I knew that the Superbowl party would actually start a little after noon; after Howard and company had returned from church.
I also know Berta takes pride in her cooking and that that is the time her dishes are at their peak, and, by showing up 4 hours later, when food has to be retrieved from the refrigerator, un-Saran wrapped then -perish the thought- microwaved, for me, I am creating a misrepresentation of her cooking, and that is why I should try to start showing up a bit after noon, on the Sundays that I do wind up going there in the future.
It was about 3:50 PM when I arrived, to the fanfare of the 5 dogs parking, the chickens clucking and Howard saying: "Oh, my, I thought you weren't gonna make it!"
I was encouraged to eat.
I was pretty darned hungry, I discovered.
I had chicken (kind of tough and dry and stringy, having been prepared by Ken, and not Berta).
Howard said that Ken is kind of "jealous," about the kitchen, as in, when Howard is in there preparing something, Ken feels threatened, in some way.
There were fish tacos, chips with salsa and guacamole, some kind of meat pie, and frogs legs, courtesy of the bar which is right next door to their house, and which specializes in food which is off the beaten path, pursuant to some Cajun or French tradition that they hearken to.
The Patriots lost the game, but I settled upon a mindset whereby I realize that pro football is just meant to be "entertainment," and feeling bummed out after "your" team loses might mean that you are identifying with them too much -a bunch of guys whom you don't know personally, but whom you root for, because they play in a stadium nearby where you grew up, and their helmets are labelled as such; even though the players are from all over the place.
Perhaps the value lies only in the relationships that are established between people with a team being the common ground for it. Giving a bunch of people you just met the high five because the Patriots blocked a field goal...priceless...
So, I could have busked upon that Sunday night, which was in carnival season and was mild in temperature, but I would have missed the Superbowl.
The game was over by 9 PM.
I was given a blanket by Berta, along with the remote for the TV, and she and Ken and Howard retired to their respective rooms.
I wondered if I would be able to fall asleep and, if so, when.
"Berta is up around six," said Howard.
I asked him for a book to read, to help me fall asleep.
It wound up being the TV, after a couple of hours of crime type shows which put me under. I woke up around 11:30 PM, shut it off, along with the lamp next to me, and went back to sleep until around six, when Berta stirred, as advertised.
Before going to sleep, I had acted upon Berta's admonishment to eat. "There's plenty of food."
I opened the refrigerator, trying to be quiet, even though Berta had, several times, encouraged me to partake of the cornucopia of her kitchen.
This was in case she had said words to the effect of "make yourself at home," out of politeness, but didn't really expect me to raid the fridge as soon as she had dozed off.
I would have to say that, on an episode of Family Feud, if the category was "things in Berta's refrigerator," it would be hard for a contestant to make an errant guess, given the way the thing was crammed top to bottom with everything from the leftovers from earlier to lunch meats, fresh vegetables, butter, cheeses of all kinds, and plenty of mysterious Tupperware vessels. There were all kinds of condiments, like horseradish mustard, sauces and dressings. Show me...frog legs!!
I ate some fruit salad, and wound up attacking a bag of bread, which was kind of sweet bread with embedded raisins and maybe other fruit; like a mostly cake fruitcake.
There were about a half dozen slices of the bread in a Zip-lock bag. I started with one, and then returned to the box at intervals of perhaps 15 minutes apart until they were all gone.
There was about a case of beer in 12 ounce cans, along with champagne, and there were other bottles of wine on the floor next to the refrigerator. The thought crossed my mind that I could get pleasantly drunk, to drown my grief over the Patriots losing, and because I didn't have to go out for the night, and because the beer and wine would be free.
After Berta and Ken had left for work and, in the latter's case, to look for it, Howard told me, on his own way out, to just let myself out when I wanted to, and not to bother locking the doors and, of course, to help myself to eggs, oatmeal, etc.
In the hallway, leading from Berta's room to the back of the house where Howard's room is, there were a few "guitar" books, evidence that someone had started to learn the instrument.
One book of sheet music from the 1970's had, among its 50 or so songs, at least a dozen that I had made a mental note to myself to learn, at some point.
It was almost uncanny how concentrated were the songs that are on my "gotta learn" list.
I could bolster my repertoire with at least a dozen additions out of that book, which I will eventually return to Berta's shelf in the hallway.
One of the Weird Al Yankovic type songs that I have written was to turn "Candy Man," by Sammy Davis Jr. into a song I call "Can Man," about the guy who gathers aluminum cans and recycles them for a living. "The can man takes his bag of cans and makes; a trip upon his bicycle; takes them to be recycled; I think that his name is Michael..."
And there was the sheet music for "Candy Man," the song that I had been trying to sound out by ear but wasn't sure about, right there in the book.
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| I make the leap to exotic foods |
I also know Berta takes pride in her cooking and that that is the time her dishes are at their peak, and, by showing up 4 hours later, when food has to be retrieved from the refrigerator, un-Saran wrapped then -perish the thought- microwaved, for me, I am creating a misrepresentation of her cooking, and that is why I should try to start showing up a bit after noon, on the Sundays that I do wind up going there in the future.
It was about 3:50 PM when I arrived, to the fanfare of the 5 dogs parking, the chickens clucking and Howard saying: "Oh, my, I thought you weren't gonna make it!"
I was encouraged to eat.
I was pretty darned hungry, I discovered.
I had chicken (kind of tough and dry and stringy, having been prepared by Ken, and not Berta).
Howard said that Ken is kind of "jealous," about the kitchen, as in, when Howard is in there preparing something, Ken feels threatened, in some way.
There were fish tacos, chips with salsa and guacamole, some kind of meat pie, and frogs legs, courtesy of the bar which is right next door to their house, and which specializes in food which is off the beaten path, pursuant to some Cajun or French tradition that they hearken to.
The Patriots lost the game, but I settled upon a mindset whereby I realize that pro football is just meant to be "entertainment," and feeling bummed out after "your" team loses might mean that you are identifying with them too much -a bunch of guys whom you don't know personally, but whom you root for, because they play in a stadium nearby where you grew up, and their helmets are labelled as such; even though the players are from all over the place.
Perhaps the value lies only in the relationships that are established between people with a team being the common ground for it. Giving a bunch of people you just met the high five because the Patriots blocked a field goal...priceless...
So, I could have busked upon that Sunday night, which was in carnival season and was mild in temperature, but I would have missed the Superbowl.
The game was over by 9 PM.
I was given a blanket by Berta, along with the remote for the TV, and she and Ken and Howard retired to their respective rooms.
I wondered if I would be able to fall asleep and, if so, when.
"Berta is up around six," said Howard.
I asked him for a book to read, to help me fall asleep.
It wound up being the TV, after a couple of hours of crime type shows which put me under. I woke up around 11:30 PM, shut it off, along with the lamp next to me, and went back to sleep until around six, when Berta stirred, as advertised.
Before going to sleep, I had acted upon Berta's admonishment to eat. "There's plenty of food."
I opened the refrigerator, trying to be quiet, even though Berta had, several times, encouraged me to partake of the cornucopia of her kitchen.
This was in case she had said words to the effect of "make yourself at home," out of politeness, but didn't really expect me to raid the fridge as soon as she had dozed off.
I would have to say that, on an episode of Family Feud, if the category was "things in Berta's refrigerator," it would be hard for a contestant to make an errant guess, given the way the thing was crammed top to bottom with everything from the leftovers from earlier to lunch meats, fresh vegetables, butter, cheeses of all kinds, and plenty of mysterious Tupperware vessels. There were all kinds of condiments, like horseradish mustard, sauces and dressings. Show me...frog legs!!
I ate some fruit salad, and wound up attacking a bag of bread, which was kind of sweet bread with embedded raisins and maybe other fruit; like a mostly cake fruitcake.
There were about a half dozen slices of the bread in a Zip-lock bag. I started with one, and then returned to the box at intervals of perhaps 15 minutes apart until they were all gone.
There was about a case of beer in 12 ounce cans, along with champagne, and there were other bottles of wine on the floor next to the refrigerator. The thought crossed my mind that I could get pleasantly drunk, to drown my grief over the Patriots losing, and because I didn't have to go out for the night, and because the beer and wine would be free.
After Berta and Ken had left for work and, in the latter's case, to look for it, Howard told me, on his own way out, to just let myself out when I wanted to, and not to bother locking the doors and, of course, to help myself to eggs, oatmeal, etc.
In the hallway, leading from Berta's room to the back of the house where Howard's room is, there were a few "guitar" books, evidence that someone had started to learn the instrument.
One book of sheet music from the 1970's had, among its 50 or so songs, at least a dozen that I had made a mental note to myself to learn, at some point.
It was almost uncanny how concentrated were the songs that are on my "gotta learn" list.
I could bolster my repertoire with at least a dozen additions out of that book, which I will eventually return to Berta's shelf in the hallway.
One of the Weird Al Yankovic type songs that I have written was to turn "Candy Man," by Sammy Davis Jr. into a song I call "Can Man," about the guy who gathers aluminum cans and recycles them for a living. "The can man takes his bag of cans and makes; a trip upon his bicycle; takes them to be recycled; I think that his name is Michael..."
And there was the sheet music for "Candy Man," the song that I had been trying to sound out by ear but wasn't sure about, right there in the book.
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