Farewell to Grandparents

Tomorrow my family bids farewell to my last surviving grandparent, James Straiton of Richfield, Minnesota, who fell asleep in Christ yesterday morning after collapsing at a family get-together the day before. He was my stepmother's father and a good friend of mine, all the way back to my teenaged years in the mid-1980s. I have many warm memories of times spent together fishing, playing card games, enjoying good food and company. He was always very kind and supportive toward me. His home was often a haven of hospitality for me, my family, and my friends.

I will miss Jim. I am glad to have had time to get to know him. I am comforted by the assurance that he is with his Lord, who had blessed him with a living faith in Christ Jesus. I am relieved to know that his time came quickly, without much pain, and that he was spared many of the indignities and disabilities of a long, steady decline. But I am not feeling as joyful as some might urge me to. I regret that we will share no more times like the ones we have shared, for the rest of my earthly life. I grieve with my family, especially my stepmom and her brothers, who were very close to their Dad. Their hurt adds to my hurt.

Having grandparents has been, in my experience, a wonderful thing. I have been more blessed than most people in that regard. And now that chapter of my life is closed. I will miss that too: the particular blend of wise warmth and almost recklessly indulgent love that a young person is most likely to receive from a Grandma and/or Grandpa; the direct connection to how the world was before one's parents were born, and the opportunity to explore that connection by listening to them tell stories about that world.

I had the privilege of knowing not only all four of my parents' parents, but also four of my stepparents' parents, plus several great-grandparents who at least lived to see me enter the world. I remember most of them. I enjoyed listening to several of them tell stories of their youth, connecting me to that time. And though I had a different relationship with each of them—some closer than others—today I mourn not only the one who died yesterday, but the whole lot of them. Until the day Christ calls me home, or comes to raise all the dead, I will never see any of their faces again except in photographs and memories.

Happy Birthday, Dad

So, you're sixty-three years old today. Well done! Many happy returns to the day!

I mean, let's think about it. Sixty-three is nine sevens. Two sevens ago, at age 49, you moved to Missouri, the then-new home state that we now share for the second time (taking into account my sojourn in Arizona). I know you miss Minnesota, but at least one of us thinks Missouri is a grand place to live in. And it's especially nice to be only 3-4 hours' drive from you.

Three sevens ago, at age 42, you achieved your fondest ambition since you started having kids: emptying the nest. I appreciate your offer to keep the door open in case I have to move back in, these economically troubled times being what they are. I hope it doesn't come to that. I am sure you appreciate your independence as much as I do. On the other hand, thanks for the help you have sent my way. I am truly grateful and hope I can soon begin to repay you.

Six sevens ago, age 21, you married my mother, for which I'm grateful because, for better or worse, my existence began as a result. Four sevens ago, at age 35, that marriage officially ended—which, under the circumstances, is also a blessing, since without it, we wouldn't have Cheryl in our lives. And when you reflect that your ex is now an overworked widow with 50% more under-employed sons and 100% more dependent grandkids, you might agree that you got the sweet end of the deal.

Counting forward seven years, you come to the age of 70. It's a nice round number to aim for, and being the "threescore and ten" mentioned in Psalm 90:10 and elsewhere, is starting to look like a paltry minimum life-expectancy. But don't let the running out of your factory warranty fool you. I expect at least fourscore years out of you, old man.

Sixty-three is also seven nines. Three nines ago, the year you turned 36, you married Cheryl, your helpmate and the world's best stepmom. Three nines forward is fourscore years and ten, which is also an acceptable target to aim at. Aim high—isn't that the motto of a certain organization you once belonged to?

You're the best Dad I've ever had. And it isn't as though I've never been asked to accept substitutes. I can think of one in particular, may he rest in pieces, who couldn't hold a candle to you. But let's not talk about him. Let's talk about how proud I have been of my Dad since I was a wee little kid, who secretly glowed inside when he overheard the kids at the local Lutheran school chat about how much they looked forward to my Dad's turn to preach in chapel, because they recognized him as the best preacher in the rota. Or let's talk about how well we got to know each other during my high school years when I was your take-along organist, and we spent so many Sundays driving and working and worshiping together.

Or how about how much laughter and singing we shared during so many long hours in the car, traveling between states (frequently Nebraska and Minnesota). Let's talk about the weird fact that I can count Iowa as one of my seven home states, even though I only lived there about a week, because you moved from "God's country" (Minnesota) just to give your boys a stable and well-funded home. Let's talk about your noble sacrifices, your loving anxiety for your boys, and the humiliating return you have sometimes had for it. Let's talk about your faithfulness in the Lord's work, even when it has been the habit of men to repay you poorly for it. Let's talk about the charm you bring to everyday things, like the purposeless room in an old apartment that you whimsically dubbed "the torture chamber," and the cordless phone that answers to the name of "porta-potty."

For almost 41 of your 63 years, you have been the best influence in my life. Thank you. And please consider going for another 41!

Two If By Eggplant

I had two days off, back-to-back, after Memorial Day. I decided to spend them with my parents, whom I hadn't visited in a while. I combined this trip with two objectives: first, to experiment on my loved ones with two eggplant dishes, only one of which I had tried before; and second, to get a haircut from my Dad. I totally forgot the second objective until I was driving home on Wednesday. As for the first objective, the results were mixed.

The first eggplant dish—the one I had tried before—was ratatouille. I picked up all the ingredients on my way out of town Monday night, excepting olive oil, salt, and pepper (which I trusted my parents to have handy) and basil (which I forgot about). I actually had to buy a live thyme plant, because it was the only way I could get fresh thyme without making an extra stop. When it came time to cook, I personally hand-chopped the eggplant, yellow squash, zucchini, onion, bell peppers (one each of four colors!), Roma tomatoes, parsley, thyme (not so much chopped as pinched the leaves off the stem), and garlic.

Once the ingredients were prepared, I cooked them as directed, adding a little extra time because I was using up all the ingredients rather than limiting myself to Emeril's measurements, so it took longer for the heat to propagate throughout the dish. The outcome was juicy, colorful, and full of delicious flavors. I was very pleased... except when I realized that my folks could probably make more or less the same dish in half the time, using the vegetable grill basket and a charcoal fire. I liked the dish, but I sensed a lukewarm reception by my parents.

The second eggplant dish was the Middle-East-style dip known as Baba Ganoush. And I'm afraid everything went wrong. For starters, I was counting on my parents using the grill, as they usually do when I come over. Apparently they had no such plans for this time, and I had to improvise using something like a broil setting on their oven. My father and I thought it prudent to line the bottom of the oven with aluminum foil before doing this, to protect the inside bottom surface from eggplant drippings. Disaster #1 was that the aluminum welded itself to the inside bottom surface of the oven. Disaster #2 was that it took ages to show any signs of softening.

Eventually I lost my patience, peeled the eggplant, and tried mashing it as well as I could. Finding this did not answer well, I put the eggplant in a pan on the stovetop and added a bit of water, giving it more time and thermal energy in the hope that it would soften. Finally, I gave it the best mash I could and popped open the jar of tahini that my father and I had found, after I had failed to find any at the store I shopped on the way out of town (at which time I picked up a tub of hummus as a potential substitute), and after we had both failed to find any tahini at a large grocery store down the highway from my folks' place (where I bought some sesame seeds with the idea of making my own tahini). Just for kicks, before returning home from that shopping trip, we poked our nose into the local market across the road from my parents' place. And what did we find? Tahini!

Disaster #3: Upon opening the jar of tahini and sticking a spoon into it, I found that it had coagulated into one very solid lump. I tried to stir it, but the spoon became hopelessly stuck. I tried to scrape out about half of the contents of the jar, but spilled most of it into the mashed eggplant during the attempt. Then I just had to make the best of it, adding more lemon juice than the recipe called for in a hopeless bid to cut the overpowering flavor of sesame. I also added more of the garlic and parsley I had chopped earlier, some cumin, salt, and pepper, but in spite of everything the dip persisted in having an ugly brownish color, clumpy dry pastelike texture, and a flavor strongly suggestive of extra-oily peanut butter, only with an added edge of bitterness. The eggplant would have disappeared into it altogether, were it not for the vegetable's persistence in sticking together in tough, stringy lumps.

The only thing more devastating than having to dump most of the dip into the trash (especially considering the money spent on its ingredients) was bearing the derisive sniffs of my father (who obviously considers me a fool for even trying this) and the studied nonchalance of my stepmother (when I would have fully understood her being furious). I got the distinct impression that I am not welcome to foist an experiment in Baba Ganoush on their kitchen again... Bummer.

Tonight I recovered some of my self-esteem by making a successful veal Parmesan sandwich on ciabatta bread. I felt particularly gleeful about the fact that the bread (a clearance item), the breaded veal cutlets (four in a package), the cheese (pre-sliced mozzarella), and the spaghetti sauce (a jar of the generic brand), added up to a mere $10 at the cash register. With perhaps a side of steamed veggies and noodles in a warm sauce, a restaurant could sell one of these sandwiches for about what I paid for the makings of four of them, plus extra rolls and cheese. Beam with pride, ye bachelors!

A Very Absinthe Christmas

How did I spend my Christmas vacation? Well, teacher (and fellow classmates), I applied myself energetically to accompanying three Divine Services, complete with vocal solos, choir numbers, and more than the usual quantity of hymns. Then I set the cats up for a few days on their own (putting out extra food and water), gathered up a few things, and hit the road.

Sunday the 25th was a beautiful day to drive from Saint Louis to the Lake of the Ozarks. Ideal, in fact: the temperatures were cool but not cold, the sky was a bright clear blue, the traffic was within mental-health tolerances, and I managed not to get ticketed for speeding this time.

I arrived at my parents' lovely home around three in the afternoon. I enjoyed playing Santa Claus, contributing to their nicely-stocked minibar a bottle of Glendronach 12-year-old single malt Scotch and a selection of beer bottle bracelets to help keep track of whose beer is whose at any reasonably-sized convivial gathering. I also brought along a bottle of 110-proof absinthe, a box of sugar cubes, and a slotted spoon designed to rest on top of a glass, so that we could experiment with that oft-romanticized, and sometimes demonized, herbal spirit.

Well, I'm no wiser as to what wormwood tastes like, but the herbal blend of which it is a part tasted to me a lot like licorice. Licorice with a kick. After sipping it straight, mixing it in the wrong proportions, and then mixing it right (with two parts absinthe to three of water and a sugar cube), my father and I both concluded that one was too many, and two was not enough. We were pretty well buzzed after having two absinthes each for lunch on Tuesday.

We enjoyed food as much as drink. For Christmas Day's supper, Stepmum cooked up a wonderful shank-cut, hickory-smoked ham and served it with crusty bread, scalloped potatoes, and an off-the-beaten-path green bean casserole made in the style of cauliflower casserole (with cheese and biscuit crumbs and... heck, I'm going to need to get that recipe!). Monday night's feast focused on homemade pizza whose crust was made with beer, and topped with a generous mixture of shredded mozzarella and fontina, plus a sprinkling of Grana Padano. One pie was dressed in black olive which we all found very yummy, the other in a combination of pepperoni, onion, and mushrooms which might be frankly dangerous. And finally, Tuesday night we dined out at a Mexican joint that served $1.50 margaritas and cuisine that sets one's mouth on fire so that it isn't hard to down three margaritas in an hour.

Besides watching whatever was on TV, we spent our time in a variety of amusements. Dad and I went out to see the new Sherlock Holmes movie and to consume mass quantities of popcorn. One day we also watched a DVD of District 9 while Stepmom was at work, and we agreed that she wouldn't have liked it. I particularly enjoyed the cheese flight we shared over lunch on Monday, and the return flight on Tuesday, when the main attractions were taleggio (a soft, strong-flavored Italian cheese), manchego (a hard, flavorful Spanish sheep's-milk variety), and a nice safe English favorite, Double Gloucester. Cut into hunks, they all went nicely when eaten alone or on a cracker.

The days I spent relaxing with my folks were very restorative. I didn't mind being indoors while it rained, froze, and frosted up over the successive days and nights, so long as it always seemed to be sunny or at least clear when we went out, and I had good weather for driving home again. I got a bit of reading done too, both in audio-book form (with a couple of Neil Gaiman novels on my CD player) and on paper (as I've been working my way through The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. And I'll soon be spending more time reading books in electronic format, now that my boss & his wife have given me a sleek Kindle for Christmas. I've already "bought" a couple dozen free books in Kindle format.

But, after all, it's nice to be home. I started to miss my cats, painfully, last night when something on my parents' TV reminded me of them. And I've been missing my very own, familiar bed on which I seem to get more sleep, and better sleep, than anywhere else on average. I had fun with my parents, and their hospitality is wonderful, but there's no pillow like your own pillow!

Virtual Reality Holographic Phone Call Dream

I just woke up from the weirdest dream ever. I dreamt that I was spending the Thanksgiving holiday with my West Coast friends (people I have actually spent Thanksgiving with, so it wasn't totally surreal). Something really tragic had happened but none of us were talking about it.

Another guest who showed up for dinner was a guy named Dan that we all knew in college, who was the best man at my friends' wedding but with whom I had never been at all close. I remember at one point that he introduced himself to me and shook my hand as though we had never met before, all while I'm thinking, "What a dick. He's got to be kidding me."

Then it came time to call the family and say Happy Thanksgiving to them. I stepped into a type of telephone that enabled me to appear as a hologram before the people I was calling, and to interact with them in a real-time, virtual-reality experience of where they were at. I have no idea how this would work outside of Star Trek.

First I called my Dad and Stepmom. I think I appeared in the backseat of their car while they were driving home from dinner with another couple. This is the part of the dream I remember least clearly, but it was full of warmth and humor, and there was something in it about a gift exchange in which Dad had gotten her an electronic toy that he really wanted rather than the new TV she had been expecting, but the way Dad facetiously made a note of the TV idea suggested to me that he had one more surprise in store for her.

Then I called my Mom. With her were my half-brother Jake, my uncle Mark, and (I kid you not) my Stepdad, notwithstanding the fact that he died in 2004. Perhaps he was a feature of the VR. I noticed that he didn't say anything to me, and I didn't say anything to him, yet within the context of the dream I didn't consider it strange to see him there.

My Mom was having a fit because the boys weren't cooperating with her idea of a happy family holiday. They had started painting a mural together, which was supposed to show a cart full of the things they were thankful for, but after painting the cart they had started to argue, and so nothing else had been added. I tried to cheer Mom up, first with a holographic hug (in which I could have sworn I felt my fingers touch her back) and then by offering Jake a holographic kick in the ass, which made my Mom laugh for a moment.

But as she went on describing what was going on, my Mom began to cry and I didn't know what to say, so I walked away to follow Jake and see what he was doing in the next room. He was standing in front of the unfinished mural with paints and a brush, undecided about what to do. As I passed him, I said for his ears alone: "Hint: paint people."

Then, just to appear as cool as I felt, I kept walking, right out the side door (taking some satisfaction in how the screen slammed behind me) and down the sidewalk toward the street. It wasn't exactly where my Mom lives now. Maybe she had moved to Miami or something. The neighborhood was all lit up with decorations. But I only had eyes for the palms of my hands, which (in the VR simulation) were covered with labeled buttons controlling different aspects of the call. To my frustration, I couldn't find one that said "Hang up."

Plus, as sirens approached, I grew increasingly concerned that I may have accidentally pushed the "extreme emergency call" button and that my Mom would think I had prank-called 911 on her house. As the embarrassment reached dream-engulfing levels, I woke up and decided to write this. After taking a pee, that is.

And now that I've written it, I'm going to pick a couple of goofy pictures to stick with it, and click "publish post," so you can read it. And now you've read it, which catches us up to the present moment. So what do you think? Was that a weird dream, or what?

Bed Warmer

As my city is buried deeper and deeper under ice, sleet, and snow, I find my thoughts turning towards one question: How to stay warm?

This is a particular problem in my present apartment, where the newish vinyl windows are so badly insulated that the vertical blinds rattle when the wind gusts. There have been times when I could feel a cold draft through the tight-shut windows, even while standing several feet away. The doors aren't tightly sealed, either, but it's the windows that really kill me.

I miss my old apartment, with its elderly metal-framed windows and the over-abundant heat that rose up from the basement. I remember having to crack a window open sometimes to let out excess heat, even on a cold winter day. Now for warmth I depend on my own apartment's central heating, which at full blast doesn't quite take the chill off the air on windy days like this. Back around Christmas, I suffered through a few nights when, even curled up with a pile of quilts tucked in all around me, my body heat couldn't keep up with the icy draft that somehow stabbed its way into my blanket cocoon.

So I told my father today while we were on the phone, comparing notes about the grandmother storm now blanketing our area. I was waxing nostalgic about hot water bottles, electric blankets, and those pans of hot stones people used to transfer from the fireplace to the bottom of their bedclothes. That's when my father told me about a simple type of bedwarmer one of his ex-parishioners had made for him, something anybody with a little needle-and-thread know-how could make at home, and which could very quickly, simply, and safely warm up your bed on a cold winter's night.

Start with a cloth pouch. You can make one yourself out of your choice of fabric, or you can use a pillowcase or slip-cover of some kind. Fill the bag with 2 to 4 pounds of dried beans, or (if you live near a farm supply store) feed corn, making sure to discard any plastic wrappings. Sew the bag shut.

When you want to warm up your bed, pop this bag of beans or corn into the microwave and heat it for a couple of minutes. (You may have to put up with a certain smell when you do this.) Carefully wrap the bag in a towel and/or a second pillowcase to avoid burning yourself, and stick the bundle under the covers of your bed. A few minutes later, you should be able to get into a nice, toasty-warm bed. Push the bed-warming bundle toward the foot of your bed and it will heat your feet for a while, too.

Here's a crafty website that gives a fully illustrated explanation of how to make one of these bed-warmers from scratch. I think they would make a great gift. Really. I could use one right now!

Thanks, Dad

Downside of Singleness

The elderly father of a friend of mine recently had cancer surgery. During the time around the operation, my friend, his four brothers, and their wives all took turns waiting on their mother, keeping Dad's spirits up, contributing to a webpage designed to keep their family and friends up-to-date on Dad's condition, and generally sharing the responsibility.

When my friend told me about all this, I was especially struck by the role that Dad's daughters-in-law played. A couple of them sounded particularly close to him. They carried a good deal of the load of caring and, when necessary, being firm.

It was an inspiring story. But for me, it was also a bit depressing. No family looks forward to the time of its life when the kids need to take care of the parents. But it would be a much more pleasant prospect to look forward to if I had a helpmate to share it with, or if my brothers had partners that could be relied on in a crunch. Unfortunately, one of my sisters-in-law hates my parents with a fanatical passion, and the other is a bit of a mess.

Then there is the matter of my brothers themselves. One of them, although married and the father of a beautiful little girl, can hardly take care of himself (a description that also goes for his wife). At this point I can't even imagine him growing up to the point where he can take care of someone else. It seems much more likely that, when it comes time for Mom to lean on someone, I'll end up supporting my youngest brother as well.

The middle boy, divorced, also a parent, has proven much more adept at taking care of himself. He's turned it into an art-form, actually. But will he ever be able to help me care for Mom? I would like to hope that he'll surprise me.

I feel sad for my Mom when I think about this. How much good can one slob bachelor do for her, with or without the "help" of one world-class narcissist and one borderline personality disorder? As for my Dad and/or Stepmom, the prospect is even more lonely. Neither of my brothers has any relationship with them--one as a result of his own choices, the other because they're not even related to him.

I want to be there for them. But at the same time, it's a lonely prospect when nobody is going to be there for me. It's a downside of living in an age of shrinking families, broken families, geographically dislocated families. And it is above all a downside of being a confirmed bachelor with dwindling chances of ever being anything but.

Overheard

MAN: You've got your father's sense of humor.

GIRL: No, he's still got it.

Actually, I heard this second hand, from the girl's father. They're not related to me, but it sure sounds like my family...

Weep, Ye Bachelors

I have asked my two Moms to help me with a new thread that I'm going to call "Comfort Food." It's not about fancy gourmet recipes, or even "so easy you can do it yourself" tips for dining at home. Purely and simply, it's about what you and I are missing by not being home for dinner cooked the way Mama makes it.

Our first entry is actually something Mom whipped up a couple days ago for my brother Jake, based on a meal our late Grandpa used to make. Though proud of his Sicilian heritage and scary-good at making Italian-style spaghetti and meatballs with all the trimmings -- a family meal as elaborate as many a Thanksgiving feast -- when he didn't feel like going to a lot of trouble, Gramps liked to make Swedish meatballs.

Now, I'm sure ethnic Swedes will disavow this recipe. The gravy isn't made from scratch. The meatballs aren't seasoned with, gosh I don't know, allspice or whatever it is they're supposed to have in them. Like I said, though, this isn't about the recipe. I mean, it's not a cooking show. It's just home, right?

HERE IT IS:

Mix 2 lb ground beef, one egg, about a cup of prepared dry bread crumbs (the Italian flavored kind is OK, it doesn't matter--use whatever you have on hand), enough milk to soften the breadcrumbs, salt, pepper, dried sage, and Worcestershire sauce. Mom isn't giving measurements, so the proportions are up to you. Roll the resulting mixture into golf-ball-sized lumps. Bake for half an hour; Mom doesn't mention the oven temp so let's say 350 F by default. Take out of the oven, cover the meatballs with a big can of cream of mushroom soup, and bake again until bubbly. Put the gravy over your mashed taters.

Did we mention you're serving this with mashed potatoes? Not just mashed potatoes, but also "green peas alla Grandpa." The peas are cooked in butter with a bit of onion added. When my brother Ryan and I were little, Grandma used to make fruited jello for us. Grandpa, on the other hand, was more inclined to put out a lettuce or cucumber salad. And a good bread. Had to have bread. Vienna or Italian.

So far our first installment, courtesy of my Nebraska-based Mom. Keep your hanky handy, bachelors. There will be more salivating, and perhaps weeping, in the weeks to come...

The Quotable Departed

This week, my mother was reminiscing about her late second husband, my stepfather, who had a unique way of expressing himself. For example, she understandably remembers this exchange:

SHE: How do you feel?

HE: Like I was eaten by a wolf and s*** off a cliff.

I think this quote works on many levels. OK, it makes me laugh. This is more than I can say for Mom's favorite example of the words I put to my feelings when I was very little:

SHE: How do you feel?

ME: Like gray eggs.

Back from Vacation

I've arrived safely at home after a five-day trip to Nebraska to see my mother for the first time in two years. I'll have lots to dish on when I have the strength to write it. Till then, consider this picture a taste of things to come.

No, my mother did not beat me up. Why would you even think that?!

Thanks to a story I'm not ready to tell you yet, I have hatched a fantasy grudge-match between my brother Ryan's girlfriend and my half-brother Jake's wife. I would pay to see it happen!

UPDATE: On second thought, I had probably better keep most of this to myself. There are too many ways I can get in trouble for doing otherwise. However, I can't resist blurting out that on Thursday night my half-sister-in-law Celia picked a fistfight with her brother, who is a prizefighter. And although he may have been pulling his punches, when Jake pulled her off him he had a black eye and a chipped tooth to her cut lip. Go Celia!

Last Night's Dinner

I'm writing from my Mom's brand new notebook computer, which I bought for her on the first night of my one-week visit to her digs in Nebraska. In celebration of Mom's homecoming online, I would like to share what she made for last night's dinner.

The main course was inspired by a Nebraska culinary tradition inherited from Bohemian immigrants. Due to trademark restrictions owing to the first restaurant you see when you drive across the Nebraska border, we are not allowed to call last night's main course "Runza." The title of the dish will therefore be "CABBAGE ROLL CASSEROLE."

First, grease the bottom of a 9"x13" pan. Spread one tube of crescent roll dough on the bottom of the pan and stretch it out to cover the bottom of the pan. Brown 2 pounds of ground beef and a good-sized onion, chopped. When this mixture is almost done, add about 3 cups of shredded cabbage (Mom used most of a 14-ounce bag of cole-slaw mix to save time). Also add one can cream of mushroom soup, salt and pepper, and seasonings to taste. Stir together and simmer until heated throughout. Then spread this mixture on top of the crescent-dough crust. Top with about a cup and a half of shredded Cheddar cheese. Lay another tube's worth of crescent dough on top, in a sheet. Bake at 350 F for 20-25 minutes or until golden brown on top. Watch it so that it doesn't overbake. It's delicious!!

For a side dish, Mom made a cucumber salad. Here's what she did. First, she peeled two medium-sized cucumbers and sliced them into thin round slices. Add about a fourth of a cup of sliced onion. In a separate bowl, mix three-fourths of a cup of Hellman's mayonnaise, three tablespoons of milk, a quarter-cup of sugar, two teaspoons of vinegar, salt and pepper.
Stir well and pour this dressing over the cukes and onions. Let the salad sit in the fridge for about half an hour before you serve it, so the flavors blend together.

Tonight's repast is going to be Grandpa Sarico's secret-family-recipe Italian sausage, peppers, and onions on soft Italian bread. The family traditionally serves this with fried potato slices and lots of cold beer. Drooling may now commence!

IMAGES: Two of the infinite varieties of runza. The first one looks a good deal like the dish Mom made last night.

Thank You, Nebraska

My mother works for a state agency in Nebraska. She's been on their payroll for something like 15 years. Her job is emotionally draining, physically hazardous, and constantly on the verge of being de-funded by some idiot in Lincoln, but she keeps at it.

This summer, we put our thinking caps on and tried to think of a way we could spend some quality time together. Mind you, she gets an ample dosage of my youngest brother Jake, since they live in the same town and if she isn't babysitting his 2-year-old daughter, she's babysitting him. (His marriage seems to be based on that of Stanley & Stella Kowalski. No week is complete without someone getting thrown out of the house, or getting arrested, or going to the emergency room, etc.). And because the rest of her family, except me, lives in the greater Twin Cities area, she spends most of her vacation days there and, as a result, spends as much time with middle son Ryan and his 5-year-old son as any sane person can stand. But what about me? Poor little old "Number One Son" in St. Louis, who hasn't brightened his mother's eyes since Grandpa's funeral in the spring of '08? Hence the hope that we could somehow synchronize our next vacation days and, with the blessing, share a couple of days in the lavish cultural ambience of, say, Omaha.

But here's the crap Nebraska state employees have to put up with. First, in the hope of getting several consecutive weekdays off in the middle of August (the only time I could be spared from a plethora of responsibilities), she had to apply for her preferred vacation days around the end of June and keep her fingers crossed all the way through July. Then, yesterday, she called me with the wonderful news that her vacation days had been awarded... but they were the precise days of the week that would be most awkward for me to get away. She apparently appealed to her supervisor, because she called me today while I was at work and said they had given her all of next week off and could I take my vacation then?

I kid you not. I had to ask my boss, at quitting time on Thursday, whether I could take next Monday through Friday as vacation days. The great State of Nebraska requires its employees to apply for vacation a month in advance: no less and, regardless of how long you've been planning, no more. And yet, for all the time they have to consider the request, they put off their answer so long that the other party involved has to request a week's vacation on four days' notice. Classy!

How fortunate I am that my boss is gracious and understanding, that nobody else who works for him is going to be out next week, and that (other than having to write an entire 48-page magazine by the end of the month) he doesn't feel pressured by any insanely urgent deadlines.

I mean, let's be serious. What if someone's once-in-a-decade, paid-in-advance family reunion was on the line? "Sorry, Mrs. Rosicky, we've decided to deny the request you submitted a month ago. I'm sure your extended family will understand. Maybe they can reschedule that four-day weekend in Karlovy Vary for this coming Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday. By the way, can you take the on-call pager with you?"

Here's to Marriage

Opponents of gay marriage have marshaled a number of good arguments in support of the proposition that marriage is no more and no less than the union of a man and a woman for life. And for the most part I agree with them.

Yes, marriage was instituted by God, not originally defined by the laws of men. Yes, it is a holy mystery for the faithful to contemplate, not just a legal contract or a social status. Yes, it is a reflection of the relationship between our Lord (as the Bridegroom) and the church (as His bride), which we mock at our peril. Yes, it is a divine calling which only God can consecrate. Yes, it is a matter for church, not state. It is a matter pertaining to the free exercise of religion, which the U.S. Constitution protects from government meddling. Yes, it is the most proper, right, and beneficial basis for the begetting and upbringing of children.

Community property, pensions, survivor benefits, and so forth are only so much window dressing added by the cumulative custom of our society and its laws; and those customs can be observed without marriage. But the faithful have a right to believe and cherish the faith that has been handed to them, including the article of marriage as God created it and intends to bless it.

Now I have a thought I would like to add to all this. I speak as a never-married bachelor a couple years shy of 40, one who never intended to be celibate for life, one who still dreads the effort of doinng so, and one who sees the likelihood of any God-pleasing alternative dwindling to nil. Becoming gay would sure be easy. I know a lot of gay guys; I'm a Symphony groupie, remember? They seem to be lovely people. It wouldn't be hard to hook up with someone who shares the same life energy, the same taste, maybe even the same general way of thinking. The more we had in common, the more stable and long-lasting the relationship would probably be. But at bottom, what I would I get out of it that I couldn't have all by myself? Therein lies the flaw, I think, in the very best gay partnership imaginable: the essential ingredient of narcissism.

My theory is that only one type of life partner can bring out the best in a man: a woman. And though I don't have much direct experience with the female sex, I reckon the reverse is equally true. Men and women need each other because they are so different, so opposite to each other at the deepest level. Even butch women are profoundly unlike men in character and mentality. And most so-called "effeminate" men think and behave in a way distinctly different from most women. Experience confirms this. Have you ever known a woman who really acted like a gay man? In my whole life I only met one--an experience whose strangeness goes right to my point. Men and women think so differently that they are like alien life forms to each other, an eternal and unsolvable mystery--fascinating at best, irreconcilable at worst, sometimes a danger to each other, sometimes both immovable and irresistable at the same time.

I believe, in spite of having observed some of the worst man-woman relationships in the free world and having personally participated in zero, that each sex's key to the highest happiness lies in an ironclad promise to become "one flesh" with the other. I believe that the madness and frustration each spouse must feel in learning to communicate with the other is far from a reservation against this theory, but rather goes straight to the point of it. We need our opposite in order to bring out the best parts of ourselves and to temper the worst parts. We need to be forced to accommodate our life-habits, thought-forms, and heart-language to someone completely different. We need the person we cuddle with in the wee hours to be the one who shakes us out of our comfort zone so that we may truly learn what it means to love, to give, to serve, to forgive, to be kind, patient, self-controlled, faithful, gentle, humble, etc.

Marriage to a partner of the opposite sex is guaranteed to teach that lesson, even if the student refuses to learn it. Partnership with someone "just like me," however, isn't marriage. It's self-abuse by proxy. It's self-indulgence. Sooner or later, at least one member of the partnership must realize that each of them has done nothing but feed his own, or the other's, narcissism. And then it will be over, and another partnership just like it may take its place because no lesson will have been learned.

It's as if marriage (man + woman) is God's school to teach us to be complete human beings. In my opinion, no one who hasn't graduated from that school should be allowed to raise new human beings. But even if no one listens to my opinion on that, I believe God's opinion on the usefulness of the man and woman becoming "one flesh" must not be lightly set aside. To do so would be to privilege a class of incurable narcissists' feelings of self-worth in preference to the whole society's right to think, believe, and judge as they choose about matters that lie outside the competency of any judge or civil servant. To do so would be to privilege chronic self-abuse above one's opportunity to be challenged by the ways and thoughts of the other, the opportunity to form a synthesis with them so as to become more than the sum of our parts.

Random Quotability

I had just opened the next book I plan to read when I saw the following quote on the dedication page:

To be nobody but yourself in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you everybody else means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight; and never stop fighting. (e e cummings)

Wow. I think that sums up a great deal that has been going on in my personal life, as well as the challenge that I believe faces my community of faith. It puts me in mind of pearls of wisdom that fell from my father's lips when I was a child just beginning to feel the pressure of which cummings speaks. One was: "Someone calling you a duck doesn't make you a duck." Another was: "If everyone else decides to jump off a cliff, that doesn't mean you should jump too." And of course, there was always: "Use your brains for something besides fertilizer for hair."

Hmmm. When I look in the mirror now and see how little hair is still growing up top, I suppose I should take pride in knowing that I've followed Dad's advice. And looking at this picture of e e cummings, I reckon he must have followed similar advice...

Weekend Whimsy

This past weekend brought me another road trip, including a day and two nights of conviviality with my parents, a preaching engagement, and two scenic drives that came just short of being uncomfortably long.

The outward trip came a little closer, however. It was a glorious Friday afternoon and only my third road trip in the "new" VW, I was rarin' to crack open a can of Fahrvergnügen. But except for one very brief stretch of one of the nicest highways you could ask for, I spent most of the trip trapped behind one slow-poke after another.

First there was a "wide load" truck that drove just under the legal limit (ugh!). Then there was a flat-bed carrying a low-slung, irreguarly-shaped cargo covered in a flapping tarp behind a tractor that lost speed on every up-hill grade. The latter finally turned off the highway... two driveways short of the road my parents live on. Aaargh!

But there was one unexpected bright spot. I got to try out my car's passing capability, particularly coming out of the last town before my parents' village that was big enough to have a four-way controlled intersection. As the cars ahead of me took their time accelerating to highway speed, I joyfully zoomed around them. And I laughed to hear my self shouting at the first guy I passed: "Two-point-five liters, beeatch!"

The only other memorable whimsy of the weekend is the suggestion with which my father sent me to bed laughing last night. I had dry, hacking, smoke-related coughing fit as I turned back the bedclothes in the guest room. I heard my father shouting something from the living room, so I opened the bedroom door to ask him to repeat it. He obliged: "Shouldn't you say 'Quote...'?"

This is so like my Dad, who follows a belch with "...or words to that effect," who calls the cordless phone a "port-a-potty," and whose explanation of the acronym of the rural oil company "M.F.A." cannot be repeated on a family blog. For the rest of the night, every time I visualized myself excusing a coughing fit with the words "End quote," I broke up laughing... which led to more coughing... ("End quote")... You see what I mean. It took me a long time to get to sleep!

Greek Booze

A few days ago, I dined out at my favorite neighborhood restaurant, a Greek place called Ari's. While I was there, I decided once and for all to satisfy my curiosity about one of the signature drinks of Greek culture: ouzo.

I had heard of the "ouzo effect," but had never beheld it with my own eyes. I'm all for viewing wonders of nature, as long as they are drinkable and enlivened by the elixir of joy (i.e., alcohol). For example, I have long been fascinated by the principle that keeps the black beer on top of the tan beer in a glass of Black & Tan. Besides, I like how both colors taste. But the closest I had come to drinking ouzo was (forgive me) Jägermeister, an ethnically-themed liquor with a similar herbal flavor profile. I liked that drink well enough, so I figured ouzo would be safe to try.

Well, now I know better. Ouzo is actually quite dangerous, if you ask me. A body could get hooked on it if a body isn't careful. For one thing, there's the flavor with its hint of licorice: it goes down very easily. For another, there's the mysteriously cloudy appearance the drink takes on as soon as you mix the clear booze with equally clear water or even ice.

The reason for this effect is that ouzo contains an aromatic oil from some herb in the anise family, an oil that dissolves in alcohol but not in water. So, while the water readily dissolves the alcohol and the alochol holds the oil (called anethole) suspended in a stable solution, the water and the anethole duke it out on a molecular level. The result is a cloudy appearance, similar to an oil-in-water emulsion. It's the same thing that happens when absinthe drinkers pour water into their drink over that sugar-cube-on-a-slotted-spoon gizmo. And you thought the dissolving sugar had something to do with it!

Admittedly, the cloudy effect only enhances the danger of drinking ouzo while you still have enough neurons firing to register surprise at the mysteries of the universe. But then again, the drink's pleasant flavor is only dangerous while your tastebuds last. Drink with care, people!

During that same visit to Ari's, I noticed that they now offer a "Greek Martini," which contains two interesting flavors of organic vodka: one distilled directly from cucumbers, and the other based on tomatoes. On a later visit, yesterday in fact, I enjoyed a sample of the cucumber vodka. Then I ordered a Bloody Mary that contained the tomato vodka.

Yes, I realize that the Bloody Mary is a drink for momma's boys. In my case, that's a step-momma's boy. Nearly all of the Bloody Marys I have had in my adult life were drunk in the fellowship of my Dad and Stepmom. I've come to think of her whenever that drink comes up. And I'm used to the family recipe containing tomato juice, lime juice, Worcestershire and Tobasco sauces, salt and pepper, a mess of stuffed green olives, and celery salt (an addition that my Dad prefers to having a stalk of celery poke one in the eye as one raises the wrist).

Much as I like the family recipe, I was sold on Ari's Bloody Mary as soon as the bartender explained what was in it. It was really fun to watch the guy make it, too. When I discussed it with Dad later on, I admitted that a glass of the drink contained only tiny amounts of most of the ingredients. Dad wisely pointed out that most of the ingredients probably play little role in the actual flavor, other than the effect they have on your imagination as you think of them being in there. Nevertheless, because it's such an interesting recipe, I'm going to share it as it was shared with me - i.e. without any specific measurements or proportions, so be aware that you'll have to do a lot of experimentation to get it right. Have fun!

Ari's Bloody Mary Mix
A nice, dark beer
Fresh tomatoes
Onion juice
Olive juice
Sauerkraut juice
Tobasco sauce
Hot Wings sauce
Worcestershire sauce
A-1 steak sauce
Kosher salt
Pepper

First, let the beer stand in a glass overnight so that it goes completely flat. Then peel the tomatoes and crush them to a pulpy juice (I gather the seeds must be strained out). Add these ingredients, and small amounts of all the others, to an empty one-gallon juice jug. Screw the cap on and, as Ari's bartender says, "shake the $#!% out of it." Keep the jug in the fridge until it's needed. Then, pour it over a shot of tomato vodka on ice in a tall salt-rimmed glass, and stir.

Strangely, the version I served was not garnished with olives or celery, just a straw to stir it with. It had a nice zing that seared the surface of my tongue while, at the same time, delivering an interestingly nuanced flavor. There were a couple of moments when my nose picked up something unexpected as I leaned in for another sip - maybe even something just a bit "off" - but the next moment, my taste buds would say, "That's a Bloody Mary all right."

If I had to tinker with this recipe, I might eventually question whether the Hot Wings sauce and the A-1 really served any purpose not already covered by the Tobasco and Worcestershire, and whether a couple of olives and cocktail onions might not stand in for their respective juices. I might also debate amongst myself as to which form of celery (fresh or powdered) should be reintroduced to the recipe. I might also add a touch of clam juice - but I'm weird that way. The thing is, receipes like this are never settled. They are always a work in progress. Really there are countless ingredients you could try, and that some people may even consider essential. Once you begin experimenting, it only ends when you hang up your last stir-stick and salt your last rim...

My Favorite Subject...

As I am a fat, stupid jerk, naturally, my favorite topic is... me. Here are two more little factoids on that fascinating subject.

1. I have a horror of being bored. It's remarkable, really, considering how little it takes to keep me amused. I try not to go anywhere without a book to read. Before I go out of town, visit a doctor, or have my car worked on, I grab a book to take with me. I usually bring one to Symphony Chorus rehearsals, to read during down-time. More than one person told me at tonight's rehearsal that they wouldn't recognize me without a book in my hand. Sometimes I even take a book with me to church, in case I have extra time to blow before the service starts, or what have you.

One story that goes with this trait of mine dates back to my grandfather's funeral in August. My Mom, brother, and I were heading to the funeral home for the wake. I guessed (correctly, it turned out) that it was going to be three hours of tedium, surrounded by people I don't know. People from the old neighborhood my grandparents moved out of before I was born. Relatives I haven't seen since my age was in single digits, if ever. Friends, co-workers, and neighbors of my aunts and uncles, who quickly lost interest in introducing me to everyone.

I have, as I believe my mother & brother understood, a profound horror of boredom; but they wouldn't let me bring a book to read during this three hour ordeal. I was highly peeved. It felt like they wanted to hurt me. What really got me was that my brother hooked up with one of his tarty girlfriends and spent the entire time tucked off in a corner with her, where they sat heads together, amusing themselves and not bothering to make conversation with anyone else. I came off with the better end of the deal. I renewed my acquaintance with some cousins who were actually fun to talk with, while my brother complained afterward that nobody paid any attention to him.

Poor baby. The schmuck nevertheless arranged to have his tart meet him at the graveside and at the dinner afterwards, with identical results. I guess my brother also has a horror of being bored, only his defensive weapon of choice is women; or perhaps it's a horror of not being paid attention to. Actually, the latter sounds more like him.

2. I look like some guy. I have been told many, many times that I remind people of someone else they know. I guess I just have one of those faces that could belong to anybody; there's nothing original about it. I'm often mistaken for my Dad - once, even by a parent of a childhood friend who hadn't seen me in years. Nevertheless I've also been told I take after my mother and my stepmother, in looks.

One couple told me I was the spitting image of the son of their pastor back in Colorado. Someone else swore that I was the twin of an ex-classmate. A waitress at a bar where I stopped just once to use the ATM mistook me for a regular she hadn't seen for a while. In the eeriest incident, a librarian at my alma mater - a lady, mind you, who had known me when I was a student there - almost passed out during an alumni reunion because of my resemblance to her former boss, who had passed away years earlier.

Some of these resemblances aren't very flattering, I must say. I knew the guy who had passed away, and if I resemble him at all it's in being a flabby, hairy, ungraceful slob. The more weight I gain, the more unremarkable I look. I'm practically invisible, except when my oafishness isn't forcing people to turn their faces and hide a pained expression. So it's just as well that I have books (and music, besides) as a shield against boredom. I'm not going to get the attention from women that my brother gets. Not if they were ever so tarty.

Cocoa-Coma

My mother telephoned yesterday. She sounded happier than I have heard her in years. The reason for her joy? Chocolate!

Twenty-three years ago, my mother suffered a severe allergic reaction after over-indulging in chocolate-covered strawberries. From that day on, she conceived a strong aversion to both chocolate and strawberries. Incredible though it may sound, she hasn't touched either treat in all those years. At yet she never had herself tested for allergies, to find out which of the two triggered the allergy attack.

My mother is, under everything else, an hysteric. Throwing fits is her forte. Keening, fretting hissy fits, driven either by passion or by anxiety, are her spiritual gift. She has asthma attacks when people contradict her (even though she doesn't have asthma). She has chest pains when she is under pressure (even though her cardiologist swears she has the cleanest arterial walls in Nebraska). She breaks out in hives, feels as if her throat is swelling shut, and suddenly needs to sit or lie down during periods of crisis.

It has always been so, from the time my then-three-year-old brother fell down in an epileptic seizure and she needed to be pushed around the emergency room in a wheelchair, to the time she filed a missing-persons report on me when I, as a freshly-minted pastor just shy of 30, happened to go to a minister's conference out of town without notifying her in advance. Imagine my embarrassment when I found out the police had been looking for me because I didn't clear my movements with my mother - though I haven't lived in the same state with her since 1987.

So, obviously, I have always reckoned that Mom's supposed allergy to strawberries and/or chocolate was nothing but hysteria. She never made any effort to get a doctor's opinion on the matter, which only strengthened me in this conviction. Mom's joy, therefore, was no greater than my surprise when she told me that she had been tested, and found to be extremely allergic to strawberries. Not that being in mortal danger from the Number 3 Ice Cream Flavor in America is anything to be happy about. She was simply ecstatic over being able to go on her first chocolate binge in 23 years.

I hope she doesn't overdo it too much. That stuff can go to your head! But you know, I think this may give Mom a new lease on life. Or at least a relief-valve when the stress gets to be too much.