Connie needs to get her appetite back before food goes bad.
What’s in your refrigerator?
food
Morning Glories, Birth Control, and Birthday Bachanals
Birthday Morning Glory
Approaching my 25th birthday, I had a midlife crisis. Having always been precocious, the early advent of said crisis shouldn’t have been a surprise. But it was.
At 25, so I thought, I had to grow up and be an adult. I needed to pay my bills on time, get my oil changed, quit wasting money, and become a responsible (unmarried) matron.
Appalled at such a future, I threw myself a birthday party – the last blow out of my misspent youth before donning sensible shoes and alphabetizing my spice jars.
At the time, I lived in Milwaukee with the ex who was not yet a husband. We had a house in the city on a tiny lot in a solid, staid working class neighborhood. Knowing the party had a potential to get out of hand, we invited the entire neighborhood thinking if folks were invited they were less likely to complain.
I woke up the morning of my birthday, stood in the bathroom gazing into the mirror and absently reached for my birth control pills. As I prepared to swallow the pill, the insight that it was ridiculous, wasteful and potentially damaging to my body to take a pill I didn’t need. The ex who wasn’t yet a husband had been certified sterile by a number of doctors. My first act as a 25-year-old was to throw my birth control pills in the bathroom trashcan.
Dressing for a party.
Folks began arriving in the late afternoon. It was one of those open invitation parties – y’all come and bring your friends. They all came and they did bring their friends. It was very soon a full blown, rock the world party. Given the number of people, we could have been much louder. We were loud, mind you, but not as loud as you might expect with a 100 people in a backyard that was roughly 20×20 feet.
The cops arrived shortly after the ex who wasn’t yet a husband dumped my boss (rolex, expensive Italian shoes, and clothes) into the hot tub.
We quieted a bit.
I told folks that I did not want gifts and most complied. However, one guy I didn’t know (and still can’t figure out who invited him) gave me a gorgeously wrapped gift. Nonplussed, I opened it. Inside were 25 rolls of toilet paper because, he said, “You’re full of shit.”
Another memorable gift.
I have no idea how he could have known ahead of time that I am like I am. But since I am full of shit, those rolls remain one of the most memorable birthday gifts I’ve ever received – from a complete stranger in the midst of absolute chaos on a small Milwaukee city lot in a staid working class neighborhood.
The party ended. The neighbors weren’t too mad. Well, they were mad, but they got over it.
About that time, not knowing anything about plants, I decided a little landscaping was in order. I planted morning glory seeds. It was August in Milwaukee and, of course, nothing happened. That was, I believe, my first failed attempt of many at morning glories.
By November I was impregnated by a sterile man and became a sober, responsible, married matron though I never got the hang of sensible shoes.
Other than small family affairs, I haven’t had a birthday party since.
As posted earlier, HMOKeefe and I had plans to spend a week in Berkeley Springs to celebrate my birthday. In retrospect, I remember being a tad puzzled that we were due to check out the morning of my birthday. But in the weeks leading up to my birthday, I was working between 64 and 75 hours a week. I didn’t have a lot of time to ponder things too much.
The birthstones left behind.
As it turns out, some lowlife wandered into the barn we were renting and stole my camera and one container of HMOKeefe’s medications. Said lowlife left the jewelry sitting on the kitchen table and HMOKeefe’s much (much much) more expensive camera. When we were sure that the two items were indeed gone and not just misplaced, I got that oogy feeling you get when someone has invaded your space. The barn which had previously been too wonderful for words became a little creepy. We decided to leave on Saturday.
I arrived home to find that my mother had cleaned my house. She’s done this before, so I didn’t think too much of it. My son arrived in the wee hours of the morning. I awoke Sunday morning to a refrigerator full of tinfoil wrapped racks of ribs. I knew he was coming and I knew he was cooking dinner for my birthday. I wasn’t surprised at the sheer amount of food – like his mama, Chef Boy ‘R Mine prepares far too much food.
Folks arriving in 2009
HMOKeefe and I left to go look at cameras at the mall. Daunted at the cost of replacing my beloved camera, we returned home to find balloons and signs hanging up and down the road as well as a car with Michigan plates in the driveway.
I left a quiet, orderly house to go to the mall and came home to boxes of beer, champagne, and sub sandwiches, people, and camera flashes popping.
They came from Michigan, and Texas by way of Michigan. From San Francisco and Huntington and Kentucky. (The Columbus folks were thought to be lost and wandering the backroads of Balls Gap, but it turns out a medical emergency kept them at home. Anna – take care of yourself.)
They got me good. I never suspected. Many (certainly not all) of my favorite people spent my 50th birthday with me. Other than my family members, most of these people I met online. The others through work. Paid labor and the intertubes have been very good to me.
Rib Boy eating lobster.
My son cooked a monumental feast for my Monday birthday. On Tuesday, Fed Ex arrived with the live lobster. By the time everyone cleared out on Wednesday, the refrigerator was empty and the trashcans were full of wine, champagne and beer bottles.
On Sunday I was too flabbergasted to react. On Monday, I started becoming overwhelmed at the significance of what was happening. By Tuesday, I couldn’t talk about it for fear of sobbing.
HMOKeefe left a few hours ago and once again it is just me and the puppies. The full impact is just now hitting me.
I have never been so loved. I have never had such friends.
Mmmmmorning glory.
On the morning of my birthday, I discovered that my morning glories, seeded late, were blooming. For 25 years, I have planted morning glories and for 24 of them nothing happened. I wandered around the yard taking pictures of them with the camera HMOKeefe left me until I can get the wherewithal to purchase a new one.
I started making the connections.
The son that arose from trashing the birth control pills the morning of my 25th birthday party arrived and cooked for my 50th. The party of mere acquaintances I had for my 25th became a party of dear friends for my 50th. The raucous, police intervention party of my misspent youth turned into a not sober, but delightful fellowship of good friends. The morning glories I planted too late when I was 25 have become the morning glories I planted too late in my 50th year. The former did nothing; the latter are blooming. (I think there’s a metaphor there.)
Fabulous Fifties
And unlike 25, I am not having a crisis (okay, not any related to turning 50). I’ve been strangely excited about my half-century mark for awhile now. My 20s were good. My thirties were great. Forties were bumpy, but mostly terrific. I expect my 50s to be fabulous.
And thank you all. Those that were here and those that weren’t. I still can’t talk about this without tearing up. Y’all will probably never know what it meant to me.
Dive Diners and Seedy Motels
Growing up, we did Route 66 from beginning to end a couple dozen times. At least. My dad, being the man he was, insisted that each run down the Mother Road be done faster than the time before. We did not sightsee. We did not stop and shop. We did not eat in restaurants or stay in hotels. We made time.
A lot of our meals were taken from vending machines in gas stations. Truck stops were a favorite. (To this day, I will choose a truck stop over a chain restaurant if I’m looking for home-style food.) My dad likes to joke that my brother and I learned early not to ask “are we there yet?” – but to ask “when will we need gas?”
The need for automobile fuel was the only earthly reason for stopping until Dad was so bleary-eyed he couldn’t see the road. It was then that we pulled into a motel. There was some discernment in our choosing, but not much. I don’t remember seeing a lot of loose women or ex-cons in the places we stayed, but we did not stay in anything even approaching the sanitized motels of today.
[Come to think of it I do have memories of Magic Fingers massage beds. Maybe at 6, I couldn’t recognize a woman of loose morals.]
It was a real treat to stay in the Wigwam Motel. I’m not sure, but I think we stayed in the Arizona Wigwam when the opportunity presented itself. But trust me, the Wigwam was pure luxury compared to our normal road digs. I’m pretty sure we only stayed there because otherwise I would whine for 500 or 600 miles – the Wigwam was my idea of the epitome of luxury accommodations.
Driving cross-country as often as we did, I became a connoisseur of diner cuisine. We usually ate at the closest eating establishment to the motel.
Somewhere along the way, I became a fan of patty melts.
There’s an art to making the perfect patty melt. I’ve never managed to make a perfect one, though God knows, I’ve tried. The absolute best patty melts are to be found in the places the Health Department shuts down for gross violations a couple times a year. The next best place to find a good patty melt is at the IHOP, but they’re inconsistent. Sometimes they’re greasy chin dripping, onion breath fabulous. Other times they’re better than what I do at home, but not much.
For the uninitiated, a proper patty melt consists of a good quality ground beef patty, grilled onions, American cheese, and rye bread all cooked in the same fashion as the traditional grilled cheese i.e. fried in butter. When done properly, it’s the perfect gestalt of heart-attack-on-a-plate and good eatin’.
Usually, they’ll offer you fries or onion rings (sometimes both) to go with your patty melt. I prefer hash browns. Real ones. Grated and grilled until crispy with tomato and onion mixed in. If you haven’t already discovered it, let me tell you that the Waffle House, hands down, has the best hash browns. IHOP is a distant second. The Waffle House also has patty melts but they’re inferior to IHOP’s. If I could get it all home hot, I’d order the IHOP patty melt and the Waffle House hash browns and just eat at home where I could moan, groan, drool, and roll my eyes all I wanted to.
I stopped at the IHOP tonight for a patty melt. I sat next to some folks who were evidently on a road trip. Dad poured over the map, Mom looked ready for a Valium, and the kids were fighting about how much room the other was taking up on the booth seat.
Nostalgia set in.
The patty melt was a disappointment tonight, but it was still damned good eatin’. You have to work pretty hard to screw up grilled onions, rye bread, cheese, and hamburger. I had the urge to find a seedy motel and check in, but it’s no fun alone. Sometime I should tell the story of the really seedy motel in Zanesville, Ohio, and what a fine time HMOKeefe and I had. There was a picture of Jesus on the wall, mold in the bathroom, iced vodka, and a plastic chair outside the door. Wish we had pictures.
Don’t ask about the time Boston Boy ordered shrimp in Richwood. Flatlanders. . .gotta love ’em.
[Hot Damn!!! There’s a Wigwam in Kentucky! Woo Hoo! I am so going to go there. Soon.]
Late Summer Lunches
Late summer lunch.
Part of the reason summer suppers are so late is because summer lunches are.
On weekends, I usually graze during the day, but I developed a strong craving for a Panera Bread salad which would not be denied. I was in the midst of cleaning house – my personal grooming, clothing choice, and general appearance was unacceptable.
I decided to do take-out.
Arriving home with not just lunch, but tomorrow’s breakfast (sour dough and strawberry granola yogurt), the patio beckoned.
Mexican Glass. African tea.
While I do now and again, I hate eating out of and with plastic. We are, allegedly, civilized people. Plastic is depressing. Any meal is greatly improved by resting on a nice plate and eaten with real cutlery.
I transferred the salad to a favorite Spanish glass plate, buttered the bread, and poured my newest iced tea experiment.
[ Note: I did forego the linen napkin as the laundry is already piled up to the ceiling and I’m economizing.]
Using a green tea/roibos blend, I made sun tea earlier today and I’ll be doing so again. The color is gorgeous, the taste is crisp and clean, and it looked beautiful in an old Mexican glass goblet. If that’s not enough, it’s jammed pack with antioxidants and all sorts of cancer prevention substances. Next time, I’ll add orange slices.
- Color, Texture, Sweet, Tangy
The salad was amazing. Romaine, field greens, shredded chicken breast, pecans, strawberries, dried apples, red onion, and tomatoes with a strong Italian dressing, fresh ground pepper and a bit of sea salt all made for a vivid, tasty meal. The tea complemented it perfectly. I donned sunglasses and lazily read until I realized the words weren’t registering.
I put the book down and gazed into space – lost in the beauty and breeze of the day. This lunch tasted like what early summer feels like – warm and cool, sweet and tangy, bright and vivid.
I’m full. Dinner is likely to be very late tonight.
W. Va. Fur and Root 