The Good China.

Last week, my 8-year-old nephew Nathan came home from school with his Thanksgiving art project. It was a turkey made from brown construction paper. On each of its tail feathers a word was scrawled stating something was thankful for—things like Mom, Dad, Roxy the dog... 

On one of the feathers was written the word “China”.

When quizzically asked why he was thankful for China, Nathan said “Because that’s where we get all of our things.”

Duh.

Over the river and through the ‘hood.

Grandma and Grandpa Bishop lived in a tiny house on Bishop Place. The house was at one time an army barracks. Grandpa had won the down payment in a game of pool.

Every Thanksgiving, my family, along with my aunts, uncles, cousins would arrive at that house—stopping first to throw our jackets and sweaters onto the mountainous pile on the bed. Then the uncles would head for the living room and the football game, the aunts would head to the kitchen to help Grandma with the feast and the cousins would head to whatever spot was left in the tiny home. I usually sought refuge at the pile of National Geographics in the magazine rack by the front door and marveled at the photos of sharks, waterfalls and Swahili boobs.

There was a small dining room that separated the living room from the kitchen. In it, were two long tables‚ one for the grownups and one for the kids. You couldn’t graduate to the grownups table until you were married. One year after Mom was newly divorced and single, she was made to sit with the army of bratty kids. She grits her teeth to this day just thinking about it.

Also in the dining room was a sideboard where a few of the day’s treats lie in waiting. On it, was a plate of dessert that grandma made every year. It was lime jello, mayonnaise, fruit cocktail and cottage cheese whipped and frozen in soup cans then cut into round slices. At the time it was delicious. Now, I have my doubts.

Once dinner was ready, nearly two dozen of us would have to shuffle into the room single file, by family, in order to get everyone in their seats. The Zaelits, the Koesters, the Hortons, the Perry/Munsons and finally, Grandma and Grandpa— all making their entrance as if it were a State dinner in blue jeans.

Our prayer, “Good food, good meat. Good god, let’s eat” was always recited by one of the young kids who knew nothing about sacrilege. Non-traditional to say the least, but I do remember how truly thankful we all were to be together. The cousins and I would adorn our fingers with black olives while the aunts and uncles passed around the potatoes, marshmallow yams, the turkey, and a goose that grandpa shot that very morning.

After dinner, we’d exit the room in reverse order—the men headed back to the living room to nap, the women would head to the kitchen to clean, and the cousins would head to the gun closet where we’d laugh and snoop until Grandpa shooed us out.

Dishes done and football game over, we ate our pie. There was pumpkin, mincemeat and a lone banana cream saved just for Mom and Grandma. Finally, we grabbed our sweaters and hugged our goodbyes until we’d see each other on Christmas Eve —where we’d do it all over again.

Mad Scramble.

Back in the day, Denny’s was our hangout of choice after the bars had closed. Butch men from the Deer Hunter, pretty boys from The Sun and even prettier girls from Backstreet would all swig coffee and discuss the nights events over bacon and eggs until 2, 3, 4:00 in the morning. The servers all loved us because we were funny and nice and tipped very well.

One night (or morning) as we sat in the lobby waiting to be seated, two furious older women approached the register hissing to the manager. What they were doing out at one in the morning was anybody’s guess. They said that there were gay people at the table next to them. They were really disgusted and needed to make their objections known. They looked at all of us and raised their eyebrows as if to say “Right?”

So we responded in the only respectable way we knew. We all started making out with each other.

The horror! You’ve never seen pairs of heels run so fast. Unless it was a raid at the Radio City Lounge.

Feeding Frenzy.

“What could be easier?” I thought, when a friend told me that Costco was hiring. Standing there, handing out pot stickers and meatballs to a few hungry shoppers sounded like a great way to earn some extra cash.

I dropped off my resume which contained not a lick of sales experience, but hopefully a washed up ad man would stand a small chance. They called me for an interview, which I aced. Then came the real test—Denise, the manager wanted to see how my sales skills were and handed me a can of powdered don-dairy creamer. I was aghast. I stared at it for what must have been a half an hour until I finally spoke. “I hate this stuff.” Denise looked at me in a sort of shock that that’s what my pitch would be. She said she’d be in touch, which she was and offered me the job a couple of days later.

I studied up for the food handlers test and was completely overwhelmed by the water temperatures and thawing times a person would need to know. Since the test was online, I asked a friend to help me cheat. Don’t tell the State. I’d hate to have such an important license revoked.

My first day, I told Denise that I was fraught with anxiety and to please not give something as complex as a BBQ meatball or quinoa cup. She was very empathetic and gave me a couple of cases of granola bars. What seemed like a simple task was nothing short of terrifying as I tried to cut them into small chunks and remember which was the Tropical Delight and which was the Berry Burst. The crowds came to me in droves. Like piranhas the swarmed my table, pieces of oats and berries flying everywhere, expressing concerns about peanut allergies and celiac. “I DON’T KNOW! READ THE FRIGGIN’ PACKAGE!” I muttered under whatever breath I had left. Finally, my relief person showed up, handed me a stopwatch and told me to take my twelve-minute break.

It went on like this for a few shifts. I was given the easy items like fruit chews and beef jerky and became pretty comfortable with them. That is, until the morning I woke up with Bell’s Palsy. I called Denise and broke the news and that I now looked like a drunken shar pei. She said I’d be fine and said to come in anyway, which I did. I donned my hairnet and rubber gloves which only made me look like “Quasimodo, the Ebola Doctor.” I set up my table and got ready for show time. I drooled to the mortified passersby, “Bood you rike thum shipth and thaltha?” Some of them sheepishly took a sample. Some just smiled and ran away.

The next day, I was given Lysol Mountain Rain Toilet Bowl Cleanser. I had no actual product to demonstrate so I spent my shift simply asking my customers if their toilets were bright and sparkly. It was one of the strangest days of my working career and surprisingly my best-selling day.

A few shifts later, I was given mozzarella cheese sticks—perfectly harmless unless you’re trying to open the vacuum-sealed plastic package with rubber gloves and a mild hand tremor. It harkened back to the time I tried frantically to open my first condom. 

From there, I went to chocolate milk where the hand tremor caused me to spill and splash the product everywhere. My station conjured up images of Charles Manson had he been a dairy maid.

As the weeks went on, the Bell’s Palsy subsided but a bout of debillitating nerve pain in my legs took over. It was becoming more and more apparent that the fast-paced, anxiety-ridden life of a food demonstrator wasn’t for me. I hung up my hairnet and tossed in the red apron for good. 

I don’t care if I ever see a zesty marinated mushroom again.

Sis

I’ve asked around, and it seems that everyone born into my Mom’s side of family has been a duck hunter or fisherman. Dad’s relatives were all hardscrabble farmers who spent their lives perched in the seat of a combine. This lineage always made for awkward conversation at family reunions as the men would ask me: 1.) If I got my deer; 2.) If I got my duck permit; and 3.) if I had a girlfriend yet. The three questions were all answered to the negative with a casual smirk and bashful toe kick into the gravel parking lot. That was my cue to skedaddle to the gaggle of aunts in hopes of at least swapping a recipe or dishing some gossip. 

The ladies’ conversation wasn’t much better. They swooned about the five-pointer that Danny got or how windy it had been out at the gun club. Even my Mom, who doesn’t hunt and fishes only as an excuse to drink beer refuses to wear a dress or mist her pulse points with Enjoli.

How, you might ask, did I happen to fall into this family—the sole gourmand, decorateur, and Drama Queen nonpareil? I have a theory. 

Sometime between May, 1960 when my brother Mark was born and early October, 1961 when mom became pregnant with me, she conceived what would have been my older sister.  My Sis probably heard rumblings and conversations of the world out here and dreaded the life she’d live in this world of taxidermy and garlic cheese bait. Not Sis. No way. So after putting mom through intense emotional and physical agony, she went away as so many unborns do. No explanation, they just do.

Here’s my theory: Supposing her physical body washed away, but her spirit held on just waiting for the right time? Supposing I was the next one conceived and shared a womb with Sis and we got to be pals—wombmates, as it were? What if we joined forces and came into the world together? My body, her soul. Her yin, my wang.

Upon viewing our old home movies, there are certain telltale clues that Sis is here. Perhaps its the nelly way I sashayed away from the big snowball that Mark threatened to clobber me with when I was three. There is also 8mm footage of me dressed all-too-comfortably as Raggedy Ann. You can’t tell me Mom didn’t know my Sis was around.

She was with us as the family camped on the North Fork of the Duchesne River. As the boys threw rocks and mud at each other, Gail and Mimi (my new stepsisters) played all day in the shallow river constructing homes out of river rock, and furnished them with grass and wildflowers.

We played with Legos, but never created robots or helicopters. Sis and I would always make a 3-bedroom rambler and furniture using the smooth-top blocks for our 300-count bed sheets. Sis’s assistance (there’s a challenge for those with a lisp!) was evident in my Pinewood Derby car, too. While the other boys painted their hot rods with skulls, flames, and daggers—sharp, streamlined and aerodynamic—mine was a red and black polka dot bug. It was pudgy, with big floppy eyelashes and a friendly wink.

Mimi shared a room with me and Sis for awhile, and while it was usually a good enough arrangement, it would occasionally look like a scene from John Waters’ “Female Trouble.”  Sis would become too prissy and dictatorial for the hard-headed Mimi and a cat fight would ensue while I stood by and watched in horror not wanting to take sides. Sis and I would both end up getting clobbered.

When we grew older and got our own rooms, Sis and I set up housekeeping. The other boys’ rooms reeked of expired milk, sweaty socks and the occasional doobie, whereas Sis and I lived in a lemon-scented Windex Shine.

During adolescence, Sis would get crushes on my best friends and make passes at them as I looked on in panic. Sometimes she lucked out and got some clandestine nookie. Other times, her advances made me the laughing stock of the school.

Let’s not forget that Halloween she wore white flats with crepe soles into the grocery store oblivious to the fact that they clashed with my jeans and flannel shirt. I can still hear the clickety-clack in the parking lot as I ran back to the car cursing her all the way.

She introduced herself to Mom years ago and they have become the best of pals. They can dish gossip and swap recipes, just as I had always wanted to do. She has even shown herself to the men of the family, who, while giving one-armed hugs with sincerity, still raise an eyebrow at the enigma that has shaken up our testosterone-laden family. 

Sis is glad she took her leap of faith, and enjoys being in the spotlight - albeit unseen.

I’m just a shy observer.

Yam Balls.

My grandma had a cookbook. It was Sunset Magazine’s Holiday Cooking—a thin hardback book filled with cakes, puddings and gelatin molds. One of the recipes was for Sweet Potato Balls. They were cornflake encrusted mashed sweet potatoes filled with a melty marshmallow center. It has become my Thanksgiving tradition to make these for the past 20 years for friends and family. Even those who hate yams (sweet potatoes)  love these. And for some reason they have been and always must be molded to the sounds of Maura O’Connell’s “Stories” CD. It’s tradition.

Here’s my slightly glorified version of the old recipe...

Scott’s World Famous Yam Balls (sweet potatoes, whatever)

6 medium sweet potatoes, cooked, peeled and mashed (2 cans are easier)

1/2 cup slightly softened butter

1 cup brown sugar

1 tsp. powdered ginger

1 cup chopped pecans

12 large marshmallows

2 cups Great Grains Crunchy Pecan cereal (or something like that)

ground cinnamon

grated nutmeg

Mix sweet potatoes with butter, sugar, ginger and nuts. Form a ball around one marshmallow; roll in cereal to coat heavily. Sprinkle with cinnamon and nutmeg.

Just before serving, warm room-temperature balls in a 350° oven for 15 minutes, or until marshmallow has softened or melted.

Makes 12 balls 

Note: Balls may be made ahead of time and refrigerated or frozen for later use.

Pet Project

Mark had a guinea pig named Homer. He was black and white and tan. I guess you could call him calico if he had been a cat. Homer was really not much of a pet. He pretty much sat and sniffed grumpily all day like a russet-sized Wilford Brimley. 

Mark would let him out of his cage once in a while but he would just scurry behind the couch in order to avoid our two terriers. A lot of fun, that Homer.

One summer, our house was a sweltering hot box due to our lack of a swamp cooler or central air. Our family was heading to Lagoon for Fireman’s Day. Mark decided to put Homer and his cage outside to escape the heat while we were away.

Mark learned two lessons that day:

1. Shade moves.

2. A baked guinea pig doesn’t.

Funny Money.

Back in the ‘70s, the Mormon visiting teachers gave our family a book. Not the book you’re thinking—this was an activity book full of fun games and projects to do on Monday nights, more commonly known as Family Home Evening. At the back of the book were a few pages of fake money to be used as reward for these games and projects. Each bill had a cute little cartoon of Brigham Young in the center. Hundreds and hundreds of fun bucks!

One Sunday—the first Sunday of the month—the deacons came by to collect our tithing. We had never paid a dime, but I guess doesn’t hurt to ask. They handed Mark the envelope. We said we’d be right back and ran with the envelope to my room where the activity book lie waiting for us. A few quick snips with the scissors and our “thousand dollar” donation had us paid in full. 

They never returned.