Friday, January 22, 2010
Heading Toward the Finish Line
As we near the time to waddle out of the major eating season of the year, I breathe a sigh of both thanks for the opportunity and relief that once again, it didn’t kill me. Starting with Thanksgiving and extending to Valentine’s Day, treats are the order of the day.
My creative assistant, Larry, has offered the helpful suggestion that, like any major competition, we need to train for the season. Note now, you need to prepare. You can’t just go into this cold turkey. Beginning in late October or early November, we should begin to overeat just a bit each day in order to stretch our stomachs, so that they can accommodate the coming onslaught. He has named this regimen “The Stomach Pack.” Not such a bad plan, since there almost certainly will be quite a feast coming soon to a table near you. As Oscar Wilde said in The Importance of Being Earnest, “I hate people who are not serious about their meals.” This is crucial business.
The marathon begins with the fourth Thursday of November. Face it, Thanksgiving is huge! Even those who don’t eat much of anything except sandwiches as a regular habit—and in some circles, that includes breakfast—are faced with fowl, meat, vegetables, assorted bread products and other grain-based starches, plus potatoes, relishes and desserts: most served separately, not stacked, and all at one meal. It’s quite a stretch. Even through the tryptophan-induced haze, those who haven’t trained risk facing severe pain.
From there we move, admittedly now a bit more slowly, into the Christmas party season. Starting early in December, we gather at festive tables that are laden with tempting hors d’oeuvres and desserts, sometimes even with full dinners. Then, there are the incidental feedings: gifts of candies, cookies, cakes and breads and tastings of things that we ourselves are preparing. It’s a season that would try the eating stamina of a Hobbit. The December heats culminate with the main event: Christmas dinner. This often is only a slight variation on the Thanksgiving competition. There are many of the same dishes as were served at Thanksgiving, but with a bonus round. More desserts appear: now it’s not just pies, but also cakes, cookies, custards and plum and figgy puddings topped with the not-to-missed hard sauce. Not just the imagination is stretched under the weight of this groaning board. Another example of why it would have been good to train starting months ago.
Just a week later, we come to New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day. There’s that long party while waiting for the midnight hour. What to do to pass the time? I know! Let’s belly up to the buffet! Surviving that, we move to the eating requirements of January 1st. My mother always said that you had to eat some cabbage for good luck. A quick look at the internet to see other food traditions for the day yielded: grapes, greens, fish, pork, legumes, and cakes—quite a lot of necessities there to avoid the bogeyman of bad luck. The one bit of good news for New Year’s is that there is an amusing list of foods not to consume. Best to avoid: lobster, for instance, because they move backwards and could lead to setbacks. Chicken also is discouraged because the bird scratches backwards, which could cause regret or dwelling on the past. Another theory warns against eating any winged fowl because good luck could fly away. Finally, a bit of restraint is encouraged.
Those of us with January birthdays or anniversaries face yet another lap in the marathon. Unless exceedingly well-trained, best to avoid venues that offer excellent service. Recently, at the LaSalle Grill, I glanced at the menu and noted the absence of the asparagus side dish. Hearing my lament, José checked and came back to let me know that there was one order of it in the kitchen and that it could be mine. To refuse his thoughtful offer would have been churlish.
Heading toward the last lap, Valentine’s Day, I am grateful for the bounty, but embrace the thought of pushing back from the training table and greeting the arrival of abstemious Lent. Bon appetite! For Michiana Chronicles this is . . .
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A random pick from more than 400 Michiana Chronicles -- refresh the browser to see another set:
April Lidinsky -- More essays by April
Jeff Nixa -- More essays by Jeff
Ken Smith -- More essays by Ken
Jeanette Saddler Taylor -- Heading Toward the Finish Line / More essays by Jeanette
Heather Curlee Novak -- More essays by Heather
David James -- More essays by David
Elizabeth Van Jacob -- More essays by Elizabeth
Joe Chaney -- More essays by Joe
Louise Collins -- More essays by Louise
Jonathan Nashel -- More essays by Jonathan
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About the series
Michiana Chronicles is a series of radio essays by Jonathan Nashel, Louise Collins, Joe Chaney, Jeanette Saddler Taylor, Jeff Nixa, April Lidinsky, Ken Smith, Heather Curlee Novak, David James, and Elizabeth Van Jacob.
Michiana is the region of north-central Indiana and southern Michigan roughly centered on South Bend, Indiana.
Michiana Chronicles airs on Fridays at 7:35 a.m. and 12:30 p.m. on WVPE (88.1 FM), the home of public radio in Elkhart / South Bend, Indiana.
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Recent pieces
Christmas Eve, 1971 -- I ran in for some coffee at a McDonalds, and asked the lady if there was a VW dealership in Indianapolis. She pointed me only a few blocks down, by the bypass construction. We chugged over and turned in; the service bay was open—our first piece of luck. Out comes this short, round, greasy, cross-looking mechanic; working, on Christmas Eve. I explained our predicament; he glanced at her, in the full throes of dazed, dreamy pregnancy, and growled, “Pull it on in.” Dead battery; he and I had to push it on in. She and I moved to the waiting room. I sat and thought, how am I going to pay for this? It was Friday, they would deposit the check that evening and on Monday it would bounce and there was nothing I could do. Fifteen bucks in the bank; me in Atlanta. Overdraft protection was years away. By David James.
Feeding Willard -- Uncle Frank spent a great deal of his daily free time for years caring for my Grandfather. Frank would feed Grandpa Willard at least one meal most days. They would go to restaurants where Grandpa would drink too much and fall asleep before eating much of whatever it was he really liked that day. The whole excursion would take hours because Grandpa Willard was wheelchair bound and needed a special shuttle to travel anywhere. Despite all the trouble to arrange transportation, nurses and equipment Uncle Frank made sure Grandpa also got to his Dreamland cabin in the rocky mountains once or twice a year. He got him loaded onto a ferris wheel, to the opera, ball games and yes, to many, many restaurants. My Uncle took exquisite loving care of him for about eight years before Grandpa Willard died this Spring. By Heather Curlee Novak.
Two Boards (Upon Cold Powder Snow) -- It’s true, the year is ending, but lovers of winter sports know we’re just on the cusp of fun, as well as a chance to burn off some of those one trillion calories from holiday fudge. I’m a bit of a poser, really, in this camp of winter sports fans, since only in the past year have I ventured back onto the downhill slopes after nearly 25 years away. I grew up in Colorado, and downhill skiing is in my blood; it’s the beating heart of my family history. In fact, without skiing, I would not exist. By April Lidinsky.
Model Train -- I won an electric train in a store drawing when I was 7 years old. What a train: a black, green and red American Flyer steam engine with working drive wheels, real puffs of smoke and three long yellow passenger cars. Dad set it up each Christmas and I spent hours watching it clack around the living room carpet on journeys out of town, across the great plains, up into the Rockies. Then each January my dad, a detail-minded rather fussy accountant, sorted the tracks, oiled the engine and wrapped each car in newspaper for storage. When I lost the instructions, he carefully sketched the entire layout on a piece of his office stationery, labeled each track and trestle number and applied a wide piece of masking tape to the end of a sturdy box where he wrote, Electric Train. Jeez, Dad, can I go outside now? By Jeff Nixa.
Farewell, Old Car -- It sure was easy to donate our aging car to WVPE, using the Car Talk web site. We filled out a simple web form, signed the car title, and mailed it off. In a few days a tow truck came to relieve us of the relic that had been dripping oil all over the driveway. Not to mention the car’s occasional demonic impulse to electronically lock and unlock its doors fifty or sixty times a minute. I was very happy to remove the license plate, cancel the insurance, and send it on its way. What could be simpler, and any proceeds go to our favorite radio station. By Ken Smith.
Pollyanna Grows Despondent -- Not to be obscure, I’ll tell you right up front, generally, according to my amused co-workers, I grew up to become a Pollyanna figure. They maintain that I absorbed those positive, plucky characteristics. Until recently, no matter how dark the components, I usually could find a bright, or at least darkly humorous, outlook in any situation. Not so anymore though, I am too besieged! The season of comfort and joy aside, this Pollyanna is growing despondent; the “Glad Game” is getting more and more difficult to maintain. By Jeanette Saddler Taylor.
The Family Dogs -- Our dog developed a great attraction for the mailman and was always escaping to chase his little step van. The attraction blossomed into affection one day when the man stopped the truck, Peanut Butter leaped in, and with the acquiescence of our mother and the grateful blessings of us kids, they both sped off on his appointed rounds. That was the last we saw of Peanut Butter. By David James.
Celebration -- The thing is, at the end of the day we all could do well with more celebrations. We all will be better people with some extra thanksgiving and a little silliness on top. The dog got a bath; bake some special cookies. You conquered Monday; turn off the TV and have a swing dance contest. The neighbor helped you with the yard work; send a cookie bouquet. You choose to be grateful for the small happiness in your life; throw on a feather boa and pop the four dollar champagne! By Heather Curlee Novak.
Action Heroes -- The ER staff and I are standing in the empty trauma room, nothing to do but make restless bad jokes until the patients arrive. The EMS radio only said it was a house fire, one adult female and two minors. The ambulances are three minutes out. We’re ready. Oh man, are we ready. We’ve got a half million dollars worth of technology in this room stocked like an arsenal with medical supplies: Allegiance gauze pads, Kimberly–Clark face masks, NovaPlus powder-free exam gloves, an Agilent EKG monitor, a Newport HT 50 ventilator and the main attraction, sitting on a shelf like a smug Napoleon, the Philips Heartstart XL defibrillator, green light on, fully charged. By Jeff Nixa.
Telling Stories -- Could there be a more delicious time of year for lovers of stories? When I was a kid, the return of cold weather meant happily slouching near the heat register of my bedroom, rereading fat classics like Louisa May Alcott’s Little Women, and puzzling over the one line that never rang true to me – Meg March’s lament that November is “the most disagreeable month in the whole year.” For me, and maybe for you, November holds all the pleasure of holiday conviviality without any of the angst of gift-giving. November is about drawing our chairs close to the fire, tucking into pie, and sharing the quiet pleasures of story-swapping. By April Lidinsky.
At the Circus -- There was wave upon wave of daring carried out with the utter precision that transforms crazy danger into highly polished extravagance. It is not enough that someone walk across the tight rope high in the air; now he must walk back with a woman standing on his shoulders. It is not enough that the trick cyclist ride helter-skelter around the very edges of the stage; now he will ride his two-wheeler as if the front end were a unicycle, with most of the now useless bike circling around him like a wacky ornament. Gymnasts leaped out of windows onto trampolines and then rose back up and passed through those windows again; masters of aerial display swung across the highest reaches of the stage suspended by long flowing sheets of brilliant fabric they had merely wrapped once or twice around their arms; tiny child performers catapulted spinning disks into the air, executed two or even three back flips, and then casually caught the disks on a string again. By Ken Smith.
Feelin’ Cranky, But Trying to Remain Civil -- “Good manners are the grease that makes the wheels of life turn smoothly.” That was a mother-mantra that I endlessly used as my son, Joseph, was in his formative years. Although expressed as a hybridization of the worlds of the prissy and the mechanical engineer, I believed it, and I repeated it: way too many times, he might tell you. I still believe it though. That’s why I am puzzled at the lack of civility which I knee-jerk to exhibit as I age. Even without the excuse of feelin’ poorly, I find myself just getting crankier and crankier. If only I could get that big-eyebrow thing going, I could be Andy Rooney Junior. By Jeanette Saddler Taylor.
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