Post #860 Memorial Days Past

May 30, 2022 at 12:26 PM | Posted in Uncategorized | Comments Off on Post #860 Memorial Days Past

It’s Memorial Day in America. In the past, Memorial Day was known as Decoration Day because people would decorate the graves of their fallen soldiers. Now it’s called Memorial Day to memorialize, or remember, all our fallen soldiers whether they were family or not. This is my dad. He spent the first 30 years of his adult life in service to our country in the Marine Corps. He started as a private and finished up as a Master Gunnery Sargeant. He raised three kids, many dogs, two grandkids, and kept his smile to the end. My dad and I didn’t always get along; we didn’t understand each other. But I always admired and respected him.

Mom set out on a course to teach me to cook when I asked her to at about age 13. Dad taught me to cook long before then as a way to teach me responsibility. I remember him getting frustrated when I didn’t understand something he wanted me to learn, and I always felt terrible.

I was in second grade when he taught me to make popcorn. Popcorn was a great treat for us. It wasn’t relegated to just Friday night. We could have popcorn all the time, and we did. Mom’s cry of “Who wants popcorn?” would bring all of us running. Eventually, I ran a little slower cuz I was going to be the one who had to make it.

In the 60s, we had a really old-fashioned popper.

There was a glass lid, a base with an electric heating coil, the electric plug, and a metal tub to hold the popcorn. Perfectly designed to maim or kill a seven year old, but Dad impressed on me the importance of being careful, and since I didn’t want a burn, I was careful. I never suffered any injury from that deathtrap.

The first step was to assemble it, plug it in (no on/off switch here), and put a spoonful of Crisco in the bottom to melt. I loved that part, watching the pure white shortening turn clear and liquid, waiting until the very last iota of white disappeared from sight, noticing the heat waves through the melted liquid, and finally seeing the first small bubbles rising up from the bottom. That was my clue to put the popcorn in, CAREFULLY! You didn’t want anything splattering anywhere, and especially not your skin. After the first kernel popped, I had to start shaking the tub to keep the popcorn from burning. That meant hold the tub up from the coil and moving the popcorn around. But you had to hold the lid, too, or it would fall right off. So both hands were needed. The lid was hot, so a pot holder was necessary to keep from burning yourself. A little seven year old who didn’t reach the counter so was kneeling on a kitchen chair to get the height he needed to do all this was in grave danger of falling and spreading a burn or fire hazard all the place. Except I never did. I was full of the importance of making the family popcorn treat. It only took a few minutes from start to finish, but it always felt like a half hour. When the popcorn stopped popping, I unplugged the machine, and poured the hot popcorn into a large bowl. Then I lightly salted it (sometimes mom would melt butter for it but not often since we were messy kids) and walked the bowl out to the living room where we kids crowded around it on the couch. I always held the bowl since I made the popcorn.

I’ve eaten popcorn my whole life. Even when I was traveling, I’d have bags of microwave popcorn that I’d pop at work where there was a microwave, and take back to the hotel, where there wasn’t a microwave. And for me, one of the most delectable flavors is day-old popcorn. It’s so good.

Over time, Dad taught me and my brother all the things he thought boys should know: how to fight, how to take a punch, how to change a flat, how to change oil in a car, how to fish, how to bait a hook, how to clean a fish, and the most important one, how to grill.

There was a Dennis the Menace cartoon where his dad is walking outside with burgers on a plate towards a smoking grill and Dennis asks, “What is it about outside that makes dad the cooker?” That’s how it was in our house, too. Mom never used the grill. In my own household, when I was married to my ex, she never used the grill. My sister never uses the grill. I’m sure there are women out there who use the grill, but I don’t recall ever seeing them do it. A few years after we moved to Arizona, Dad decided it was time for me to learn the grill. We always had charcoal, although when I grew up, I’ve always used propane. He showed me how to pile the briquettes properly, and how to douse them with lighter fluid. I learned to time the coals, when to spread them, and dad taught me how to hold my hand at the grate level and count to test the heat level. Still no blisters, oddly enough. In case you don’t know, if you can hold your hand over the coals for seven seconds without major discomfort, the coals are ready. Any sooner, they’re too hot; any longer, they’re too cool.

The first thing I learned to grill was burgers and dogs, and I still love burgers and dogs. Ribs and chicken were next, then pork chops (yum!)(we’re having those tonight.) The last thing he trusted me with was steak. The only steak he liked (and still one of my favorites) was sirloin. He showed me the following trick to test for doneness. He liked done; I liked rare. He was constantly trying to get my steak right, but never managed it. He started by having me prep the steak by removing large fat block, and seasoning (salt, pepper, onion powder, and garlic powder (sound familiar?)). From there, I went on to actual cooking.

What you’re doing with this chart is lightly touching your fingers, then feeling the tension in the ball of muscle under your thumb. Then you touch the steak lightly and the tension you feel is the level of doneness. It really works. But mostly, I’ve been grilling steaks so long, I can tell just by timing.

Dad often said “my fingers taste good” because he mixed his potato salad by hand, not by spoon. And everyone raved over his potato salad. Potato salad is not something I eat. It contains a lot of ingredients that I don’t like, but mostly it’s the mayo. Potato salad is easy, as easy as any other salad. Prep your ingredients well ahead of time, toss them in a bowl, mix in mayo and you’re done.

1. 4 large potatoes, boiled, cooled, and peeled
2. 3 eggs, boiled, cooled, and shelled
3. 2 celery stalks, cleaned and minced
4. 1 medium onion, minced
5. 1/2 cup sweet pickle relish
6. 1/2 cup mayonnaise
7. 1-2 tablespoons yellow prepared mustard (dijon will work, too, if preferred)
8. 1/2 tsp celery salt
9. 1/2 tsp fresh ground black pepper
10. Paprika to garnish

Once all ingredients are prepped, place them all (omit the Paprika) in a large bowl and gently stir to combine. When everything is combined, taste and adjust seasonings if needed. If it appears dry, add more mayo by spoonfuls. If it appears wet, it will set while chilling. Sprinkle the top of the salad with Paprika, cover with plastic wrap, and chill for at least two hours.

Potato salad is another one of those recipes that’s as varied as the people making it. I’d use dill pickle relish if I were eating it because I prefer the tang to the sweet. I’d also probably use a Cesar dressing rather than mayo. But this recipe as it stands is what my dad made every time he made it, and there were seldom any leftovers. His fingers just tasted better.

We had one area in the back yard where grass would not grow. That’s where we churned ice cream. Ice cream, as you are likely aware, is a sweet custard that’s placed in a churn, and swirled in a cold environment until it thickens and rises and starts to freeze. These days, machines do it. Back then, we used these:

Crank by hand, ice and salt around the internal tub where the custard sets. It was a family effort. Mom made the custard. Dad set up the churn. We kids took it in turn to crank that handle. Dad finished it off when it became too stiff for us kids to handle. Mom then took over again and scooped it into a container and put it in the freezer. We got small bowls to have right then as a reward for our efforts, but the real deal was later, after dinner, with hot fudge sauce all over it.

One summer, Mom had an opportunity to drive back to Ohio with a friend to share the driving routine. It would give her a chance to see family and spend the summer in a cooler place than the Arizona desert. Dad made it happen for her, and he and I were left to our own devices. I cooked, as I usually do, and he ate with little comment (he was a man of few words.) About halfway through the summer, I was talking with her and she said, “Hey listen. Your dad wants me to tell you something. He saws you’re cooking his beef too rare.” I was floored. “Mom! He’s sitting across the table from me! Why didn’t he just say something?”

He didn’t want to hurt my feelings. That night, when I handed him his well done meat, I said, “You can tell me when you don’t like it, dad. I won’t cry or nothing.”

“You did when you were little.”

I shook my head and stood up. “I’m not little anymore, see?”

Today is Memorial Day, when we remember our fallen. Dad did not fall in combat, but we all remember his service and his life. Thanks for sharing those memories with me.

And as always,