Childhood Memories: Food

(Note: This is one of a series of Blog Postings of personal boyhood memories-written especially with my grandchildren in mind. Others may not find them interesting.)

I grew up poor. However, I never ever went hungry. There was always plenty of good food, most of it homegrown, home-canned, home-cooked. If I ever complained to my mother about the food (which was usually if there were no cookies because we couldn’t afford the sugar) Mother always replied “Venn du hungrich bist, den schmeck auch jelly-brut gut:” (If you are hungry then also jelly bread tastes good.) And jelly on top of home baked bread was always available. 

I have no memory of ever eating a meal (or even a hamburger) in a restaurant until I was in high school.  We always had plenty of vegetables, almost all of which we grew ourselves in our large garden. Almost every meal featured potatoes. Potatoes were so common that we had a joke that if there were no potatoes on the table at a meal other than breakfast one was not required to say grace because without potatoes there could not be a real meal.

Our meat came from hogs, cattle, chicken, turkeys, an occasional sheep, goat or rabbit, which we raised ourselves. Our fried chicken was always fresh as Mother would catch a fryer or two, cut its head off with a hatchet, batter it in flour and fry it in lard. Friends by the name of Schwausch would come to assist with butchering the hogs. The hog’s throats were cut, bled, immersed in scalding water and the hair scaled off. Then the cuts were made, the intestines and stomach cleaned and stuffed with sausage. The ham and sausages were smoked in our own smoke house. One of my jobs was to keep plenty of tree bark smoking so the flavor would really penetrate the meat.  Most of the meat was cut off the bones to make sausage, but even those bones were salvaged, cooked and served with mustard on top and mashed potatoes with beet juice over them as the side dishes.

Fish were a rare treat. My father and Uncle Otto would catch over a hundred small perch, which we  deep-fried. (Always outside over a corn-cob fueled fire.) Once in a while an itinerant fisherman would stop by and at very low cost sell us a couple trout or more likely a big string of catfish. If my memory is correct the first time I saw shrimp was when I was about 20 years if age.

Vegetables were in abundance. The earliest crops each spring were those we did not can -  like radishes, onions, lettuce followed by mustard greens, spinach, turnips, sweet potatoes and carrots, Eaten fresh or canned by the multitudes were string beans (the plants growing up the slender bamboo poles along side them) peas, corn, cucumbers, tomatoes, okra, kohlrabi, and beets.

Of course there was plenty of fruit (either from our own trees or from neighbors and relatives) I still see my mother sitting on our back porch, peeling away enough for literally hundreds of fruit jars to be filled with peaches, cherries, pears, blackberries, apricots, figs, and pickles.

There was always plenty of fresh milk, butter, homemade bread and gravy. Desserts were for special occasions like Sunday or birthdays. I have not a single memory of wine ever being at the table, but dad did enjoy homebrewed beer, especially during prohibition. At Christmas time Dad (much to Mother’s disapproval) would buy a quart of Four Roses bourbon and we would have Christmas eggnog with all the fresh home-made whipped cream the cup could possibly hold. I do not remember ever having even one bottle of soda or cola in my home until I was in college.

Of course, this was all long before television, cell phones (we did not even have a line phone) or computers. There were no after school baseball games, dance lessons, or baby-sitting jobs. So it is that my memories of food enjoyed while growing up are all warm and fuzzy. They are filled with images of our large family gathered around the table (I am one of 9 kids) saying the table prayer (often in German), then passing around those wonderful dishes of fresh nutritious food,  enjoying every bite and trying our best to keep our mouths shut while we energetically chewed.

New Orleans

I love New Orleans. One big reason I love New Orleans is because I love food and New Orleans is loaded with good food. I can begin the day with some great beignets in the French Quarter. For lunch I can stop at almost any street corner and take my pick from among po-boys, jambalya, gumbo, crawfish etouffie, or just plain red beans and rice. Dinner offers anything my pocketbook can afford including two of my favorite restaurants, Brennens and Broussards.

Music and New Orleans are all part of one wonderful orchestra. Jazz was born there. The Blues still fill the streets. Sunday black churches have music that lifts the soul. For my funeral I would be very happy to have my body accompanied by a traditional street funeral band. And if my Memorial Service were on a Sunday it would be great to have all the mourners go the Quarter for a Gospel Brunch.

But good memories of New Orleans go deeper than food and music. For many years my late brother Harold lived in New Orleans. Harold always inspired me (and he lives in me today) with his commitment to hard work, his unflinching care for the black Lutheran schools of the South and especially for those who taught in them. And on top of that, at the end of every one of his long days he knew that his specially designed refrigerator was stocked with some good cold tap beer for him and any who cared to joined him

Honesty requires that I also share the things that really bother me about New Orleans. It has one of the highest poverty rates of any city in America. Racism is still rampant and blacks are still denied entrance to restaurants, homes on favorite streets and equal opportunity in the work place or in the courtroom.

While I have gone to some very enriching conferences and conventions in New Orleans my mind also often goes to one New Orleans gathering that for me was a disaster. A major Christian Church body adopted a formal resolution that stated that anyone who refused to teach that the world was created in exactly six days of 24 hours each was to “be considered a heretic and not be tolerated within the Church of God.”

But I will try to forget about that this weekend when I head to New Orleans to join the some 100 members of my 8 siblings and our families. We will remember Mom and Dad, honor the memory of brother Harold and enjoy the food, the music, the Gospel and the family. And it will be good!

Peshawar, Islamabad, Rawalpindi, Abbottabad, Pakistan

Prior to visiting these cities of Pakistan in the mid 1988’s I doubt if I had even heard of them. Now each of them is firmly etched in my memory. In 1983 (and then again in 1984) I spent time in Pakistan teaching Parent and Teacher Effectiveness Training. It was a great and extremely rewarding experience. My classes included Christians, Muslims, Buddhists, Zoroastrians and persons of no faith. At least one was one of multiple wives. One who attended all of my workshops later publicly immolated himself in protest of the government. To a person they treated me with respect and extended hospitality beyond my wildest imagination. On my second trip I was invited to the area near the Khyber Pass and bordering Afghanistan.

But first I stopped in Islamabad and even then was amazed at the build-up of troops all around that city extending into the area right next to Abbottabad of later Bin Laden fame. My host was one of the greatest living saints I ever met, Sister Sheila from Ireland. It was she who startled me when I knocked on her hotel room in Rawalpindi and stepped in . “STOP!” she shouted. I recoiled. Then she was immediately in my arms with words of apologies. “You see, Mel”, she said, “ If I as a woman was noticed inviting a single man into my hotel room I could be killed for it.” After my apology she recanted, “What the h.., Mel. Come in. It’s worth the risk.”

She took me to the Bishops’ residence. He kindly lent us his driver and beat-up old Ford to take us over the camel-crowded passes to Peshawar. There I was to present certificates to a class of teachers to whom she had taught the Model I first taught her. But then a problem arose. This was a big event and the Head of the Education Department was to distribute the certificates, but was unable to attend. He asked if his wife could make the presentation for him and deliver a short address. The problem was that she, as a woman, was not permitted to speak to an audience that was not all women. I agreed to step out of the room until she was finished. But Sister Shelia did some negotiating and I was permitted to attend.

After the presentation I was taken to a bazaar where some beautiful embroidery was bought for me. Then I bought a type of turban/hat from a street vendor. I had gone about a block when a gentleman ran up to me from behind. I finally figured out that he wanted to know how much I paid. When he found out the price he explained (as I finally got it through an interpreter) that he just wanted to make sure that as a foreigner I had not been taken advantage of for that would be anti-Islam; but since I had been charged a fair price I was sent on my way.

My way took me to the Pakistan-Afghanistan border. Once again I viewed the tragedy of hundreds of thousands of refugees fleeing from the Afghanistan-Russian fighting. They, like millions of others through the ages. Now again, especially on the Syria-Jordan border, people are fleeing for their lives. They live in hot, dirty, dusty, little tents, scrounging for food and water, trying to keep hope alive.

,On this pleasant California evening I sit and reflect on my brothers and sisters in places with names like Peshawar, Islamabad. Rawalpindi and Abbottabad and I feel like my life is so different and so blessed. At the same time  regardless of the name of the place in which we live we  all yearn for the same things: someone who loves us, people who respect us regardless of our gender, religion or nationality and a place where we can lie down and sleep in peace.

Tracy, CA

Tracy, California was one of the most important teachers in my life. I was sent there by the Lutheran Church when I completed my Teaching Minister Training in 1950. I had never heard of the place, really had no option other than to accept the assignment and   get there and go to work.

My job was typical of those days, teach grades 4-8 in the two room school, serve as the school’s principal, be the congregation’s youth director, instruct the Sunday School teachers, sing in the choir, play the organ for parts of the Sunday services (as able), teach an adult class each Sunday and in cases of emergency conduct the Sunday worship services, and in summer conduct a Vacation Bible School. It all sounded normal for the times. So I learned to love kids, work hard, know the community and get my Master’s Degree from the University of Pacific by writing my thesis  (usually beginning that work after 10:00 pm when the rest of the work was done.)

Tracy taught me frugality. My salary was $180.00 a month. The first year I could not afford to own a car. I lived in a bedroom of a most gracious family (Lydia and Arnold Zielske) who cooked my meals and did my laundry

I learned to appreciate being part of a small community. Tracy which today has a population of some 85 thousand had only 10,000 in 1950. My classroom kids did a joint project of studying the city. Because it was so closely knit some students interviewed the mayor or the recreation director, or the oldest merchant in town and even grape growers, catsup factory workers, and grape growers. When I walked down Main Street on Saturday mornings people greeted me by name. I played city-league basketball for D&W Billiards and softball for the local Shell Gasoline Station teams. 

The most important thing about Tracy though was that is where Jane and I established our first home after our marriage in 1951. We loved our $85.00 a month apartment. Jane played the organ for church services, taught art in my classroom and learned to can tomatoes, apricots, and Queen Anne cherries. It was in Tracy that our first son, David, was born. It was Jane who cashed our bi-weekly check, divided the money and placed it in designated envelopes beginning with our tithe marked “The Lord” right down to the 50 cents for postage each month.

We learned the value of friends, common people with uncommonly devoted hearts. The Hamlows, Paulsons, Childs, Erharts wrapped their arms around us, invited us over for meals, shared their beer and stayed in contact until one by one they passed away.

I now drive past Tracy as we bypass it on the freeways to the Bay Area. I now know no one there. But it still pulls at my heartstrings with its siren song of first love, first child, first full-time job, and first glimpses of the rewards of commitment to a calling and to people.

MACAU

Macau in the 50’s and early 60’s. That little note specifying the 50’s is critical. The current Macau bears virtually no resemblance to the old. Today’s Macau is the biggest gambling Mecca in the world. Its volume way exceeds Las Vegas. It has enough neon to shine half way up to Canton. That is nothing like the Macau that I visited probably 100 times 50 years ago, but have not set foot in now for some 20 years.

Macau was a Portuguese Colony. It was only30 miles from Hong Kong where I lived. But it was tricky to get there. We were not allowed to go through China. Borderlines in the South China Sea were carefully monitored and if the ferry I rode to get to Macau would stray it could become an international incident.

There was much to love about Macau. The view from the balcony of the Bella Vista Hotel was fabulous. The African chicken served at the Macau Posada was unrivaled. The hotel room in which I stayed did not have a bathroom or toilet, but the beer at the bar was always cold.

The ancient façade of the St. Paul Cathedral had survived a fire and a typhoon. The battered cross on top of it still stood and became the focus of a wonderful hymn written by the then governor of Hong Kong. The hymn: “In The Cross of Christ I Glory, Towering O’er the Wrecks of Time.”

I went to Macau because there were people there with lots of needs: spiritual, physical, psychological and educational, people in need of hope. The Lutheran Church did (and does) a good job there.

The first Sunday I was there I was told that children had to bring last Sunday’s leaflet with them to be admitted to class this Sunday. There was no space for new students. I am not so naïve as to not know that one of the factors causing this very large attendance was that a limited amount of relief food and clothing was made available at the church.

We wanted property to build a Lutheran Center and eventually received a title from the Government for a wonderful plot of land. However, when we finally got a decent translation of the deed which we had signed, we learned that in fact, the holder of the deed was listed as ‘Chinese merchant Titus Lee”, the same person who was our evangelist there. It was explained that no government official (fearing censure from the Catholic Bishop) would ever sign a deed, which showed a Lutheran Church as a property owner so the “merchant” phrase was used. We were assured that later the property could be transferred property to the church. That never happened. (See addendum below.)

Many refugees from Mao were desperate and wanted to get to Hong Kong. I recall one gentleman who lived with his family in a most primitive hut with no water, light, or furniture. He pleaded with me to help him get a visa. The he told me, “I am desperate.” With that he pulled out a packet, which I immediately recognized as street heroin. “If I don’t get my family to Hong Kong soon we will all be existing on this”, he told me. Maybe that had something to do with the fact that I noticed that on some of my subsequent trips I as always followed. As soon as I boarded my rented pedicab at the ferry station I noticed that I was being followed. This happened throughout two subsequent visits. Then it stopped. I don’t know that there was a connection but I do know that all of this coincided with the murder of a gentleman on our church steps as he was leaving Christian instruction one night.

Some of the immigrants, through sheer force of Chinese determination and effort managed to survive in Macau and find jobs besides making fireworks in their homes. But most wanted to get to Hong Kong. One of the families that I was able to assist in getting there were a great blessing to many. One of he sons became head of Lutheran Social Services of Hong Kong, a massive center of assistance to thousands. His sister is now a famous Hong Kong surgeon.

Macau is now, of course, famous for its gambling and extravagant hotels. But I am grateful for the people whom I was able to meet, who found their chances for a much better life than at the crap tables.

[Addendum]: Years after I left Hong I received a call from a Lutheran Church official in America. He informed me that the Macau church building, school and the land on which they had been situated had been sold. It appeared that the person who had been named as owner of the building as indicated above, had sold the property, taken the money and disappeared in America. Fortunately, church officials did eventually go to Macau, deal with he new buyer and were able to secure for the church a repayment to the church in what I believe was a total of US$1 million.)

San Antonio, Texas

I love San Antonio and always jump at any excuse to go there. I love its diversity. While the population is predominately Hispanic the city bursts with the energies of a variety of people. The military bases like Lackland, Ft. Sam Houston and Randolph Air Force Base constantly bring in persons not only from across the USA but from our allies abroad, While there are massive areas of low-income and not a few very poor people, the city has its share of the wealthy, many living in beautiful estates. Together they reflect the military, the health industry, the higher education world, all within an ever-prevailing aura of the Old West with plenty of cowboy boots and large Stetson hats abounding.

One of the words that always pops up when I reflect upon my time in San Antonio is sweat. Yes, that stuff that flowed out of my body during the summers of my college years. I worked in construction at the very lowest level. In weather, which was consistently over 100 degrees, I was the one (back before sophisticated  Bob Cats) digging foundation trenches with pick and shovel. My hands were seared with the iron of the foundation steel. My back blistered as I laid the roofing panels. The good news: I was in the best shape of anyone who reported for fall football practice in September after surviving an unforgettable orgy of fresh tamales and Lone Star beer when we finally had the topping out celebration of the building at which I was working.

I also did my share of philosophical and mental sweating. After a couple   years of teachers college I took off a year to teach in a 2 room Lutheran school. I had 42 in grades one to four. I hope by this time they have forgiven my inadequacies and plain old mistakes. Believe me I tried! The mental stress was at its highest 20 years later when the ambulance met us at the airport upon our arrival from Hong Kong. My wife Jane was in a virtual coma and it was at San Antonio’s Baptist Hospital that she was properly diagnosed and treated for a brain aneurysm. Family and friends provided unbelievable support to me and our children.

Of course, San Antonio is a city of romance. The historic Alamo hastens the blood flow of any true Texan. The San Antonio River and the River Walk stir up romantic feelings in even the most jaded. And for me San Antonio is the place where my now wife of some 62 years was first introduced to my mom, dad and family.

San Antonio evokes s feelings of sadness and absence. It was in San Antonio that I saw my mother slowly lose her formerly unquenchable energy. And it was at a bedside in San Antonio that Jane and I joined my father in a harmonious rendering of “Abide With Me” shortly before he left us to be forever with our Lord.

I wish I could conclude this little reflection by just sitting at a comfortable table on the River Walk savoring a margarita and some chips but that will have to await my very earliest convenience

New York

NEW YORK! I love New York. Actually I love all five boroughs of that wonderful city, but my favorite is The City, Manhattan, The Big Apple. From the first time I visited in the late 1940’s through the 8 years I lived just up the railway in Eastchester (while I served as Head of The Lutheran Schools Association Of New York) I jump at every opportunity to get my New York fix!

I love the people; and, of course, one is enmeshed in them the minute one steps onto almost any Manhattan Street, but it seems to be at its most frenzied pace around Times Square. What a thrill it is to be caught up in the swell of people from all corners of the earth, speaking every conceivable dialect all wearing all styles of dress, all sharing one common characteristic: they are in a hurry! Each person with their own agenda and a fierce determination to meet that agenda.

It was always a special treat when I got to Times Square with my long-time friend Howie Capell and he chose to drive his car. We would pull into Times Square. He’d spot a cop. get out of the car and wave to the cop with a” Hi “. Immediately the officer would be at our side, direct us to the nearest parking space (most likely marked No Parking) and wave us into the spot. If none of those was available the cop would personally walk alongside our car to the nearest public garage. He would signal the attendant and order, “Take care of my friend.” The valet would park our car at the entrance and there was never a fee. (These cops all know of how well Howie represented their fallen colleagues in the lawsuits following 9/11.)

Another way to experience Times Square and Manhattan Streets, The Empire State Building and Rockefeller Center etc. etc was with my nearly 90 year old Mother who was determined to “do NY.” She was in her wheel chair. Every time we got to a curb or an elevator or a rest room which she needed to use, someone was at her side asking how they could help and then doing it squared! My Mother declared, ”New York is the friendliest city in the world and I am from Texas where we know about hospitality.”

 I, of course, love to eat. In NY the picks were literally beyond imagination: Chinese food in Chinatown, Little Italy, street vendors with their pretzels, hot dogs, etc. very expensive famous eateries, delicatessens and bars ranging from the one with a view at the top of the Marriott to the neighborhood pubs around Union Square.

ENTERTAINMENT ON AND OFF THE STREET 24-7

Theaters, Carnegie Hall, The Met at Lincoln Center, The Blue Note for Jazz. Every conceivable Museum beckons. Madison Square Gardens awaits but you have to slip across the border into the Bronx to get to Yankee Stadium

Naturally I find the churches to be important to me, I never miss a chance to drop into St. Patrick’s on Fifth Avenue for a few moments of silence.  St. Peter’s Lutheran sits inside the Citicorp Building and the reredos behind its altar is a massive window framing the city it is called to serve. If one is around on Christmas Eve the thing to do is go to St. Luke’s Lutheran in the theater district. Just before midnight singers come from many of the shows, concerts, clubs in the areas (professionals all) and gather to sing in incredible harmonies the ancient Christmas carols.

I try to end my New York visit with the most meaningful worship of all. I go the site of the new World Trade Center. I stand silently for a long time at the Memorial Fountain. I let me fingers trace the names of the 9/11 victims; I image especially those who were numbered among the 60 who left behind a child or grandchild enrolled in a Lutheran School. I remember and I pray that the Lord of all cities would stop especially all killing done I n God’s name and send flocks of special angels to the big cities of the world, beginning with The Big Apple.