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Subject: Mini Challenge - Prose and Poetry: Come join our picnic!
Oh, I'll see if I can get my mother to bake an apple pie. She doesn't used canned apples. She slices up Jerusalem apples (the only kind that grow in the hot East County) really thin and leaves the skin on them. She dashes cinnamon all over them and adds a touch of sugar; otherwise the apples would be too tart to eat. She makes her crust from scratch. You've never tasted such flaky, light crust in your life. She says it's because she mixes the dough with her hands. All I know is that my crust never tastes as good as hers. My part, since I was very little, is to use a dull knife to cut cinnamon and brown sugar into a cube of butter until a fine sweet crumb topping results that can be piled onto the top of the pie until all the apples are hidden. While it cooks, the smell of apples and cinnamon fills the house and out the doors. You can see people walking by who stop and sniff the air because the odor is so aromatic. And when she takes the hot pie from the oven, it bubbles with the syrup that results from the juice and the sugars blending and cooking. Yet, when it cools, you can slice off a nice solid piece that holds together if you hold it in your hand. You don't use folks and plates with this pie unless you're indifferent to tradition or you insist on putting ice cream on it. I don't. I like to have it on a napkin in my hand and bite off pieces in my mouth and get messy with it as my mouth gets glazed with the juice and powdered with the crumb topping. It tastes tart and sweet at the same time and is just incredibly satisfying to chew nice and slow so that you get the flavor of the apples and cinnamon, and that taste lingers after you've swallowed and before you take the next bite. So, can I bring the pie????
This is the silent ground where taps is played. A character appears there and then is gone. Died in a Palm Beach Hotel Looking over at the choir loft I saw someone from my grade sitting in a pew. I was envious. He got to wear the black formal robe. This was not one of my friends or a friend of one of my friends. No one ever stepped on his shoes or kicked him in the crotch to start a fight. He never went home with clothes torn or a skinned knee or black and blue. He did not see stars from having his head slammed against the concrete over and over. He did not wear glasses. As I watched him moving out in the procession after the service I tried to notice who he had to go home with. The squareness of the loft had made him seem all too human. Years passed. In catechism I found two other students had much better memories for the passages. As we read our Revised Standard Versions with the new texts from the Dead Sea Scrolls we knew we would be part of a controversy. Each week we pasted another book face into the big sheet that had a bookshelf printed on it in construction paper quality. The kid in the choir was now added to the girl with the blonde hair I played with boosting her into the apple tree as a superior. They just were smarter than I. The piano in the living room that the lawyers daughter could practice on now had a partner, the choir. I was still a kid in flannel-lined dungarees that was a little too heavy and clumsy to be a good sport. Now I saw who this kids parents were. His mother and father were in the choir too. His father often soloed in a deep baritone voice, mouthing the words of the anthems and hymns in a very clear form. His mother was a bit mousy but still would substitute on the organ to the magnificent bleating of the pipes. How wonderful of a family they had. His sister was younger and a playful slender girl always with a purse on a long patent leather plastic handle. The family lived only a few blocks from out house but my parents never went to their house and I never knew anyone who played there. Even my friend who had come from Detroit and lived two houses away never played with that family. In some ways they were like my uncles family. My uncle laid floors for my grandfathers general store. My aunt was beautiful and played the piano and organ at the Reformed Church. My cousins had an idyllic life with a carriage barn to use as a playhouse and the Firefighters park right next door. Real conflict early boiled over. There was a kid who lived on the long gravel road that ran along the South side of our property. He had stolen my tricycle and boldly left it sitting on his front porch. I got into a fight with him but because he was Catholic and we were Protestant that clash was quickly snuffed out by the authorities. When his family moved to a house on an open piece of ground his father began to garden the plot and sell the produce. He built a Ford truck with dual wheels and a one-ton Dodge pickup box to carry his produce. It was a fairly well constructed modification with culverts for fenders covering the wheels that stuck out. The whole assembly was painted a kind of gray brown Doge color. The father became an officer of the court in the county seat where we lived. Something happened to him physically and he had to sell the truck. My rivals father stepped in to buy the truck and start a new soft water business hauling the 100 pound salt tanks around on the back of this truck. This man was very strong and proud. There was to be a glimpse of my rival at physical education when spring came and track season began. Volleyball and Basketball did not fit this kid. Now in his new white shorts and matching logoed tee shirt the coaches for JV track were rolling him out. The initiative fizzled. In hurdles and sprints this kid had no aggression so they tried the 440 or relay. I was laughing as this kid ran along beside me and then faded back as the first quarter mile of the run walk mile passed. Then one day high school was over and this boy I had viewed from close up was being touted as the salutatorian. The blonde lawyers daughter was valedictorian. Both would be making speeches at graduation. I was voted most likely to succeed with the farmers daughter with the big boobs that had harangued me in Latin club and in speech contests. Yeah! We were sort of equal. My father had helped her build a cloud chamber for science fair. My silly experiment of molds that came when the agar-agar got contaminated went on to the Regional Fair where it won a prize. I received a Handbook of chemistry and Physics. It was to be a tool in my career for years. She did not go to regional and saw the judging as rigged. My father was the chemistry and physics teacher. Now I had her eye. When summer was over my father said, well I guess even though you got accepted to university youll probably want to stay with your chums at home and build your career as a gas station attendant? He was hoping I would drop out and not cost any money but instead bring some in. My rival had elected Engineering at the same school I was accepted at. My mother was surprised when I said I wanted to go to college since she had sort of set a rule that I had to pay my whole way and I had only about $500.00 in the bank and U.S. Savings Bonds. At college in the fall my rival now became a friend. Perhaps he was just lonely without his close family. We lived in different houses in the same nine-story dormitory. He smoked cigarettes and threw the still burning butts out into the hall on the linoleum. I got to meet his roommates who shared his room. There was a bunk bed and a single in their room. One of the guys was from a mining town where Norwegians and other Scandinavians predominated. The other was from an old fishing town that was nearly abandoned closer to where we were from. As I watched them working with their tee squares and lap boards I was reminded of the meeting in the Dean of Admissions office where I had been interviewed as a candidate for admission to the school. Naturally with your ability in science and your grades youll want to be in Engineering School, he had said. Youll probably be placed in an honors section with your SATs. I struggled with that. I had not taken Mechanical Drawing in high school, as it was a vocational course for incorrigibles and animals that got sent out of other classes. The ex-truck driver teacher threw erasers at the students who were talking. I had heard about the course from the older sons of the grade school principal. The names of the evildoers in the woods nearby were prominent in the makeup of that class for years before I was a freshman even in high school. My Sat scores were better than my rivals. He had boasted to me and we had compared. There was only one other boy who even came close and that was someone I had known in Boy Scouts. He was a natural leader and became drum major after playing the trombone in the band. My writing skills had taken me into the heights. I elected Literature, Science and the Arts. You will still have the option of honors, the registrar said. That would put me up against the kids from the big technical high schools and the arts campuses in the big city nearby. I would face them anyway in the third year when electives were all that was left. I decided to go with a more conservative approach. The groans from my parents and the registrar were audible. First no engineering and now no honors were accepted. I really was a dull kid. In the deep of winter this kid came to my room. He did not want to hitch hike to Grand Rapids alone. Would I go with him? He had a girlfriend in nursing school all the way across the state. He was going to see her. There was no real incentive for me. No introductions to nurses were being offered. I agreed to go. I loved the open road. We walked to the north edge of campus and father past the train station to a perch on the main four-lane road out of town. It was late afternoon. We were next to a big concrete bridge rail and there was not much space for a car to stop. As it grew dark and old Buick approached. The old man stopped and threw open the rear passenger door. We got in. The car accelerated away. Up the road as the car began to cruise the man became voluble. He had been at the university hospital all day for treatment. Now he was headed home to the state capital. Thoughts of how my current friend had moved with his parents out by the cemetery into a new house came to mind as the man said he was a veteran and loathed the VA. Each memorial day when the drum and bugle corps had marched through town out the outskirts to the cemetery to fire a volley and sound taps for the deceased of two wars I could see this new house through the trees. It was a privilege for a kid to go to the ceremony after dropping out at the state police post when he was young to have his decorated trike or bike from the parade judged. Now we had found a strange veteran. It began to snow. A major storm was brewing. In the car it was warm and cozy. The veteran asked us to hand him a beer from the six-pack on the floor by my friends feet. Open it he asked. Take one and share it My friend opened two beers and began to guzzle one. He handed it to me. I handed it back. Even at the graduation party on the beach I had not drunk from the opened bottle placed in my hands. On the dunes where the ant lions created the conical depressions to trap unwary ants in the sand I set the bottle down. Now the two of them insisted and I was trapped in the car. I accepted the bottle back and we spent the next few hours driving through deepening snow and accumulating sleet. It was about 10:00 PM when we were dropped off at a major intersection in the capital. We had heavy coats but no boots or gloves. The night grew boring with the beer buzz. We took turns standing by the roadway. Cars went by but their windshield wipers were going and they had an occluded view. We considered giving up and trying the opposite side of the road to go back. It might take several rides to cover the one we had taken. Then about 2:00 AM a new Buick convertible with the top down came up and opened the front door. There was lumber leaning over the rear seat and trunk. Our new benefactor drove on silently. When we were about half way across the state from the state capitol he mentioned the boards and that he soon had to turnoff and head toward his cottage where he was going to do some building in about a mile. Did we want to continue with him or just be dropped off? We looked at the bleak landscape of clearing by a major highway and then a fence and just pine trees on sandy hills. We shrugged our shoulders. My friend said, Let us out at this turnoff. It was now about 4:00AM. He looked at his watch and there was pain in his eyes. I smiled. It was not too long before another car came along. This car was going all the way to our destination. The snow was a bit less now. W snoozed a bit in this car and when we awoke there was a train across the road. The train just sat. After about an hour the train began to back. We were elated. After moving about 20 cars it stopped and sat again. Another half hour passed. Then it began to move. As cars passed we could see it was slowly accelerating. It seemed an eternity but was probably ten minutes when the caboose came into view and passed over the road crossing. The barriers and lights flashing began to change. We crossed the very bumpy tracks bottoming out in the springs. Now the streets we rode on were brick and very swoopy crowned and bumpy. This was the far side of the state and a very conservative image was kept. My friend asked for a street intersection he knew and the driver protested a bit it was out of his way but my friend prevailed. Getting out we moved about the silent streets in the cold in what was obviously skid row. We were chilled by now. There was a big ventilating grate on the sidewalk and we tried lying on it as it had some heat coming out. It was just too hard and my friend asked me if I had any money. I did a small amount. He had a tiny amount to and we walked to a decrepit building with a Hotel sign. Inside we signed up for a single room. One of us (me) would sleep on the floor. We walked to the stairs and climbed flight after flight to our floor. Turning the key and pushing open the door he flopped on the bed and I lay on the floor rug. Night passed unheralded. We got up about 7:30 and my friend carefully washed his face and his armpits and combed his hair. I washed my face. Out in the hall we saw the elevator was running and pushed the call. The whiz and clatter announced that it was arriving swiftly. Soon the doors flew open with a bang and the old brass cage clattered open and we saw a shriveled old man on a stool. We got in he asked for a floor and we said, lobby. Down we went with the feeling of the floor dropping out from under us. The walk to a somewhat residential part of the city was brisk and we soon stood on the wide veranda next to the porch of an old three-story house. My friend knocked on the door and after a while someone peered through the curtains. Some waving ensued. It was about 8:30. A little more waving and the latch turned and the door opened. Whispering and then the door closed. After a long while a single figure appeared framed in windows of the door and seemed to be making a decision. My friend moved up to the doors. He rattled the knob. His contact inside opened the door and he entered closing the door quickly. I waited for several hours on the porch and he reappeared. Out movement home was uneventful. That first semester was his last. Like my roommate he flunked out. His grades and attitude were so bad he could not get reinstated. The burnt tiles in the hall from the cigarette butts had been one fault too many. I did not hear form him nor did any one at home mention him until later when I was settled in California. Some one had told my parents that he was in California and they wrote to tell me. Some other boys from my town worked on the production line at the aerospace factory where I was now an Associate Engineer/Scientist. He was not among them or in contact with them. Ten years later I got another letter that said my rival and friend had died in a hotel in the big city close to my old home. I was not invited to the funeral. A few years later I saw that David Kennedy had dies in a Palm Beach Hotel of a heroin overdose. Evidence was being accumulated and the family was scandalized. I thought of the circumstances of my friends death. The passing of this second man moved me. It was not evidence of foul play only a closure of the book.
I have taken the Ambassador coronet in it's case out of the closet. The brass and lacquer is a bit worn. My lip is not what it once was and perhaps I won't be able to share. To chase the mood I can think of the poem "In Flander's Fields." If you think I harbor animosity I can park a 1966, 1967 and 1969 Ducati on your lawn. (all Italian) To give more room I can park a 1973 Toyota Corolla 5 speed coupe.(Japanese) Then as a miracle the BMW 530i with L-Jetronics rests carefully. The cadence of the VFW and American Legion then seems very far away rattling the valleys of Kosovo and Bosnia. Now the first strains of a song played without valves on a coronet appear. Simplified from the "Flight of the Bumblebee" and the "Stars and Stripes Forever" they echo over the landscape before the armed men at ease with their rifles. The warble of a turbo-charged Indy Buick V-6 tempts me to flirt a bit with the high notes. Even after the brick yard was flushed by gasoline and the thump of Lotus and Lola hitting the wall has died, the unknown racket cannot deepen the brass. B-flat or b square.
Hmm, well, where do I begin? Oh yes, the standard health warning. One slice of this cake will probably add an inch to your hips. For this cake we require a heavier sponge than a standard victoria, rich with extra butter and eggs, heaven scented with the unmistakable aroma of chocolate. Three layers, each separated by a generous dollop of black cherry jam (freshly made of course) This filling however, you can only see after the first slice has been cut, glistening jam sliding down the newly exposed surface of the cut, a few quickly snatched crumbs the only remaining sign a piece of cake ever stood on that spot. The outside is covered in a thick layer of chocolate icing, buttercream flavoured with melted plain chocolate. All this is covered in tiny curls of best belgian chocolate then lightly dusted with icing sugar, a sugary snow to offset the rich colouring of this dark little temptress. As the knife pushes gently down through each layer, the soft buttercream sticks to the blade, dragging with it broken flakes from the chocolate curls which catch in the sliding jam. Only the sponge resists the knife, it's springy texture compressing beneath the blade until the sharp edge pierces the slightly crisper surface which once lay under the ovens glare. The eater cups their hands protectively against each piece, wrapped here (it being a picnic) in a paper napkin and bends their head towards the cake. Lips curve into a smile as the heady smell of chocolate drifts up to flared nostrils and each bite is smiling taken. Stray crumbs tumble down upon their clothes, to be laughingly brushed away. The same hand then raises, to wipe (with yet another napkin if you're neat, or fingers if you plan to lick them afterwards) the sticky smear of icing, melting chocolate curls and jam that leave a telltale trace upon satisfied lips. Mood food. Good mood food. I'll let you have a piece if you want. Size 12 here I come! Shanna :-) now feeling quite faint with greed.
Lovely cake, Shoshanna. Yummy. A cake that good couldn't be bad for you. The teddy bear isn't mine. I brought Eloise the Lhasa Apso who is busily sniffing the ground. She's hoping someone brings some chicken. She loves chicken. She gets tired easily (little old dog) so i've brought a pillow for her to cuddle on while we wait for the rest of the food to arrive. Oh, I do have my camera. So, SMILE. :)
You may be able to drain my well but you'll never drain my swamp. Converting the Memorial Day day reference to a deceased rival to a character. How he thought in his wildest dreams. Character study of Kiegel Varkov Kiegel began planning the overturning of at least one intellectual property form. He knew that evidence is not just the sequence of events or visible objects that constitute the facts of the case. He had purchased a pink seersucker sports coat and a beautifully carved pair of chop sticks. When these were combined with the empty paper cartons with thin steel handles in the night watchmans office a set of facts would emerge. The target was the original Cavendish balance in the showcase of the Cavendish Laboratory at Cambridge University. His plan was to refute the publishing of books and papers supporting Newtons theory of gravity. Once the actual source of the constant G was objectively lost the whole empirical truth would collapse like a house of cards. He laughed as he realized how his fraudulent listing of the balance for sale on ebay would subject the law to threat of hostage. All the published values for the constant would be worthless including confirming experiments with other apparatus. Sure they were facts and actual but they would now be missing the actual link necessary to Cartesian evidence and the deductive form. Kiegel drew a big stein of beer from his brother-in-laws tapper and smiled satisfied as he felt the foam touch his lips. Now he was a real engineer.
I'm laying down under that big old tree on the hill until everyone else shows up. Nudge me when the potato salad and deviled eggs arrive. Hope anyone that comes helps themselves to the pink lemonade and iced tea. It's a warmish day so that little breeze feels very good. I could daydream my life away.......... That snoring won't be me....Eloise has the nose power in my family.
In the kettle are several eggs boiling along with a dozen potatoes, still with their skins on. In the pan before me sizzling a fryer freshly dipped in batter.. There is something about preparing food for a picnic, something that allows the mind to wander over other happy occassions. As I pull the potatoes now softened from the boiling water and begin to loosen their jackets, my mind wanders to a day in late spring when my Mom taught me how to make potato salad for the first time. I remember how precise and beautiful her salad looked, and how scrumptious it always tasted. Over the years I have semi-perfected her manner of "oh, that looks about right" cooking, but her potato salad I have never yet rivaled. Already on the sideboard are some chopped up onion, both red and white, and a cup full of diced pickles both sweet and pepper dill, which will be added along with just a dash of the dill pickle brine into the salad dressing. Cubing already boiled potatos is an interesting chore as they are floury and already breaking apart. I absolutely despise boiled eggs! The nasty things. They roll around and slide out of your fingers at the least provocation. Trying to make them even is just not going to happen for me. I finally get some chopped up into bits instead of just mashed. At long last, while the chicken finishes its frying in the deep pot of smoking oil, I am ready to assemble my potato salad. Into the bowl go the 12 potatos, 5 boiled eggs, the onion and pickle bits. This is the easy part! Then to mix the dressing! A bit of prepared mustard, hmmm is that a 'Moms' about right? No? Perhaps a bit more. Now for the mayonnaise, One, two three scoops, mix, hmmmm.. the color is not quite what it should be, another scoop of mayo. Now it is too light so let's add a bit more mustard. Stir... pretty close. A taste test perhaps? Yeah! That is not too bad, now for a bit of pickle brine and some salt and pepper. AAAAAAAAAAAAAgh! There is black smoke erupting from my deep fryer! The chicken is ruined!!! Tears flood my eyes as I watch all mornings work go up in smoke. As I run for the fire extinguisher, (some philosopher once said that dinner is finished when the smoke alarm goes off..ohh yeah .. that was my mother :S) I knock the big glass mixing bowl with all the potato salad fixings onto the floor! Time for one frantic phone call! 'Hello Crescent? I will be a bit late to the picnic, I have to stop at KFC on the way.'
Whether the occasion is a picnic or formal feast, fresh baked bread is never amiss. I take out my big silver bowl and place it on the table beside my bag of flour. NEver one to carefully measure, I pour in water warmed to just the right tempurature, until I judge it to be the right amount. Then the yeast is sprinkled in, its peculiar but pleasant odor scenting the kitchen. I enjoy a cup of steaming tea as I watch the yeast bubble to the surface. I pour in a few cups of whole wheat flour which I ground earlier. It is so much more flavorful than the stuff in the store. Into this bread sponge I add a couple eggs and a healthy glug of molasses. The mixture is a lovely golden brown color and smells sweet and yeasty. I let it sit for a while, allowing the yeast to go to work and make the dough light and tender. I beat the dough thoroughly holding the bowl on my hip and humming random melodies. Little bit at a time, I add white flour until the spoon becomes useless. I dump the mass of dough onto the floured table and begin kneeding. Left, right, thump, turn, thump interspursed with tiny pops of air bubbles. When I am satisfied, I return the dough to its bowl, cover it in a light coating of oil and leave it to rise. A wee time later I return and begin forming loaves. One, two, three, four long loaves take form and are placed on cookie sheets. After another bout of rising, they are placed in the heated oven. It is not long before the tantalizing smell of bread fills the kitchen. When it is done, I wrap it in brown paper and set off for the picnic surrounded by an appetizing aroma.
Oh, I love these latest additions to the feast. I'm sorry the potato salad and chicken got ruined, but fresh bread makes up for all. Somewhere, yes, I have some fresh peach preserves and strawberry jam. Gold and red in their jars, and gold and red flowers scattered all over the little hillside. The picnic is beginning to pick up. The snoring? Oh, that's just Eloise still. She does like her sleep time. She's woofing in her sleep. Her shaggy little legs make a little movement as she chases dream rabbits. I'll pour some fresh water into a dish for her. She'll be thirsty when she wakes after all that racing after bunnies.
The plates hit the table with an enthusiastic thud. (I admit, for once, it wasn't just clumsiness. I couldn't help the theatrical entrance with this slice of heaven.) Goofy grin seeping across my face, I bent over the plates to take one last sniff before the inevitable feeding frenzy started. Oh, the way the sauces mixed together up close! A sweetness that would drive any bee into a jealous despair mixed with an insolent tang that hinted at sun-drenched beaches and margaritas. I slid the food tags under the plates so everyone could pick their poison. (Ummm ... that phrase just doesn't sound right for a picnic. Forget I said it.) The one plate said, "Honey Spareribs" but that would be calling Michelanglo a room painter. Boiled then grilled, the meat could slide off the bone with the merest of glances. The honey was made by the most pampered of bees who joyously buzzed all day long in an emerald sea of clover, tenderly coaxed out by a fourth or fifth generation bee-keeper. In the sun, each rib shimmered like the finest amber silk with rose red accents. The meat cooked up and away from the bone, politely allowed access to the bone for graceful handling. Each bite glided past the lips and waltzed with every taste bud before sashaying exiting towards the stomache. The "Red Chile Spareribs" were the fiery young sisters to the elegant honey ribs. A thicker, more athletic sauce brashly proclaimed their presence - a red, crushed velvet party dress adorned each rib. And what a party these ribs threw! A tingle on the lips, a teasing hint warned that these ribs weren't shy. No slow dances for these ribs, it was a celebratory tango all the way. But these ribs would not be forgotten - memories of the sauce laughingly tweaked the taste buds like a jealous ex-lover long after they were gone. A dab of sauce had wound up on my fingers and I surreptitiously licked them when no one was looking. I sprawled on a bench, satisfied that I'd gotten everything just right. Ummm ... did anyone remember to bring napkins?
I forgot to mention, along with the steaming loaves of bread, I have brought my ancient badmitton set. After depositing my bread next to those scrumptious spare ribs, I begin untangling the net in preparation to set it up. This attracts Ian's attention and he stops crying and helps me. Soon we are ready for a game but first I join the gathering folks around the tables groaning with their glorious weight of food.
Badminton was one of the few sports like activities I actually could play. I remember the sad repeat of "shuttlecock" from The Good Soldier too. I'll help you with that net. I see someone brought a lovely green salad, bright with red and yellow tomatoes, and crunchy with celery and peppers. I guess that someone too shy to speak up. And who could have a picnic with Jello and Cool Whip with fruit suspended inside? My gosh, that brings back memories. The sun is bright and hot in the sky. Doesn't look like a danger of rain anywhere. But I could always be wrong. I'm getting a drink of that pink lemonade before it's all gone.
Aunts, uncles, cousins and in-laws begin to gather. Family reunion time. There's aunt Janet, with yet more potato salad, uncle Bill grilling bratwursts. The volleyball game, going strong. Faces I have not seen in years or ever. Someone I don't recognize calls me by name. I hate family reunions. jon
~jon
My Blog - Mad
Utopia Writing in a new era.
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Well, it's getting close to Memorial Day weekend, and it's become tradition to hold a picnic with friends and family, so I'm holding a picnic here. Bring a dish to the picnic - tantalize us with the look, the scent, and the taste of the food. If you're not a foodie, start up a game, (frisbee or touch football, perhaps) and let us now how it goes. And, of course you're welcome to bring friends and family for us to meet! Knock on wood, everything will go perfectly, but disasters can happen to even the best-planned picnics .... (The mini-challenge ends at the end of Memorial Day, 26 May, so let's get the fun started!)