Food, Family, and Memory

Adventures of White and Brown Bear

oliverbothbears I had one hell of a shower for my first born. Numerous gifts were given. I had been to my fair share of showers, both for weddings and babies, and now I wanted a big, fancy one of my own. Kimme had the best house, so she threw it for me with my other BFF, Kimberly. Robin made the unforgettable-to-this-day desserts.

Two of the gifts were what seemed at the time like simple, not-too-much-thought-put-into-it gestures. A white stuffed bear. And a brown stuffed bear.

By the time Oliver was only a few months old, he clung to those two bears — they had become his best friends, his security bears. Before the age of one, he would never leave the house without white and brown bear.

I was hired for a small part in a small movie, on location in Texas. I would be gone a week. Oliver, white bear, brown bear and I boarded a plane. I hired some random local girl to watch my baby while I worked on set. Things went well and I hired her for the following day too. But when I came back to the hotel, brown bear was missing. We went into panic mode, though the teenaged girl seemed way relaxed. I grilled her. “Where were you when you last saw brown bear?” She did seem to recall something about the pool area. It was now evening, dark already and we all went down to comb the pool area. No brown bear. As we were about to give up, I looked into the trash and there he was looking very forlorn, ready to take a trip to the local dump. He would never have been seen again had I not peeked into the trash can. What a relief. Separation anxiety averted.

Beach Memories

I keep connecting with an early childhood memory about summer days at the beach.

To get to the beach we'd drive a long time in our hot car and coming home, I was always sunburned, with gritty sand in my swimsuit. The travel part wasn't what I liked, but the picnic lunch my mom packed sure was. Fried chicken, potato salad, biscuits with butter and honey, watermelon slices, and egg salad.

My dad rarely came with us so usually my mom had a friend along for company while my sister and I splashed in the water, determined to annoy one another as much as possible. After awhile we'd get tired.

Then it was time to eat. We'd load up paper plates and settle down on the sand watching the older kids body surf. We didn't talk much but we'd share the moment enjoying our mom's food.

The Lighter Side of Death

My father always said the worst thing about getting old was watching your friends die. Second worst was diminished distance off the tee. Now that I’m over sixty, I can attest he was right on both counts. Nonetheless, even death and the rituals that accompany it, somehow never fail to offer up a little comic relief. On the other hand, there’s nothing funny about losing yardage.

Of course, the memorial services for friends in show business are always filled with laughter because on those occasions you have talented, funny people telling stories about other talented, funny people. However, non-pro deaths offer their own moments of black comedy. As cases in point, I offer the following two examples.

After my mother died, my father, my sister, her ten-year-old son and I went en masse to buy her tombstone at a place called Swink Monument. I have no recollection exactly why we picked them, but price may have been involved. Their office was in a mobile home surrounded by a concrete slab, on which various markers were displayed. (In case you haven’t guessed, this is in North Carolina). My father, following through on his philosophy to the end, picked neither the grandest stone nor the plainest. Then, we went inside to fill out the paperwork, except for my nephew who remained out doors, skateboarding through the monuments.

Dotsie Swink, the heavy-set woman who was assisting us, took down the basic information, then asked a question I’ve never heard before or since: You want slick on top?

Mimi’s Chicken Chow Mein – Ashiya, Japan to the A and P

mimichowmein After graduating from Alabama Polytechnic Institute (a.k.a. Auburn) and marrying my grandmother, my grandfather joined the Air Force. Starting their married lives in Ashiya, Japan, on the southern island of Kyushu, Mimi and Granddaddy were much akin to many newlyweds.

They were setting up house, planning a family, learning to cook, so on and so forth, yet, being in post World War II Japan influenced these Southern newlyweds more than they would ever realize. One of those influences was in the kitchen, where Mimi began her culinary prowess in the land of bamboo shoots, bean sprouts, and soy sauce. This was the 1950’s and upon return to the South, those Japanese and other Asian sways may still be found in her cooking today.

“Where we were in Japan, Southern Japan, we were on the same latitude lines as home, so the seasons, produce, and flora were much of the same as home… azaleas, camellias, etc. all grew and bloomed there.” Mimi said. Besides that, many Southerners eat many things over rice i.e. Creole, red beans, gumbo, and stews, so that part of the cuisine was a tête-à-tête between the two cultures for sure.

My Toas-Tite

I was walking past Zabar’s the other day and I noticed an ad in the window trumpeting the return of the Toas-Tite grilled sandwich maker. Just seeing the word – Toas-Tite – tossed me back six decades to my earliest childhood cooking experiences in suburban Baltimore. It seemed every family had one of these gizmos hanging on their kitchen wall or crammed into a drawer.

I entered Zabar’s and climbed the steps to the second floor, where they sell pots, pans and every cooking gadget known to mankind, and they had a whole stack of them, boxed neatly in cardboard by a company that calls itself Replica Products, which says it all. The Toas-Tite of my toddlerhood was cast iron and weighed four or five pounds. I had to wait until I got big enough to lift it. This replica – perfect to the eye – comes in at about a pound-and-a-half, tops. Okay, fine. That’s life.

I had to have it.

Food, Family and Memory