Thanksgiving Tribute to Mark

 

The big meal, Thanksgiving. For Mark, Thanksgiving was his Super Bowl. He would go over the top every year. Appetizers, seven or more dishes for the actual dinner, and dessert. All of it above and beyond the common holiday dinner. Nobody ever walked away from Mark's table dissatisfied.

I'm going to my sister Peggy's house for Thanksgiving dinner this year. As a tribute to Mark I am bringing macaroni and cheese that I made from his recipe. Mark always told me that all I had to do was follow the recipe and I could cook like him. It sounded so simple. Macaroni and cheese. I used to whine and complain every time Mark had his big meals because I had to clean up. I asked why he couldn't clean as he went along? Why did he have to use so many pots and pans, utensils and gadgets? I now can appreciate what Mark used to do. Yesterday I used nearly every dish, chopping board, pot, pan, and utensil I could reach preparing the mac and cheese. Mark went through this for an entire meal, he would work for days preparing and cooking. I was beat and dead tired doing only one side dish. When I was all done, the kitchen looked like a hurricane had blown through and I had to clean it up. I did have one little helper who made sure there was nothing left that had dropped on the floor. 

 

Not So Tired

 

When I was sixteen years old and had my thirty year old Studebaker, all I wanted to do was drive it. That was in 1966. Now I have a car that was built just six years before that Studebaker, but it is nearly ninety three years old. My 1929 Ford Model A. I do enjoy driving it. No matter where I go, I get honks from other cars, waves from people walking down the street, and at least a few "Hey man, nice car." Unlike sixteen year old Alan, old Alan also enjoys tinkering with the thing just as much as driving it. Each little project creates waves of satisfaction, usually after some disappointment. Last week we 'lubed' the undercarriage. And by 'we' I mean my niece's husband, Tim. I stood around and handed him things and performed various other helpful jobs, like turning on the lights in the garage. Anyway, each little project I finish is like a present I gave myself. Today is a big day. I'm having four brand new tires mounted on the Model A. I have them stacked in the back seat right now and will be going over to a motorcycle shop where they have all the equipment to do the job. I did mount one new tire on the spare wheel earlier this year. That's when I learned removing a thirty year old tire from the wheel is difficult. Also, I have no place to dispose of that old tire. So I will be paying a motorcycle guy to do the job. And that one tire I took off, next spring I will have a nice white wall planter around the tree out front.

Everything Okay?

 

It's an odd feeling hitting seventy years of age. I still think the same. I am still the same person I was ten years ago. In fact, sometimes I feel like I should give my seat up or open the door for somebody who I perceive as older. More often than not, if I look closely, I am much older. Damn, seventy two years is creeping up on me soon and I am not enjoying it. Sure the pain in my knees, my back, my shoulder, my feet, are a clue that the body was built in 1949. That's not what is bugging me. It's how people are starting to treat me. Like an old man. Calling me 'sir', and assuming I probably vote 'conservative'.

I bowl on a league on Friday evenings. I enjoy it even though my average has fallen quite a bit. At least it gets me out and allows me to mingle with other humans. I'm not sure, but I suspect that I might be the oldest person on that league. Either that or the other old farts really look good for their age. Hard to tell with all those covid masks on. The young guy on our team is really a nice kid. He always asks me, "How are you feeling?" The other guys treat me well too. They don't make too much fun of me when I throw a gutter ball. However, something happened last Friday that did bother me. I was watching the guys from the opposing team bowl from a seat right behind the lane. I had to lean out to see around the person in front of me, and the more I leaned, the more he leaned. So there I was leaning forward in my seat while the other team bowled, probably for a minute or so. Suddenly I hear, "Alan, are you okay?" I look up and there are three of my teammates standing there with concerned looks on their faces, looking down at me. That's when I realized that they thought I might be having some kind of episode. You know, where I lean forward and then fall to the ground dead.

"I'm fine. I'm watching them bowl. For krissakes, what the hell?"

So I've learned another thing about getting old. You have to keep moving, or else folks will think you've bought the farm.

Road Kill

 

While scanning old photos into my computer I reflected upon the fact that a whole generation of family is almost gone. In only a few years my generation will be the old ones, the keepers of family memories.

One of the photos I scanned this past week, was of my Grandma Putz. I always liked her, but she stole my heart the day she chased down my dad as he ran after me with his belt. "Ahlex, Ahlex, don't you hit that boy!" She shouted after him. Dad obeyed his mom and by the time she left to go home, Dad had forgot all about whatever it was I did to piss him off. There were other memories of Grandma Putz, like the loaf of what she called strudel that she always brought with her when she visited. The 'strudel' looked like a loaf of bread, but sweet, with icing on top and a poppy seed filling swirled through it. The most outrageous memory I have involved riding back to Tinley Park with Grandma in the front seat of our car. We had picked her up at the end of the Western Avenue bus line. Dad took the scenic route back home through the forest preserves. As he drove down Central Avenue something came flying out from the side of the road. Bam! It hit the windshield. Grandma screamed and started yelling at Dad. She wanted him to stop the car and go pick up what he had hit. It was a pheasant. A now dead pheasant. With three wide eyed kids in the back seat, Dad drove on home while Grandma sat in the front passenger seat holding her box of strudel with a dead bird on top of it.

I don't know that much about how my grandmother grew up. Only that she came from a small town in Austria. I think they had a farm, which would explain what happened with that pheasant. It was plucked, cleaned, and cooked in my mom's kitchen, with no help from my mom. It was all Mom could do to cook a piece of meat from the supermarket. No way was she going to get involved with preparing pheasant that my dad's Plymouth had smashed into. So that Sunday we had fried chicken and road kill pheasant. At least I know that I ate fried chicken, while watching in horror as Dad and Grandma ate the road kill.

Cutting the Mustard

 

I like mustard. I like mustard on salami sandwiches, on corned beef sandwiches, and on hotdogs. Sure, put ketchup on your hotdog if you like it. Just don't get that French fry condiment near my hotdog. Seriously, I love Chicago hotdogs with the mustard, relish, onions, tomatoes, pickles, and celery salt. Hold the hot peppers though. My mouth and stomach aren't built for that. Also, let me make another thing clear. No spicy mustard on my food. Mark used to be quite skillful at hiding that poupon mustard in certain dishes, but I don't know how to do that. So it's only the French's yellow mustard for me. Unfortunately, there is a problem with that mustard. It just doesn't know its place. The other day I made myself two hotdogs, with relish, chopped onions, and mustard. I carefully assembled the said hotdogs on a dish, on the kitchen counter, and I ate them right there at the counter. I do that so I can lean forward over the counter so as to not get any drippings on myself. I've learned not to sit at the table and eat a hotdog because the mustard always, always drips out the end of the bun onto my shirt. So there I was in the kitchen, very proud of myself that I did not drip mustard on my shirt. Ah, but mustard is sneaky. The very next morning I picked up that shirt to put it in the laundry, and there it was. Goddamned mustard on my shirt. The shirt I had worn all day after eating those hotdogs. Meaning everybody saw mustard dripped down the front of my shirt. You cannot restrain the mustard from breaking free from the confines of the bun, nor of the rye bread of a corned beef sandwich. Mustard will not give in to your will and wants to be free to paint your belly with its yellow stains. Yes, I could try a bib. Mustard would laugh at me as it squirted past it onto my pants. So I have learned to live with it. I simply have to change my clothes after every mustard laden sandwich knowing the mustard is there, somewhere.