I thought about writing a book about the small town I grew up in, but decided against it. I, quite simply, have no desire to do the legwork required to get a book published and it would be a cruel punishment indeed to put some poor editor through the grammatical and punctuation hell that I am sure that anything I write would put him/her through.
So I have decided to add my "Tales from the Valley" to this blog. These short stories will be written to the best of my memory, however faulty it may be. I assure you that absolutely no research will go into these tales and I will make no effort to vouch for it's accuracy.......Enjoy.
My grandparents have been gone for a good many years now, but I still think about them often; especially during the holidays. Being Thanksgiving, I'm thinking about my grandma; and I'm thinking about all that wonderful food that she used to cook.
Thanksgiving, as defined by George Washington (thanks wikipedia) is: "a day of public thanksgiving and prayer to be observed by acknowledging with grateful hearts the many and signal favours of Almighty God."
Gluttony, as defined by Merriam-Webster's online dictionary, is: "The act or habit of eating or drinking too much.
So I've always found it odd that we give Thanks while simultaneously, and unabashedly, reveling in one of the seven deadly sins.....Oh well, pass me the mashed potatoes.
Walt and Dorothy lived on a corner lot, on a quiet street, in a very quiet little town. One could sit on a rocking chair out on the front porch of their modest two story home and rock quietly, feeling the gentle summer breeze upon your face and hearing or seeing very little of anything in the way of traffic, people, or animals. If you ever needed a quiet place to think or to read a book, Walt and Dorothy's front porch would be the place to go.
But there were those few occasions when Walt and Dorothy's house would come alive with activity. On Thanksgiving day, Grandma and Granddad's five children would come to the house, bringing with them their spouses and children, to partake in a grand feast.
Oh, my mouth waters just thinking about it. I can still see Grandma working her magic in the kitchen as I stepped through the door of a house already packed with family.
In regards to beefy midwestern fare there was, in my opinion, no finer cook than Grandma. Of course that could be perhaps due to the fact that I did not eat it all the time. Having a Filipino mother, I grew up on a steady diet of rice, vegetables, and a variety of odd meats. Well, odd to anyone else who lived in town. But to me pig's feet, tripe, cow tongue, whole dried fish (little fish, about as long as your pinky, head attached), chicken heart, squid (really stinks up the house) and spam were all just a part of the normal routine.
Well, unless you took after Dad. There were a lot of times I remember dad skipping out on a meal and eating bologna sandwiches or boiling up hot dogs. I wish I could have done that every time mom boiled okra......Blech. But, aside from the okra, I was quite happy with my meals.
So it wasn't often that I got to eat Grandma's cooking.....But, man, when I did there was no holding back. There were a few times when Mom went back home to the Philippines to visit family and my brothers and I would spend time at the grandparents'. In those few short weeks, my brothers and I would vacuum down everything grandma had to offer; her beef and noodles, made from scratch, were my absolute favorite.
But it wasn't just Grandma who filled our bellies. I remember Granddad used to wake us all up, turn the tv on, and let us watch Underdog and Mighty Mouse cartoons while he made breakfast. Pancakes, sausage, eggs, toast, orange juice, milk -- the little Filipino boys waddled to school every morning while mom was away. We simply weren't accustomed to eating food that was so heavy.
It was during these breakfasts that I saw Granddad do a couple of things for the first time that I found rather odd. It was only when I got older that I understood these strange habits of his.
The first thing he did was take a piece of bread and swab all of the grease out of the pan and wolf it down. I thought it was gross, but years later I would learn about Granddad growing up during the Great Depression, about not wasting anything that could be used or consumed.
The second thing he did that I found odd was he would brew a hot pot of coffee, pour a cup, and then throw an ice cube in it. What was the point in that?
Well, I found out years later that Granddad was in World War II. He served in the Pacific theatre of operations and while there never got to enjoy a hot cup of joe. By the time the war was over he had acquired a taste for cold coffee, a habit that he never really gave up.
Fond memories. It's crazy, every time I think about that house I think of food. Food leads to Thanksgiving, and when I think of Thanksgiving I can almost smell it, nearly taste it, almost feel the warmth of the house from all the heat created by the stove in that little kitchen.
And what an awesome spread it was. Of course there was the turkey, but Grandma always cooked a giant ham, too, for those people like me who are not big turkey eaters. Then there was all the side dishes. Mashed potatoes that Grandma went through the trouble of peeling, mashing, whipping, filling with all that wonderful butter and salt......Hold on, I need to get a glass of milk.
Okay, I'm back. Then there was the corn, green beans, deviled eggs that tasted so good but made you smell so bad for the next week. There was the stuffing and gravy and lots and lots of dinner rolls.
The only thing that Grandma made that I couldn't stomach were beets. I have no idea how Grandma made those nasty purple bastards and I don't want to know. To me, beets are proof that people in the days of yore were starving and couldn't be picky. I'm almost willing to bet some Native American with a warped sense of humor dug up a basket of these nasty boogers and then laughed as he told his friends, "Let's see if we can get these pilgrims to eat this crap."
Until I brought Karla to her first Thanksgiving on my side of the family, I had no idea that we were a bunch of barbarians. :)
Karla is organized in everything she does; there is a place and a purpose for everything, and eating is no exception.
When Karla brought her plate to the table and sat down, she did a quick glance around the room and was slightly flabbergasted at what she saw.
You see, Karla's food was neatly separated in clear, well defined borders, Her turkey was neatly stacked in a small corner of her plate, same with her corn and green beans, and dinner roll. At the center of her mashed potatoes was a well dug out crater for her small lake of gravy. The gravy did not come near the edge of her crater; Heaven's no...... for it would be an atrocious and unforgivable dining foul should the gravy over flow and touch another food.....I mean, my goodness.
I don't know if my uncle said anything to her, but I could see the look on his face and could only guess what he was thinking......"Well, ain't that cute."
I did my plate up the way I had always known to do it. First you lay your ham down in the center of the plate, throw the mashed potatoes and a pad of butter on top of it. You then pile on the corn, green beans, and stuffing and top it all off with a big ladle full of gravy. There you have it, a well layered masterpiece!!!!
My Uncle Dio (Dale, I have no idea where the nickname Dio came from) went a step further and placed his dessert on top of his Thanksgiving mountain and then proceeded to stir it all together. His logic was that it was all going to the same place anyway....He was a true eating master. (I think it still gives Karla nightmares)
Karla, to this day, still shakes her head whenever she talks about my family's dining habits. She may never get over it, but she has accepted it. Which is good, because this barbarian isn't about to change.
"Conan, what is best in life?"
"To crush you enemy, see them flee before you, and to hear the lamentation of the women."
RRAAAHHRR!!!!
"Oh, and to pile my food together, high upon my plate."
RRAAAHHRRR!!!!
It almost never fails with me. I eat way too much and completely forget about dessert.
"Shit, I can't"......I feel like a blood filled tick and I'm almost certain that if anyone were to poke my belly I would explode.
But then the desserts come out....Pumpkin pie, cherry cheesecake.....Oh.....my......goodness.
I groan as I rise out of my chair, "Okay, just one piece of each pie and I'm done...I swear."
After dinner, I honestly don't know what happens because by that point I am well into my mashed potato coma. I struggle to watch the football game on the television through half closed eyes.
I really miss watching Barry Sanders play on Thanksgiving day although, now that I think of it, I really don't know why. The man was amazing, the human pinball dodging, bobbing, weaving, shaking, baking, and breaking ankles. But for every highlight film play he made, I simply didn't have the energy to cheer. All I could manage was, "Uh, Barry." ZZZZZ.
That was several years ago; an eternity, it seems......and Thanksgiving just hasn't been the same without Grandma and Granddad. In fact, the family doesn't even get together since they have both passed. But that's the way of things, it's normal, nothing to be sad about.
It's just like every family in life; Grandma and Granddad's kids now have kids and grandkids of their own, they have their own big family get togethers. They are the grandparents now and it's their houses that someday will be talked about when their little grandkids get older.
I just hope that their memories of their grandparents are as fond as my memories are of mine.
Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.......Peace, and God Bless.....
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