Meat and potatoes. Potatoes and meat. Except for breakfast: pancakes and meat. Meat and pancakes. For 18 years. Well, not quite 18 years; I was probably eating some kind of revolting mushy stuff the first couple years. The high school cafeteria had a slightly more varied menu, but nothing memorable.
Mom was a decent cook but lacked the time and energy to be creative. Feeding a family of 10 plus related household chores was burden enough. Even if she had the time and energy, culinary creativity wasn't in the cards. Dad liked meat and potatoes. Fried. Always fried. The more grease, the better.
It was early September, 1962, when I headed off to college. Shortly thereafter I had My First Piece! Pizza! OMG! Thought I'd died and gone to heaven. Burned the roof of my mouth. Didn't care. Couldn't wait to bite into that glorious stuff.
Pizza was coming on strong in the Midwest back then, probably a couple years behind the coastal cities. Pizza restaurants popping up all over, grocery shelves stocked with DIY pizza kits. Remember Chef Boyardee? Pathetic excuse for pizza! If you were blindfolded and someone gave you a taste of CB pizza, could you tell what it was supposed to be? Maybe.
By the way, the Chef lives on, is still available at your finer (?) grocery stores. Another once-popular item is also still available: Spam. Pull out all the stops some evening, take a culinary trip down memory lane: chop up some Spam, spread it on your CB pizza, fire up your lava lamp, play your Henry Mancini album.
Tuesday, May 30, 2017
Saturday, May 20, 2017
Are You Cracked?
I haven't heard anyone ask that question for 60 years. My dad was the asker, never heard anyone else ask the question. Ever the subtle, understated and soft-spoken guy (not), it was his method of informing you that whatever you were doing, or intended to do, was asinine.
An informal definition of the word 'cracked', is nuts, crazy, insane, deranged.
No family member ever responded to the question. Certainly not me. What were you gonna say? "Damned right!" "No, are you?" Uh uh! Talking back to The Man was not in one's best interests if you get my drift. There came a time though, that I could have responded with a simple and truthful, "Yup!"
I'd just turned 11 and had received a cap gun, holster and western motif shirt for my birthday. The shirt had my name on it. Damn, I was cool! I just had to show off my outfit to one and all. One and all included a couple of guys who'd bought some grain and were shoveling it into a trailer in our granary the day after my birthday. I donned my gear, moseyed on over to the granary, climbed into the back of the trailer and proceeded to strut my stuff.
The strutting came to an abrupt halt when I lost my balance, fell backwards off the trailer and landed on my head on the concrete floor. I was in and out of consciousness, barfing my guts out. It appeared unlikely the young gunslinger would be up for his duel with Black Bart on main street at high noon the next day.
Dad hauled me off to hospital where they did x-rays. Diagnosis: fractured skull, big crack right up the middle in back. The doc, wondering if indeed I was cracked the other way, asked me my name.
I was still wearing that shirt with my name on it. I pointed to the shirt and replied, "My name is Mike! Can't you read?" Doc figured I would be okay, then - aside from being a smart ass little shit, a condition he probably diagnosed as being incurable (and he was right).
Doc gave me an ultimatum, "You have to spend the next 6 weeks flat on your back while your head heals up. If you can't do that, we'll have to bolt your head down." I quickly chose the no-bolt option.
Finally, I had a response to the question, "Are you cracked?"
An informal definition of the word 'cracked', is nuts, crazy, insane, deranged.
No family member ever responded to the question. Certainly not me. What were you gonna say? "Damned right!" "No, are you?" Uh uh! Talking back to The Man was not in one's best interests if you get my drift. There came a time though, that I could have responded with a simple and truthful, "Yup!"
I'd just turned 11 and had received a cap gun, holster and western motif shirt for my birthday. The shirt had my name on it. Damn, I was cool! I just had to show off my outfit to one and all. One and all included a couple of guys who'd bought some grain and were shoveling it into a trailer in our granary the day after my birthday. I donned my gear, moseyed on over to the granary, climbed into the back of the trailer and proceeded to strut my stuff.
The strutting came to an abrupt halt when I lost my balance, fell backwards off the trailer and landed on my head on the concrete floor. I was in and out of consciousness, barfing my guts out. It appeared unlikely the young gunslinger would be up for his duel with Black Bart on main street at high noon the next day.
Dad hauled me off to hospital where they did x-rays. Diagnosis: fractured skull, big crack right up the middle in back. The doc, wondering if indeed I was cracked the other way, asked me my name.
I was still wearing that shirt with my name on it. I pointed to the shirt and replied, "My name is Mike! Can't you read?" Doc figured I would be okay, then - aside from being a smart ass little shit, a condition he probably diagnosed as being incurable (and he was right).
Doc gave me an ultimatum, "You have to spend the next 6 weeks flat on your back while your head heals up. If you can't do that, we'll have to bolt your head down." I quickly chose the no-bolt option.
Finally, I had a response to the question, "Are you cracked?"
Thursday, May 18, 2017
Pulitzer Prize
Trish is in a ladies' book club, attended the club's last meeting of the season yesterday. She mentioned that one of the other club members has a goal: reading every Pulitzer Prize fiction novel. Wow! That's quite a challenge. That got me wondering: how many prize novels are there? And, how many have I read? And, who was this Pulitzer guy, anyway?
The Pulitzer Prizes started in 1917, 100 years ago. Prizes weren't awarded every year in every category, however. And, the categories have changed over the years; the fiction category used to be included in the novel category. Currently, there are 22 categories but that's not a constant because the categories morph and evolve.
I scanned the list of fiction/novel winners, found numerous books I've read, 20 or so, and of course, many well known books I've not read. Didn't count them all, but many were made into movies. Here are the links if you're curious:
novels: http://www.pulitzer.org/prize-winners-by-category/261
fiction: http://www.pulitzer.org/prize-winners-by-category/219
Who was Pulitzer? A publisher; Joseph Pulitzer was born in 1847, died 1911. He was a contemporary and competitor of William Randolph Hearst of Hearst Castle fame. He's credited with - or blamed for - creating yellow journalism, the sensationalist kind of trash found in the National Enquirer and several similar rags. What a guy! What would we line our bird cages with if it wasn't for good 'ol Joe?
Joe bequeathed funds to Columbia University for the Prizes, and also for the Columbia School of Journalism. So, all in all, a pretty good guy despite the yellow stuff. He was active in politics and served in the US Congress.
Lots of folks do read the National Enquirer, and I've often wondered why they bother. I used to enjoy comic books when I was a kid. Rags like the NE are comic books for adults I guess, periodical escapes from the harsh realities of life. Only the terminally gullible think the content is non-fiction.
The Pulitzer Prizes started in 1917, 100 years ago. Prizes weren't awarded every year in every category, however. And, the categories have changed over the years; the fiction category used to be included in the novel category. Currently, there are 22 categories but that's not a constant because the categories morph and evolve.
I scanned the list of fiction/novel winners, found numerous books I've read, 20 or so, and of course, many well known books I've not read. Didn't count them all, but many were made into movies. Here are the links if you're curious:
novels: http://www.pulitzer.org/prize-winners-by-category/261
fiction: http://www.pulitzer.org/prize-winners-by-category/219
Who was Pulitzer? A publisher; Joseph Pulitzer was born in 1847, died 1911. He was a contemporary and competitor of William Randolph Hearst of Hearst Castle fame. He's credited with - or blamed for - creating yellow journalism, the sensationalist kind of trash found in the National Enquirer and several similar rags. What a guy! What would we line our bird cages with if it wasn't for good 'ol Joe?
Joe bequeathed funds to Columbia University for the Prizes, and also for the Columbia School of Journalism. So, all in all, a pretty good guy despite the yellow stuff. He was active in politics and served in the US Congress.
Lots of folks do read the National Enquirer, and I've often wondered why they bother. I used to enjoy comic books when I was a kid. Rags like the NE are comic books for adults I guess, periodical escapes from the harsh realities of life. Only the terminally gullible think the content is non-fiction.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)