The Postseason.

Ah, Autumn. You're such a baseball purist. Ever since the Royals started their postseason run, Mother Nature has made sure the wily winds bring in a cold chill. When they played the Astros in Game 1 of the ALDS it was a cool 63 degrees - then there was a downpour, a rain delay, and a cold wind running wild through the stadium. I convinced myself (against my better judgement) that I could stick it out, that the happy little rally towel the delightful staff by the front gate had given us was a magical heating device that could keep my body warmth trapped underneath it on my lap. I would say I've never been so cold in my life, except the next day it was all of 61 degrees but without the rain. I remember walking up to the gate for the second time and seeing so many brilliant, brilliant drunk people wrapped in fleece blankets. There are moments in life when your entire world changes. Realizing I could bring a blanket in to a baseball game just happens to be one of them.


While the Royals were in Houston, us Kansas Citians (yup, that's from the dictionary) enjoyed near-summer temperatures of 80 to 85 degrees. I'd like to take a moment to make a public service announcement: don't believe anyone who is from Kansas City when they tell you that their summers are just as hot as Texas. They have no freaking idea what they're talking about. I believe the high for this summer was a scorching 96 degrees, and golly, that's hot enough to change from a shirt into a tank top, folks. Meanwhile, in Texas, they're cooking all sorts of foods that should never be cooked on a sidewalk, on a sidewalk. But I digress.

So we enjoyed wonderful warm weather while the winning Royals were whipping up a wow-some worth of walks and wins. And I kid you not, the very next game back in town, it was 57 degrees at the game. The Royals clinched that Wednesday night, and I remember the distinct satisfaction of completing the first round of a three-tiered playoff succession. I went to bed thinking about how the first game of the ALCS couldn't be until Monday at the earliest. I walked into work to find out that they were playing in one day's time on Friday night. How could they treat the players this way? On one day's rest? Were they crazy? But there I was, at the game on Friday, screaming my lungs out each time the Royals scored. Jumping up and down when they carved out a win. Well, jumping after I moved the fleece blanket that had been keeping me deliciously warm in the 41 degree weather off my lap. Out of the mouths of drunks, I tell you.

Saturday afternoon was the last home game we'll see for a while. I snuck out early to pick up a sporting trade secret from the local store. Were you ever forced to play sports as a child? Only to grow up a little and really love playing it? Then grow up some more and realize your perceived talent outweighs your actual talent? For me, it was soccer. Those crisp winter games we had to drive to what felt like San Antonio to get to (I imagine it was more like picking the exact opposite side of the metroplex and having to drive forty miles to get to the tournament), then play our tiny hearts out but place just out of contention. Those memories are equal parts muscle fatigue, orange slices, and awesome fun. But one thing that stands out was the feeling of having warm pockets. H didn't know what I was talking about (even though he claims to have been a soccer ref as a youngster), but I managed to find them - hand warmers. You open up the package, give the bean bag a few shakes, and you've got blazing heat for four hours and then some. I opened one for Saturday's game and couldn't have been happier. It was supposedly 58 degrees, but felt more like a solid 50 with the wind. You would think being packed into ballpark seats with little personal space between you and the person beside you in every direction would create a bubble where the wind can't find you, but you would be wrong.

And so, I have evolved to keep myself warm during games. If you clap your hands every chance you get, you will have sore, warm hands. If you cheer at the top of your lungs when good things happen, you will have no voice, but your body will feel warm. And, if all else fails, flag down the college kid wearing a brown shirt that says HOT COCOA.

Every year I've known H, we've been to one baseball game a year, maybe two. When this season started, I went to five within two months. In the past week and a half, I've been to another five. H's been to every home game this year (a whopping 81), so I can honestly say we have been to more games this year than we have ever gone to in both our lives combined. That's going in our personal Guinness Book of World Records, right next to Most Time Spent in Tucson.

Okay, one last thing about baseball. The Royals have a man named Mike Moustakas that plays third base for them. Every time he comes up to bat, everyone yells, "Moooooooooooooooooooooooose!" in the lowest register their voice can achieve.


The man narrating this video is an actual, flesh and blood, Moose fan. He is at every game in the same gear, with his one special prop, and he might be my favorite eccentric Royals fan. He knows how big the antlers are, so he takes them down right before the pitch so people can see past him. How nice is that?

And now it's time for Silly Recipes with Chuck. The part of the show where Chuck comes out and shares ... a silly recipe. 

Today, I will be sharing a recipe for queso. If you were to search for, say, best queso, and go about ... oh, let's say three results down on your page, you may or may not run into a friendly-looking recipe for some queso. Like me, you may be drawn into the bright and shiny pictures of a lump-free orange gob of nacho drool. But be forewarned, all is not what it seems. I tried this recipe, and as any good recipe attempter I stuck with the original and didn't alter it in hopes of achieving that golden goodness. Let's take a look at the ingredients.

Do you like eating jalapenos? Why yes, I quite like jalapenos cut up nice and tiny in my queso.
Do you like eating onions? Uh, sure! I guess I could eat some onions if we're cooking them a bit.
Do you like eating garlic? I mean, I prefer it in Italian dishes, but I bet they'd work in a queso too, right?
Do you like eating chipotle peppers in adobo sauce? Well, no, not particularly. I think instead of eating spicy peppers in a suffocatingly thick sauce I'm going to use a cheese that has chipotle peppers in it.
Do you like drinking half 'n half? Wow. No. That seems really thick. And there's already going to be a lot of rich fat in this, considering all the cheese. I'm just going to use this milk.
What about evaporated milk? Uh ... no thank you. Why would you put this in a queso?
How about some cornstarch? You know what, yes. I dream about a freshly opened box of cornstarch, of just grabbing some and shoving it in my mouth ... wait, no, that sounds disgusting. What are you trying to peddle here?
Don't you like mustard? Are you even talking about queso anymore? Mustard does not go in queso. It just doesn't.

Okay, so I didn't really follow the recipe, but I did end up falling into the false sense of security that cornstarch would thicken the sauce. Which it did, but it left everything tasting like cornstarch, and you could tell there was something grainy in the cheese. All in all, if you're going to make queso, don't get it from a website that describes it as "queso cheese sauce", because the person who wrote it is from Wisconsin.