Pass The Green Bean Casserole

In my last post, "Snow Day", I wrote how my view of summer swims and winter snow-fun have changed with the passage of time.  I'm not sure I can think of a more picturesque timeline of aging than the roles we play at Thanksgiving.

At sixty-something, I've moved from the kids table to very near the far opposite end of the long table. You know the continuum I'm talking about: Five minutes in to the meal the little kids are off to play after having not "eaten enough to keep a bird alive." The next generation are off in a corner with the earbuds in, texting their equally bored friends at family gatherings everywhere. Those that can (and a few who shouldn't) head outside for touch football.

Then there's our end of the table. We're still at the table, covering deep subjects: how many MPGs we got on the drive over, how this could be the last Thanksgiving now that ObamaCare is the law of the land, the roll-call of all those we know who have had joint replacements and other surgeries (pass that giblet gravy).

Speaking of giblet gravy: there's a reason that the offal comes in a separate bag when you buy a turkey--so you can throw it away. Don't put it in the gravy or dressing or anything else people might consume.

The "offal", btw, is a collective term for the liver, gizzard and other viscera; also known as the "guts" or "innards". I'm guessing the derivative of the word might be that someone looked at a pile of innards and said what should we call this? The unanimous opinion was "awful" but it was misheard.

While on the subject of food, which obviously is the star of the Thanksgiving production, and speaking of ingredients that shouldn't be added: my Amazing-Missus' family has a tradition of adding oysters to the dressing. It's a dish that's been on the table at each Thanksgiving we've celebrated together in our 41 years of marital bliss. I don't know that I've ever seen anyone actually eat it. Oh they'll courteously put a glob on their plate, but I've never heard anyone say, "Pass me some more of that oyster dressing!"

I'm glad it's on the table though because it serves the role of all good traditions--it connects the generational dots, it keeps the narrative going, it helps us remember. I know that someone will look at the spread of food and say, "Oh, here's the oyster dressing. Granddad loved oyster dressing." Granddad is the great-great-great grandfather of those who are the youngest of our Thanksgiving gathering and though he has been gone for many years, he's still part of the story.

You might say he's still "at the table" albeit the far, far end from the kid's table. That's what I want--to always have a place at the table.

Maybe someone will say, "Here's the green bean casserole. Wasn't it that crazy Uncle, what was his name, who loved green bean casserole?"

Oh, FYI: The green bean casserole was first created in 1955 by the Campbell Soup Company. Dorcas Reilly led the team that created the recipe while working as a staff member in the home economics department. The inspiration for the dish was "to create a quick and easy recipe around two things most Americans always had on hand in the 1950s: green beans and Campbell’s Cream of Mushroom Soup." --Wikipedia

Snow Day

When it comes to snow days, I've reached my tipping point.

There are a lot of tipping point moments for us "men of a certain age." I believe it's one of the ways you know you're in your second-coming-of-age.

I'm borrowing "tipping point" from physics where it refers to the adding a small amount of weight to a balanced object until the additional weight causes the object to suddenly and completely topple, or tip. I'm using it metaphorically to talk about life's little, necessary transitions.

For example, I was one of those kids who would have spent every summer hour swimming if I could. We lived within walking distance of the Arkansas river in south Tulsa. However, our parents sought to instill in us a deadly fear of quicksand that would swallow us whole in order to keep us from swimming in the river. Fortunately, my Aunt Betty had access to a pool and would take us for a swim most every day.

Over the years though, the appeal of the pool has lost its luster. It happened gradually with little things: it's too cool, it's too hot. The water will be too cold. I just "did" my hair. I can't find my trunks. Little by little the appeal of dry land took over until the scales tipped. Now I only go in if the grand girls insist on a swim and I'm one of the few adults available. I still enjoy it once I'm in the water, but...

Snow days are like that. I used to get giddy with excitement when our local "the sky is falling" weatherpersons would forecast snow. Now, not so much. I still love to see the results of fun in the snow: snowpeople, igloos, pictures of people sledding, etc. But I'll be the one inside making sure the fire is stoked and the hot cocoa is made for those that come in near frost-bitten from the fun.

A shot I took recently in downtown St. Louis.

Tomorrow, say the meteorologists, the big one is coming. People are emptying grocery store shelves, laying up provisions like we  live in Fargo or something. I'm on that side of the fulcrum now that's not too fired up about the promise of new fallen snow.

Our snow-loving boys built an igloo a few Christmases back. They finished it long after dark. The next morning Mimi, Karlee & Pops made a visit.

Make My Day

I'll admit it: I'm a fan of Catherine Townsend--well of her writing anyway. I don't know her personally although I would love to have coffee with her in a very public place (she scares me a little).

Her latest piece in The Atlantic, "How to Fight Like a Victorian Gentleman," is a great example of her writing skills, and it couldn't have come at a better time.

She starts like this: "It’s sundown at a small park in Burbank and I’m dressed in head-to-toe black, carrying a big stick and ready to street fight, Sherlock Holmes style."

Why is this important? At this point pretty much all my friends have been licensed to carry (a gun)--some in a "concealed" fashion, others right smack on their person, out there for everyone to see.

I'm honestly not sure why everyone has decided they need to bear arms. Is there some threat I don't know about that I could actually defend myself from if I were pistol-packin'? (Other than my armed neighbors who live in my "safe, gated community.")

Don't read this as bragging but: I've been to all five Boroughs of New York City, day and night. I've been to Chicago's north side and south side. I've been to the east side of St. Louis and Skid Row in Seattle, to Bourbon Street in New Orleans, to Washington D.C. and to Haight-Ashbury in San Francisco. I've been to Amsterdam, Paris France, and Venice Italy. I've even been to Muskogee, Oklahoma in the 60s with long hair and bell-bottom jeans, driving a VW bus.

And I've never feared for my life. Well there was that one time: a "lady" in Edmond, driving an enormous SUV, wearing yoga pants (I'm guessing) and doing something on her mobile phone was in front of me at a red light. The light changed, she didn't notice. I honked. She turned, flipped me off and said something with fire in her eyes. I couldn't read her lips because of the froth flying from her mouth. It was very scary.

Nippin' it in the bud.

Now, apparently there's a new threat in the air and I need to up my defense and offense somehow. The problem is I'm more of a Sheriff Taylor kind of guy, than a Barney Fife. Speaking of whom, I would be much more comfortable in the "safer" neighborhoods of our fair city if I knew that all the newly-armed citizens had only one bullet and that bullet had to be kept in their shirt pocket.

Somewhere in a closet we have a Red Ryder BB gun. I'm not sure which closet, and I have no idea where our BB might be, but that's all the arms-bearing I plan to do. I know right now there are some out there shaking their heads at my foolish naiveté. And they are appalled at my stupidity for posting to the worldwide web that me and my Amazing-Missus are home and unarmed.

But be not dismayed. I think I've found a solution in the words of my future friend, Catherine Townsend. In the aforementioned article, Catherine tells of her training in the ancient art of bartitsu. She explains it this way:

"Bartitsu was developed by Edward Barton-Wright, a British engineer who moved to Japan in 1895. After returning to London, just before the turn of the century, he created a mixed martial art hybrid, combining elements of judo, jujitsu, British boxing, and fighting with a walking stick.

The style was promoted to the middle and upper classes during a time when they were becoming increasingly worried about the street gangs and crime publicized by the tabloid newspapers."  

Catherine boils bartitsu down:

Basically it's half historical recreation; half beating the crap out of someone with a cane.

Bartitsu is sort of cool. It was incorporated into the fight choreography of the Sherlock Holmes movies starring Robert Downey, Jr.

“There’s all sorts of locks and chokes and various other techniques used to incapacitate someone. There’s lots of throwing hats at someone’s eyes, and then striking at them, if you can, with a walking stick."

The movies helped propel what a bartitsu expert calls the “fringe of the fringe” movement into the spotlight, and attract a growing number of women. Googling will help you locate classes for guys with titles like: "Sparring With Sherlock," and for the girls: "Kicking Ass in a Corset: Bartitsu of Ladies."

Catherine read my mind and asked the obvious, important question: "But could an anachronistic art really protect me against a modern-day bad guy?" 

“Chances are your opponent isn’t going to be walking through the streets of a major world city twirling a parasol. But the classes do teach practical information about body awareness, how to target an opponent’s weak points and escape tactics that could come in handy in any situation."

So with a few lessons and a walking cane, we'll all rest better knowing I'm equipped for whatever it is that seems to be lurking in the night.

A Hat for Pops

I am glad to have grown up in an era when men wore hats. I mean real hats like fedoras and pork pies. I'm glad hats are back. Let's be clear though, I have no delusions of looking like Don Draper or Dick Tracy. But it would be cool for the Grand-girls to remember Pops' hat. You know the way you remember special, random stuff about your grandfather(s).

I remember my paternal granddad sporting a fedora, dressed in a nice suit, driving a big long Pontiac. My mom's dad wore these great little wireframe glasses that hooked behind his ears. The lenses were always pocked because he would forget to put on his goggles before firing up a cutting torch.

About this hat business--there's some great reading about hats on one of my favorite blogs:  "The Art of Manliness." It's an excellent blog, made even more appealing by the fact that it's published by a young couple in Tulsa, Oklahoma. Here's an excerpt from a post about hats:

"Up until the 1950s, men were rarely seen out and about without a hat sitting upon their head. Since that time, the wearing of hats has seen a precipitous decline. No one is precisely sure why. Some say the downfall of hats occurred when JFK did not wear a hat to his inauguration, thus forever branding them as uncool. This is an urban myth, however, as Kennedy did indeed don a hat that day. Another theory posits that the shrinking size of cars made wearing a hat while driving prohibitively difficult. Most likely, the demise of hats can simply be traced to changing styles and the ongoing trend towards a more casual look."

But hats are back.

I started my search for the perfect hat with a good on-line search. Then I visited hat stores in New York City and Austin, Texas. But Eureka! It turns out that one of the best haberdasheries anywhere is in Tulsa. It is in the historic Greenwood district, literally behind left field of OneOK Field, home of the Tulsa Drillers baseball team.

Let me tell you, if you want a proper hat selection experience you need a pro and Lemmel Fields of The Brothers Hat Shop is a pro. I highly recommend that you go visit Lemmel and let him work his magic. Make sure when you visit you plan to spend some time. Not only is Lemmel a hat expert, he's a great guy to know. Turns out he dated a high school classmate of my Amazing-Missus at Bixby High School. Check out this article about Lemmel.

Lemmel Fields of The Brothers Hat Shop in Tulsa, Oklahoma

A few days ago, I modeled my new Stetson "Dexter" for the Grand-girls. Harper, the two-year old, said, "No Pops!" She then led me to the rack in our utility room where my favorite baseball caps hang. She held up her arms, which is the universal sign for "pick me up." She then took her favorite cap from the rack, put it on my head, and proclaimed, "There!" 

I guess that's how she pictures her Pops.

Pops and Lemmel looking for the right hat.