Well Done

Sent Saturday, Feb 28, 2009.

This is me.

Annie has several sisters, all of whom I love dearly.  However, one of them has a most grievous fault.  Huh?  No, no, much worse than that.  She likes her steak “well done”.  Whenever we happen to be out to a restaurant with her, she will usually order a steak “well done”.  Invariably when the steak arrives she will not be pleased with it.  Too dried out.  Doesn’t taste right, or something.  She will then eat small chunks of it soaked in whatever on her plate might contain some moisture.  The main portion remains uneaten.  At the end of the meal, the waitress will ask if she would like it boxed to take home.  She never does.  Now I know what you are thinking.  No, I don’t take it home for my dog, because I’m not sure she would want to eat it either.

Now I have always enjoyed cooking.  I can remember as a wee little one, dragging a kitchen chair up to the stove so I could fry my own eggs.  To this day I do most of the cooking in our house.  I had even considered going into the culinary arts in my younger days, but a problem raised it’s ugly head.  While I like to cook, it occurred to me that I like to cook what I like to cook when I like to cook it.  I was afraid that this attitude might not work out so well in the restaurant business. Besides, I really can’t stand the heat.

I have decided one thing.  If I had become a chef, and owned a restaurant, and someone ordered a steak “well done” I had the perfect plan in mind. Upon receiving the order, I would go to the cooler and select a steak. I would then go the table and enquire as to who had ordered a steak “well done”.  On being informed, I would show the selected steak to the offender and ask if it was suitable. On receiving an affirmative reply, I would then slap the customer with the steak, hand the miscreant a ten dollar bill and directions to the nearest Burger King.

Not going into the restaurant business may have worked out for the best.

The Great Watermelon Catastrophe

Sent: Tuesday, July 31, 2007

This is me. Having survived this night of “The Great Watermelon Catastrophe”, I am put to mind of a few watermelon stories from so many years ago, and being well fortified by a liberal serving of Cabernet Sauvignon, set my thoughts to print.

My earliest memories having to do with watermelon were made at the most wonderful Gilbertsville Sale. It was one of the absolute greatest places to be a kid. Full of hustle and bustle. Kind of a combination flea market, farmers market, grocery, hardware, clothing, shoe, livestock, and you name it sort of a store under a roof that must have covered 10 acres or more. Not related to the watermelons, but a beautiful memory nevertheless, has to do with the many pot belly stoves which tried and failed to heat the monstrous place in the winter. For a penny, a kid could buy a bundle of those wax tubes filled with a flavored liquid. My favorite was root beer. After drinking the root beer, and chewing the last of the flavor out of the wax, you could very casually walk past a pot belly stove and drop the ball of wax on the top of the blazing machine. Then run like the dickens, and hope the cloud of smoke would cover your escape. The grownups were not amused.

But back to the watermelon. Sometimes we had the glorious good fortune to be at the “Sale” when a truck load of watermelons was delivered. Lacking sophisticated material handling apparatus, the melons were moved from the truck to the storage area by manpower alone. Men would be stationed every 5 feet or so, and the melons would be thrown from man to man down the line until the job was complete. I once helped unload a truck load of pumpkins in this manner, and believe me, I can feel their pain. Whilst the chain gang was so occupied, there would be a collection of progeny all with one thing in common. Eyes wide and chins drooling at the sight of all those great green melons. Now somebody owned all those melons, and a profit has to be made and justly so. Waste not, want not. Even so, every now and so often, a roust-a-bout would let out with an exaggerated “OOPS”, and a watermelon would crash to the ground and break into countless pieces. And may God have mercy on the poor soul caught up in the mad stampede as the assembled host descended on the stricken watermelon. Annie asked if the busted melon didn’t get dirty when it broke asunder. I’m not sure we noticed, or cared. You got to eat a bushel of dirt before you die anyway.

Another watermelon which came to mind was set at a day camp of sorts sponsored by a church that we attended for a time. It was a one day affair with entire families in attendance. The kids were divided into 3 groups according to age. The youngest being from 8 to 11, the middle group being from 12 to 15, and the senior group being from 16 to 19 years of age, or something on that order. And we had Indian names for each team. Seneca’s, Mohawks, and Delaware’s I think. We all had a little paper badge with the Indian tribe name that was taped to our shirts. We were engaged in group contests such as finding the most 4 leaf clovers, finding the widest variety of tree leaves, and other such mundane tasks. The grand finale of the afternoon was a tug-of-war. Now the good folks who set up the days festivities may very well have been devout Christians, but they were total jackasses when it came to group activities. You guessed it. The tug-of-war pitted the 8 to 11 year olds, of which I was a member, against the 16 to 19 year olds. The prize for the members of the winning team was a big old juicy watermelon. The other 2 teams got nothing. The teams assembled on their respective ends of the rope. Muscles were drawn taunt in anticipation. Ready, Set, GO!!! My poor pathetic team of small fry was pulled through the grass and the mud quicker then you could say “Jack Robinson“. Why you might wish to say “Jack Robinson” is way beyond me, but to each his own, eh? Anyway, while walking dejectedly away from the tug-of-war pit, God or mother luck, or someone smiled on me, for there on the ground was a paper badge of the winning team. Scooping the prize off the ground, all the while expecting to get collared by the rightful owner, I made a mad dash to the watermelon bench. I stood first in line to claim my ill gotten slice of watermelon. I was in great fear that my trembling hands and shaking knees would reveal my crime. I nearly fled in horror as the man picked up a tremendous knife. In abject terror, I imagined that he would point the ghastly weapon at me and scream an accusation; “What are you doing here boy? You didn’t win no contest. God will see you damned to eternal Hell for your deceit. Off with you. NOW!!!” But he didn’t do that. Instead, he cut the melon in half. He then cut a 2 inch slice from one of the halves, and then cut that in half, and handed me a perfect half moon slice of deep red, juice dripping watermelon. Lest I be found out before I could devour my plunder, I ran and hid between a bush and the building. From my hideaway I savored the best slice of watermelon that I had ever feasted upon. To this day, no watermelon has ever come close to tasting as good as that one did. Peering trough the branches of my fortress, I noticed in satisfaction that the slices of melon given to those last in line were but little more than paper thin. Annie, ever innocent, asked in shocked amazement why I didn’t share it with the other unfortunate kids who got dragged through the mud. It just never occurred to me, I guess. I’ll have to remember to talk to God about that someday.

I have a question. Were watermelons bigger when I was a kid, or is it just my imagination? And another thing. What happened to the seeds? Half the fun of a big old piece of watermelon was sitting on the porch or the stone wall and spitting the seeds as far as possible. I miss that. And of course there are several ways of eating the watermelon. You can put a slice on a plate and use a spoon or fork, but that’s more for indoor eating I think. Some folks, mainly women, take a miniature ice cream scoop thing and make little……well, watermelon spheres, shall we say, not wishing to cause any silly smirks or giggles. Often these are thrown in a bowl with like shaped spheres of honeydew and cantaloupe, along with grapes and such. It tastes the same, but it strikes me as a bit of a pansy way to eat the stuff. Now if the melons are cut into irregular cubes, I have no problem. But the #1, best way to eat watermelon is to use the good old half moon slice. Just hold it in both hands and munch away. And don’t worry about your shirt. The juice washes out. Most of it anyway. You never learned the proper way to eat a slice of watermelon if you never got your ears sticky.

Well, that’s about all I know about watermelons. I want to thank you for…….I’m sorry. What was that? Oh, yeah. The question was: “What was ‘The Great Watermelon Catastrophe’ anyway?” You’ll have to ask Annie. I promised that I wouldn’t tell.

Spaghetti

Sent: Tuesday, June 15, 2004

While Sumaya (my wife) and I were still dating, Sumaya had prepared a spaghetti dinner in anticipation of my parents’ arrival for a weekend visit (along with Clint).

Growing up, Mom made spaghetti all of the time. It was either her favorite meal, or the thing she found the easiest to cook, I’m not sure which. Somehow, I never noticed that Dad never ate the spaghetti and cooked his own meals on spaghetti nights. I suppose even if I noticed, it just never clicked. Perhaps it is because my family never “sat down for dinner” per say. We didn’t eat standing up, but more often than not, Mom, Clint and myself would eat in the living room while watching tv and Dad would eat in the kitchen reading his Newsweek. Regardless, I never made the connection. Needless to say, when Sumaya asked me if my parents liked spaghetti, I thought back to all the times we had spaghetti. I remember them because I really didn’t like it that much and thought we had it far too often. So I assured her that they did indeed like spaghetti. Not only that, I had tasted Sumaya’s spaghetti with it’s delicious homemade meat sauce and I loved it, so my parents were sure to go bananas over it.

When it came time for dinner, we were all out and about and I offered that we could go back to our place and have spaghetti. Dad, not realizing that this meant the spaghetti was already prepared, spoke up and said he did not care for spaghetti and was fine with going to a restaurant. Sumaya gave me a look that was a combination of, “YOU said they liked spaghetti!” and “Aw… but I made all that spaghetti.” I probably just returned some sort of blank dumbfounded gaze and pointed the car to the nearest restaurant.

Clint, having been apprised of the spaghetti meal before hand, some time later told Mom what had happened. He probably thought of it because she was cooking spaghetti. Mom then told Dad what happened. The rest is as follows:

This is me. This is a letter that I sent to our dear Sumaya. She has graciously allowed me to send it out on the family email.

My Dear Sumaya,
I have just learned that you had prepared a feast of spaghetti for our visit last October. Had I known, you would have seen me seem to enjoy the fruits of your labor. I have not eaten spaghetti since 1973, or there abouts. No, no, you’re wrong. It isn’t because I’m a Methodist. Not at all. It all began in that warm wonderful summer. Whilst I never was fond of spaghetti, I would partake when that was what was served, and was none the worse for it. However, that all changed, and was never to be as it was ever again.

Annie’s step sister, Annie Rudock, a young lady of 15 years or so, had prepared the dinner for the family that most tragic of days. A large family with a large appetite. As you may well have guessed by now she fixed spaghetti. Now I claim no talent as to the preparation of the dish, but I am so told that several things were done improperly. She did not drain the grease from the hamburger before adding it to the dread mixture. And for some reason not known to me, the spaghetti noodles clumped together in a gooey mass. Now Annie’s family was not one to mince words, and poor Annie Rudock was soon let to know what a turmoil she had loosed on those assembled. The day being most cordial, we ate on the front porch. Annie’s Dad, Charlie, upon forking up a rather large clump of the offensive noodle said, and I quote, “What the hell is this?” He then drew back his strong right arm and as though throwing a tomahawk or some such thing, let fly the awful mess. The unfortunate sugar maple tree in the front yard bore the brunt of his wrath. The clump of spaghetti noodles stuck to this grand old denizen of the northland. The noodles being impervious to the elements, were in evidence all the summer long, and gave up the fight only in the dead of winter.

Now as you might imagine, Annie Rudock was in tears and quite beside herself by this time. Now even in my young years of 22 or so, I had already ruined myself by excessive kindness and generosity to the gentle sex. I was thus compelled to say words to this effect, “Oh, now Annie, it isn’t all that bad. It’s really quite good. I’ll have seconds if there is any left over.” Wiping tears from her eyes and with her face full of wonder, she said “Really?” Shortly after downing the second bowl full with apparent gusto, I said to my Annie, “We have to be going now.” She said, “but we just got here.” I said, “Now.”

About a mile or so distant from the farm and the staunch old sugar maple, I suggested that we pull off the road. Unlike the old maple, I quickly shed my punishment. I tried a year or so later to eat the dire stuff again, but rather cleverly claimed an unusual allergy to pasta, if eaten in more than the smallest amount. But for you I would have waded through a proper kettle of the substance. Sorry I messed up your lovely dinner. I would not have knowingly done that for the world.

Love you much and always,
Carl

Sumaya has of course forgiven Dad. Me, on the other hand, she reminds that I didn’t even know my dad doesn’t like spaghetti, how can I be sure of (insert any family related subject here). Whatever. I’m sure it was Newsweek that he used to read, even if I don’t know what it was he was eating.