

I don't look closely at the food I eat, but I thought hoagies contained layers of meat on top of meat, with a gentle sprinkling of meat. And pickles, an acceptable green thing.

Fortunately, I caught most of my lunchtime hoagie launches so I didn't have to dwell on the healthy stuff I was eating. I was happily sidetracked by knowing my misses--and my finger-cleansing wipes--were further ruining the Dirty Shirty.

My hoagie lunch forced me to confront a cold reality, though: Flipping my meals is ruining my food mojo.

As unhealthy as it may be, I like eating junk food. Potato chips, pizza, hoagies, more potato chips, nachos, cheese dip, more chips. Mmmm ... chips ... I'm drooling thinking about them.

My theory: If my food doesn't contain preservatives, how will I be preserved until a ripe old age?

But as the week has progressed, my junk food intake has decreased to normal human levels because I'm less patient than a 3 year 0ld.

It typically takes me at least six tries to catch each potato chip--and it's hard to enjoy a chip after 10 or more flips--so I've started eating bananas and apples because they're easier to catch.

What's wrong with me?

I even ruined the fun of Friday night pizza. It's no fun to cut pizza into tiny morsels like I'm a 2 year old so I can toss it more easily. I miss the fun of a biting into a slice and having the cheese stretch like an Arizona highway.

However, I enjoyed a guilty pleasure during my pizza pity party. Because my meals are longer than Crime and Punishment, my family left the table before I'd even started my second slice.

For the record, I missed just 5 of 23 tosses--but two of my throws hit the ceiling.

Impatient, and tired of cleaning up after myself all week, I looked up at the tomato splotches and bargained with them. We agreed that I wouldn't clean them if they didn't tell on me.

So far, so good. I know I've eaten too many vegetables when tomato sauce starts making sense.

Day 7

I capped off my week by rallying the neighborhood kids to our backyard to watch the trained seal perform.

We'd have a long toss, like in the old college days, except I substituted marshmallows for Jell-O since I can’t cook—you cook Jell-O right?

I opened three bags of the fluffy white goodies, and handed a few to each of the 11 kids standing in my backyard trying to figure out exactly what Mr. Roach was up to now.

I wanted to see how long of a toss I could catch in my mouth. I lined up the kids on my back patio, marched six feet away, and kicked off the Hungry Games!

To start, I snagged a six-footer from 9-year-old Emma with ease, backed up a few steps and continued down the line, moving backward with each catch.

I went through the group three times before I realized I was out of room.

I was standing next to my back fence more than 20 feet away from the kids, who were now winding up and throwing the marshmallows as far as they could.

We switched directions to gain a few more feet since my yard is wider than it is long. I ended up more than 25 feet away from 11-year-old Calvin, who completed the last throw before we tried a new plan.

And that’s when organized chaos broke out.

I had them all throw their marshmallows to me at once—I only caught one. Some of the kids began tossing the marshmallows to themselves.

And I noticed the kids had been helping themselves to the bags, though not always throwing all the marshmallows they took, as 9-year-old Eli made abundantly clear.

“Mr. Roach,” said Eli, holding up a marshmallow and smiling, “look, I’m all out of marshmallows.”

At which point, he quickly popped the goodie in his mouth. “See? I need another one,” and he walked over to get/eat more. Crazy kids.

Since we were out of backyard space, I suggested the kids walk to the front of our Cape Cod house and try to throw them over the roof and I’d catch them on the back porch.

The eight boys raced around to the front as if the ice cream man was giving away Chipwiches.

Emma and Abby decided that was the perfect time to decorate a tree by sticking several marshmallows on the bare branches. “That’s the difference between boys and girls,” my 17-year-old daughter Caitlin accurately observed.

I didn’t actually think the kids would be strong enough to clear the house with their throws.

But I was proven wrong when, an instant after I heard them count down “3, 2, 1,” a marshmallow drifted from the sky toward me.

I was so surprised that I missed a gimme. What can I say: It’s not often you see a marshmallow fly over your roof.

Several more throws managed to clear the house, and though I got close to catching them, the first toss was my best shot.

I did knock a few kids out of the way trying, though, which is a good lesson for kids to learn: Never stand near a man trying to catch marshmallows thrown over his house.

That little life lesson should certainly be useful over the years.

All in all, my week of eating like a seal paid off during the Hungry Games. I caught a 25-foot throw, completed tosses from 8 of the 11 kids, and even almost snagged one launched over my house.

On the downside, I also ate more marshmallows than the 11 kids combined. I’m sure that’s how real seals get their blubber, too.