okieinexile
Well-Known Member
Accounting for Taste
By Bobby Neal Winters
My father was a bachelor until he was forty-one years old, the same age I am now. Being single for a long time gives you a time to cultivate quite a few idiosyncrasies, and Dad had done just that. Some of these were concerning food.
He and Momma had a deal. Momma was to take my brother and me to church, and he would wash the dishes and get the roast started for Sunday dinner, which is what we called the mid-day meal. Lunch was when they stuck a sandwich in front of you and called it a meal, according to Dad. Dad cooked a mean roast, although his gravy was sometimes sliceable.
Dad's idiosyncrasies came out for Sunday supper, when we had catch-as-catch-can. Dad would prepare what he referred to as bachelor meals. He meant this to be preparation for his sons to go forth into the world and be able to take care of themselves. One of his favorites was prepared as follows. Take a can of pork-and-bean and poured it into a plate until the plate is brim full. In the center of that, empty a can of sardines. On top of the sardines, heap a few tablespoons of Miracle Whip salad dressing. Stir.
You must understand. This was something that he made for himself as a treat. For some reason, Momma wouldn't make it for him. Go figure.
Sometimes he and Momma shared a can of salmon. They put it on a plate in between them, where it retained the shape of the can. Then they got out the crackers and made a meal out on that while my brother and I looked on in utter disgust. Seeing our contemptuous looks, they would just say, "That's more for us." I've since used the same line on my children while Jean and I eat something that disgusts them, and it works just about as well for us as it did for my parents.
While Dad ate some dishes I found disgusting, he refused to eat some things I thought were pretty darned good, pizza for instance. Dad classified pizza as "exotic" food, and "exotic" was not on his list of things to do.
He managed to put off trying pizza until he was about sixty. When he did, it happened in the following way. He was a truck driver and a member of the Teamsters Union. As I recall, the trucking company didn't want to give the Teamsters a contract, so they went out on strike. Daddy wasn't very enthusiastic about the Teamsters, and he was even less enthusiastic about the strike. Since Dad had the most seniority of any of the drivers where he worked, he got to choose when to walk the picket line, so he took the eight-to-midnight shift because he didn't want to be seen picketing. It had something to do with having lived through the Great Depression.
One of the other drivers Dad worked with had a son who cooked at a pizza place. There were always a few pizzas left over when they closed for the evening, so the boy brought some to the strikers, and Dad had his first pizza. While I don't ever recall Dad seeking out pizza, after that he seemed more tolerant whenever my brother and I ate it.
I discover more every year how I am my father's son. I am stubborn, and I do not indulge in the "exotic." Among my peculiarities with food is an irrational refusal to eat fish. It goes back to childhood and is probably not unrelated to seeing sardines mixed with pork-and-beans and Miracle Whip, but I am not whiney enough to blame everything on my parents.
There have been three memorable occasions where this has been an issue. Once in Poland, my hostess, who was practicing her English on me, announced in crisp diction that for our evening meal we would be having, "Fish in grease sauce." I suspect "grease" might be translated better as "butter", but in some of the Slavic languages those nouns that mean "something oily" are overworked. She brought out the "fish in grease sauce," and I ate it by washing it down with vodka. Drink a shot of vodka and eat a bite of fish. All the time my host was looking at me, smiling, convinced I was having the time of my life.
Once while in Russia, I ate fish and potato soup while a guest of subsistence farmers who survived on a diet of fish and potatoes. There was a fish head in my bowl with an eye looking up at me, and I ate it.
The most recent instance occurred in a Japanese restaurant. I was with a group of people who wanted to eat sushi, and all I wanted was their company. As I don't even like fish, fish-bait is right out.
Since it was a restaurant, I didn't think it would be a problem. I ordered chicken teriyaki, and it was quite tasty. I considered how far I had come since I hadn't even eaten Chinese food until I was in my mid-twenties, as it was "exotic", and I was my father's son.
However, there was one person in the group who seemed disappointed in me, and I let him be. I've gone as far in that direction as I care too. Kind hosts, I will eat fish for. Subsistence farmers, I will eat fish for. But Yuppies can just weather the disappointment.
There may be a time in my life when I am able to overcome this malady. Today, I may have accidentally eaten tuna at lunch at the Rotary Club. Sometimes it's hard to tell. I suspect, however, that eating sushi will require action by the Teamsters.
By Bobby Neal Winters
My father was a bachelor until he was forty-one years old, the same age I am now. Being single for a long time gives you a time to cultivate quite a few idiosyncrasies, and Dad had done just that. Some of these were concerning food.
He and Momma had a deal. Momma was to take my brother and me to church, and he would wash the dishes and get the roast started for Sunday dinner, which is what we called the mid-day meal. Lunch was when they stuck a sandwich in front of you and called it a meal, according to Dad. Dad cooked a mean roast, although his gravy was sometimes sliceable.
Dad's idiosyncrasies came out for Sunday supper, when we had catch-as-catch-can. Dad would prepare what he referred to as bachelor meals. He meant this to be preparation for his sons to go forth into the world and be able to take care of themselves. One of his favorites was prepared as follows. Take a can of pork-and-bean and poured it into a plate until the plate is brim full. In the center of that, empty a can of sardines. On top of the sardines, heap a few tablespoons of Miracle Whip salad dressing. Stir.
You must understand. This was something that he made for himself as a treat. For some reason, Momma wouldn't make it for him. Go figure.
Sometimes he and Momma shared a can of salmon. They put it on a plate in between them, where it retained the shape of the can. Then they got out the crackers and made a meal out on that while my brother and I looked on in utter disgust. Seeing our contemptuous looks, they would just say, "That's more for us." I've since used the same line on my children while Jean and I eat something that disgusts them, and it works just about as well for us as it did for my parents.
While Dad ate some dishes I found disgusting, he refused to eat some things I thought were pretty darned good, pizza for instance. Dad classified pizza as "exotic" food, and "exotic" was not on his list of things to do.
He managed to put off trying pizza until he was about sixty. When he did, it happened in the following way. He was a truck driver and a member of the Teamsters Union. As I recall, the trucking company didn't want to give the Teamsters a contract, so they went out on strike. Daddy wasn't very enthusiastic about the Teamsters, and he was even less enthusiastic about the strike. Since Dad had the most seniority of any of the drivers where he worked, he got to choose when to walk the picket line, so he took the eight-to-midnight shift because he didn't want to be seen picketing. It had something to do with having lived through the Great Depression.
One of the other drivers Dad worked with had a son who cooked at a pizza place. There were always a few pizzas left over when they closed for the evening, so the boy brought some to the strikers, and Dad had his first pizza. While I don't ever recall Dad seeking out pizza, after that he seemed more tolerant whenever my brother and I ate it.
I discover more every year how I am my father's son. I am stubborn, and I do not indulge in the "exotic." Among my peculiarities with food is an irrational refusal to eat fish. It goes back to childhood and is probably not unrelated to seeing sardines mixed with pork-and-beans and Miracle Whip, but I am not whiney enough to blame everything on my parents.
There have been three memorable occasions where this has been an issue. Once in Poland, my hostess, who was practicing her English on me, announced in crisp diction that for our evening meal we would be having, "Fish in grease sauce." I suspect "grease" might be translated better as "butter", but in some of the Slavic languages those nouns that mean "something oily" are overworked. She brought out the "fish in grease sauce," and I ate it by washing it down with vodka. Drink a shot of vodka and eat a bite of fish. All the time my host was looking at me, smiling, convinced I was having the time of my life.
Once while in Russia, I ate fish and potato soup while a guest of subsistence farmers who survived on a diet of fish and potatoes. There was a fish head in my bowl with an eye looking up at me, and I ate it.
The most recent instance occurred in a Japanese restaurant. I was with a group of people who wanted to eat sushi, and all I wanted was their company. As I don't even like fish, fish-bait is right out.
Since it was a restaurant, I didn't think it would be a problem. I ordered chicken teriyaki, and it was quite tasty. I considered how far I had come since I hadn't even eaten Chinese food until I was in my mid-twenties, as it was "exotic", and I was my father's son.
However, there was one person in the group who seemed disappointed in me, and I let him be. I've gone as far in that direction as I care too. Kind hosts, I will eat fish for. Subsistence farmers, I will eat fish for. But Yuppies can just weather the disappointment.
There may be a time in my life when I am able to overcome this malady. Today, I may have accidentally eaten tuna at lunch at the Rotary Club. Sometimes it's hard to tell. I suspect, however, that eating sushi will require action by the Teamsters.
