Sunday Meditation #49: Things I Learned From My Mama

Sitting in the studied anonymity of a fast food joint, I wipe with a napkin the crumbs from my chin. It is a pause in the work day and surprisingly restorative, especially when I willfully ignore the possible deleterious effects of what I just consumed in favor of being thankful for a full belly. This type of food and fast eating is not as typical in my diet these days, but it approaches a routine.

Another routine is the aftermath of the meal. Looking down at the table I can see the typical crumpled napkins that accompany me everywhere. The balled up wrapping from a plastic straw sits forlornly near the cup (unsweetened ice tea, if you please). The table laminate and food wrappers are bespeckled with a dusting of crumbs. This detritus is the typical fallout from when I eat no matter how much I strive to be careful. It is a minor miracle when I can get through a meal without something landing on my shirt or pants. 

But I digress. It is the crumbs that are the crux of the matter here.

I sit back in my chair to do some people watching while settling the meal. Places like this are interesting clinical settings if human behavior holds any fascination for the mind. Open air laboratories without quiet rooms or one way mirrors. Given the amount of time spent in such places I have observed that almost no one finishes a meal without some amount of collateral fallout. Food crumbs, spilled drinks, trash. It's all there. I have also observed that a high percentage of folks (anecdotally, you understand) do not seem to notice the leavings.

This isn't to say that everyone is a slob. I have never seen an absolute mess left for the staff to clean up. Taking trays to the drop off receptacles is a macro task that most everyone seems to perform. This is good thing, as I think most folks have good intentions.

But the small things often go unnoticed or uncared for. The errant food wrapper. Sauce smears. Crumbs and leavings dotting the tabletops and seats. These get left behind as patrons stand, take a slurp from the bottom of the cup, and head out the door in pursuit of other matters. For the longest time, I too followed this pattern. After all, we are beings of our own agendas with a certain benign inattention to minor consequences of the actions we most often execute without malice.

I formerly paid no heed to the crumbs I left behind. This state of affairs persisted until one day I found myself at the end of a meal, sweeping those crumbs off the table and into the napkin I was poised to discard. It hit me that I had been doing that for some time without realizing it. I was cleaning a table that was not mine. In that moment I was channeling the habits of my mother.

Tidying up after a meal in a restaurant, or most any meal for that matter, was a habit my mother had indulged for years. I saw it growing up without thinking it anything remarkable. In the self-absorption of my youth I never thought to ask her why she did it. Years later, I forget exactly when, it was my dad who asked her one night "What do you do that for?" Her reply was something to the effect that her mama raised her that way and she did not want to leave a mess behind for others.

Little did I know, but the seed was planted. It sprouted decades later.

In the course of my evolution from child to youth to man that little life lesson did take hold in me. The day I realized I was sweeping up crumbs and wiping off my table was the day I realized something else about my mother's habit. Pieced together with the ways she conducted her daily life it became clear to me there was another lesson she taught me without telling me. The person who cleans up the table you just used may do that as part of the job description, but that doesn't mean you should so careless in your actions that you create more work for them.

It was time to go. Meal was done. Clock was ticking. I swept the crumbs before me into a napkin and balled the napkin up in the leftover wrapper. All that was for the trash as I headed out the door. I thought about the simple lesson of being mindful of those who come after you, thankful for the things I learned from my Mama.

Belly Troubles, and the Tao of the Cure

May 24, 10:10 PM. Finally, finally settling down. And the belly is quiet. Finally.

If anyone had asked me to predict how the day would go based on how I felt upon awakening this morning, I would have told them it is going to be darkness and shadows all around. A semi-blind groping through half-lit corridors, looking for a half-open door leading into a room lit by a single weak bulb. I felt downright shabby and feeble. Poor sleep, anxiety, and obligations will do that to a man.

Having a belly that worships the Trickster is no help, either. My gut was expressing some grievance, and it put a certain dull sheen on the day. I had things to do, but no energy or motivation to do them. Some could wait, others could not. Through the fog I was determined to slog.

I think it is no secret, to those who have read this blog on a regular basis, that I struggle occasionally with anxiety and depression. Every now and then the "sheer hellishness of life" (to borrow a wonderful phrase from Jim Harrison) sneaks up on me and hijacks my better nature. I get wound around the axle of the truck that hit me and I find it hard to disentangle myself. Today was one of those days.

The month of May has been an emotional sine wave for me. I have been in hot pursuit of employment opportunities, working on a storyline for a book, and trying to make time for creative endeavors. I have traveled to see my lovely Wee Lass, and had a marvelous time in her company. I have lain awake at night with my breath just short of panting, overwhelmed by dreams and the fear of failure. When I awoke this morning, my belly walloped me with a low-grade murmur of discontent. Everything congealed in the clear light of day.

It wasn't enough to keep me off my feet. But it sure made walking a chore. It made being human being a chore. I was of no mind to spend time in my own company. So the carrying out of tasks for the day was nothing I looked forward to completing. There was no choice.

I ate a little breakfast, forcing it down with a cup of tea while I sat out on the front patio. I count it as a blessing that the weather was gorgeous and cool. The birds were making the right kind of noise, and actually kept my mind from wandering into some darker byways. Still, I was exhausted, sick and sleepy. No way to go through life.

I rested a bit before I left to take care of the major task for the day, a photography assignment that mercifully kept my mind focused (Ha! A photography pun!) and off my griping belly. I read somewhere long ago that it is impossible to be depressed when engaged in meaningful tasks, and in this case a truth. Hooray for that!

Some background, if I may. Many years ago, my physician told me that in my case, stress manifests itself in the gut. Unfortunately, his diagnosis was spot on. It has been a limitation on me for years. Feeling this way has in some fashion become the normal for me.

By the time I finished what I needed to do, it was early afternoon and my body, as wracked as it was, was still giving me indications that it needed calories. With resignation and no enthusiasm I ran a search on my phone for something close, cheap and hopefully easy on the stomach. The closest restaurant it found was a Chinese place I had heard of but never had the opportunity to try.

So it was I found myself standing in the parking lot of a slightly beat-up looking strip center, staring at a window full of picture cards of different dishes, the names written in that faux-Asian script that seems vaguely insulting to me, even though I can't say exactly why. The neon OPEN sign blinked off and on, and with my belly woes and lack of enthusiasm asserting themselves, I almost turned and left. Almost.

Something told me to go in. I was greeted by a sweet older Chinese woman and a low- to no-concept interior decor that had me wondering which kindergarten class had done the honors. I was the only customer in the joint, pondering again if I should leave. The hostess was very nice, though, and I did need to eat. She cheerfully handed me a menu, and I sat down to order.

A small bowl of hot-and-sour soup. A plate of chicken and broccoli on steamed rice, garnished with a single fried wonton. The food was served on a simple white plate. There were no frills.

The food smelled delicious. I sampled the vegetables and a bit of chicken. It tasted...wonderful. It avoided the typical trap of too much sauce, and too thick. The wonton was the ubiquitous crab Rangoon, but amazingly it was good. Crispy, non-greasy, light. I couldn't believe my tastebuds.

The portion was just right. I felt satisfied, not over full. My belly even relaxed, after a few initial protestations. Even though I wasn't prepared to admit it, the cloud hovering over me began to lift. I thanked the hostess, paid my bill and left.

Somewhere along the way home, I began to feel good. Tired, still, but good. The walls began to recede a bit, and the light seemed a little brighter. I finished my errands and went home, reveling in the luxury of a nap I wanted to take, instead of feeling I had to take. It was wonderful.

I don't know what triggered my ascent. Maybe it was the simple passage of time, maybe it was someone being nice to me, maybe it was just a simple plate of food done well and served with charm. Whatever it was, it sure felt good to take the cure. It felt good to find the Way, tricked out in Chinese food.

Dreams of Empire

Thoughts from a recent trip to New York City, transcribed in a daze:

June 10th, 2012. Late morning in Newark Airport.

I bit of the Big Apple; I can't be sure it was not biting me.

New York is more than a city of landmarks and visitor's notions. It is everything like you thought it would be, and more than you could imagine. It is a city of heartbreaking brutality and breathtaking beauty. New York City will exhaust you, break you, lift you up and make you grateful to be alive.

You must be careful with this city. It will not be careful with you. This is not from inherent insensitivity. It is that the city has bigger things to think of, in its dreams of consumption and commerce. New York City exists as an ideal, within space-time and outside of it. If we are shrimp, the city is a whale. When it thrashes or dives, we can be swept aside by the power and awed by the majesty. As I said, you must be careful.

Ha. I laugh at myself for feeling this way. Fatigue and anxiety, ecstasy and exhilaration, I felt after experiencing only a fraction of the whole. I walked as much as possible, covering miles and territory mostly and heretofore unknown to me except primarily through media and the filters of others' experiences. I ate myself silly, chewing my way through the cuisine of the city and nowhere.

I had a long solitary walk, taking pictures. I became dizzy and disoriented by the noise and hustle of the city. I think my camera became my filter and shield, allowing me to keep New York at bay so I could breathe and make sense of it all. The austerity of the plaza in front of the Seagram Building was a tonic after a long day. Fountains burbled at each end, and the luxury of the open area before Park Avenue was surprisingly effective at pushing back the street. I was able to gather my thoughts and my breath, getting a second wind to go see more. Because the city always wants you to see more. It demands it, it coerces and flatters, it offers temptations to satisfy any curiosity.

Me, I simply wanted to understand the bones and the flesh of the place, and why anyone would choose to live inside the leviathan.

I did not do this entirely alone. Good company makes for good travel, and my companion excelled at assisting me in sanding down the rough edges of Gotham. We walked, the best way to understand a place, and we walked as much as we could take. The serenity of Central Park and the buzz of the street scene by the Flatiron Building were truly energizing. The Empire State Building was all that I thought it would be; an experience that lived up to the myths. The High Line Park is a world-class urban amenity, and a great example of turning what could have been dross into a ribbon of gold. If an oasis is needed, look no further than the sculpture garden at the Museum of Modern Art.

The unceasing activity and the churn of the city continued to wear me out. So I turned to that which endlessly fascinates me: food.

New York is a city of astonishing food. It is the cuisine of everywhere and nowhere (to borrow a phrase from Gary Nabhan's "Coming Home to Eat"). It may not always, and usually isn't, cheap to eat in New York, but with consideration one can eat exceedingly well. You can eat America, and the world. And we tried.

From hot dogs to haute cuisine we ate some of the best food we have ever had. Gumbo. Fried oysters. Sublime pizza. Salumi, formaggia and a delicious glass of white wine in a frenetic Italian marketplace. Southeast Asian-French fusion cuisine, a medley of seafood that had me reeling and almost begging for more. Kati rolls from a biryani cart, the taste of which left me wanting eat twice again. And of course, the hot dogs. One of the most delightful eating experiences for me was chowing down on a hot dog from Papaya King, on East 86th Street not too far away from Central Park. Standing at the counter, looking out the window at the seethe and hiss of life out on the street, something came together for me. The food we ate was a reflection of what makes the city itself. We tasted the food of money and muscle, of thought and labor. We ate of the food that the city wants to be and of the food from the homes of those who make up the city. I had an inkling of what gives New York City its gravity.

The is brutality there, and ugliness, this is true. But there is beauty, there is sustenance, there is life. One has to choose carefully as to what sees as the true heart of the city. As for myself, I cannot say for sure that I could live there (at least, not yet); the noise and the closeness of so many other souls still drains me in ways I find unsettling. But I do know that I want to go back someday. I only touched the surface of its heart, and I need to know truly what lies at its core. I suspect it has something to do with a pleasant summer day, a hot dog at the counter and someone lovely to help me rule this empire of the heart.

Lemon Fresh Souls

Air shimmered, souls joined,
We sat with cookies in hand,
lemon cooling tongues

The Mayo(nnaise) Clinic

I swear, this mayonnaise thing must be some sort of strange attractor for me.  Once again, I find myself cogitating on the subject of condiments, with mayo front and center.  I know I've done this before (see "French Fries in Holland" and "Mayo Playo Hato" for enlightenment, if you haven't already), and I thought I was finis, but alas, it came back.  I must confess to you, why it came back.

Recently while at lunch with some new friends, I ordered a club sandwich with french fries.  The waitress asked me if I wanted ketchup or mayonnaise.  Perplexed, because I thought she was asking if I wanted either on my sandwich, I said mayonnaise.  Because who puts ketchup on a club sandwich?

A minute later, it hit me: she was asking if I wanted mayo or ketchup for the french fries.  Sure enough, when the plates arrived at the table there were two tiny stainless steel cups with mayonnaise in them.

Hmm.  Given my past stance on that particular condiment, one would think I would have asked the waitress to bring a bottle of ketchup, or malt vinegar (my particular favorite on fries), but not wanting to lose face I gamely decided to try the mayo.  To quote Jeffrey Steingarten, the "results, regrettably, were delicious".

I have ventured over to the Dark Side of condiment application...and I liked it.  And now I don't what to do...

Oracle of The Frijoles

Never underestimate the Power of the Frijoles. Food for thought, I must say...

The brain, it doesn't rest, even when the mouth is full of beans.

Photo credit: Irish Gumbo

Road Food, Part 3: A side of bittersweet

Arrived home in mid-afternoon, after a 5 1/2 hour drive back from visiting the ancestral homestead in southeastern Virginia. The Spouse, Wee Lass and I went down to visit with the Parents of Gumbo, get some face time with my Big Bro and his lovely better half, and celebrate a slightly delayed Christmas. A pleasant visit overall, especially if one is a certain granddaughter who receives her yearly toy allotment (i.e. a shitload) in one fell swoop. More princesses for the Princess, with not one but TWO 'Belle' dolls. Wee Lass likes herself some Disney. Oh, and there was food. A lot of food.

The drive can be made in about 4 hours, but we stopped to eat in a little town called Tappahannock, in eastern Virginia. It sits near to the Rappahannock River, which in turn is nearby to the Chesapeake Bay. Good fish and oyster country, that. The place we went to eat is an old seafood restaurant right there on the main drag through town, by name of Lowery's:

It's a funny thing that I had never eaten there until relatively recently, on another holiday visit. Way back when I was still "a-courtin'" The Spouse (at that point The Girlfriend), who lived in Maryland at the time, I would pass Lowery's every trip. I was in too much of a hurry, and too busy stuffing my face with nasty-ass Hardee's steak biscuits while driving, to give this unassuming restaurant a try. Pity for me, as I discovered later.

We finally stopped there to eat on a holiday visit years ago, Wee Lass was now our permanent passenger, and we had begun to think of McDonBurgTacoAldsKingBell's as food of last resort. So we were less inclined to choke down fast food and more in the mood for some real food. Fortunately, Lowery's is good, as we discovered, so we stopped in today for lunch. Not what you'd call fancy-schmancy, more low-key and definitely old country decor. They also have a talking mynah bird, named Jay-Boy, in what amounts to a gift shop area in the back. They also have, for the young'ns, a little wishing well with toy fish in it. The kids get a little fishing pole with a magnet and hook, and they 'fish' in the well. You snag a fish, take it to the counter, and then pick out a free toy. On this visit, Wee Lass decided to go with the purple plastic beads. She was quite delighted with her new jewelry.

Oh, yes, the food. They specialize in seafood, fried, broiled, baked. They do a good broiled fish, a tasty crab cake (sandwich or platter), shrimp and hushpuppies. Surprisingly, the best bread pudding I have ever had was at Lowery's. I was licking the bowl! But my favorite is the fried oyster sandwich. Yum, yum, YUM! They have access to some mighty fine oysters out of the nearby waters. This being a good time of year for oysters, the sandwich was what I got:

Just look at all that goodness! Damn, too bad for you guys that there is no Smell-O-Vision available for the Internet! A simple, humble thing, but when it is done right, there isn't much to beat the taste and crunch of a fresh fried oyster sandwich. This one was done right!

Truth be told, this sandwich (as good as it was), was not the best thing I had to eat on this trip. No, the top honor for that would have to be the grilled peanut butter sandwich I had for breakfast this morning before we left to go home. I wasn't thinking ahead, plus I was really hungry, so I didn't think to take a picture of it. In hindsight, I wish I had. It was very attractive. It was crispy on the outside and gooey-soft on the inside. Biting into it was like biting into some of the best memories I have from my time as a little Gumbo. This is a sandwich I would drive a long, long way to have, it's that good.

Who could create such a wonder? What chef could turn a humble grilled peanut butter sandwich into a delicious mouthful of memories? Why, that would be my Moms. She did me a favor, made breakfast this morning, and gave me a grilled peanut butter sandwich like only she can make: a simple thing, done right, made with love. It doesn't get any better than that.

Thank you, Mom.

ROAD TRIP: SCENES FROM HIGHWAY 17

Road Food, Part 2

More stories about buildings and food! Another vignette from my trip to Boston in May, as a card carrying member of the AIA! Woot! Architects, represent!

The little pink fellow at left is Pants The Bear, aka PTB. He was my faithful companion in Boston. I promised the Wee Lass that I would take him with me, see the world, that sort of thing. (That's also him in the masthead). Light, quiet and easy to carry, in some ways he was an ideal traveller. Here he is resting against the pretty flowers that were on my table at Rachels' Kitchen (http://www.rachelskitchenboston.com/), a small eatery on Church Street in the Bay Village section. There was an intriguing entry on it in the travel guide I had with me so I resolved to get there at least once.

I had plenty of time before my first seminar of the day, which was good because it took me a while to find Rachel's. My fault, not them, I was navigating the T and buses and generally wandering. I finally found them although I almost walked right past it, it is in the ground floor of an end-of-the-row house. That's it at below right.

I borrowed the picture from their website. (I hope you don't mind, folks at Rachel's Kitchen!) It is a small place with the kitchen taking up the back half of the space and three tables in the front half. I got a good vibe from reading the menu, so went in reasonably sure I could get a good, non-Dunkin' Donuts type breakfast. I say that because I was still working off yesterday's gut-bomb breakfast sandwich I got from the DD near my hotel. Calories, yes, but wuff. Next time I won't run like hell to catch the T afterwards. Lesson learned.

I wasn't disappointed. The menu is simple, the place bright and cheery. There were three other people there and it looked like they were enjoying themselves. The two lovely ladies at the counter greeted me like a friend (nice, being alone on the road) and I immediately relaxed as I took the last seat across from the door. I ordered the 'maya b': a grilled tortilla filled with scrambled eggs, red onions and cheddar. Extras were salsa, hash browns and black beans. Pretty tasty, and pretty looking, although I didn't remember to get the pic until I was almost done (Urp. Yum.)There was also something called the 'big bad wolf': scrambled eggs with bacon, sausage, ham, cheddar, potatoes and hot sauce, all in a tortilla. I almost ordered that, too, but realized I was full and I still had to get across downtown and over into South Boston. Knowing my history with T trains, I reckoned running would be involved: not good with a full belly. I would have liked to make it back for lunch, but it wasn't meant to be.

And that was too bad. The food was good, the atmosphere cozy and relaxed, and it took the edge off of being in a new city and far from home. The ladies and I chatted a bit, and everyone got a chuckle out of me taking pictures of the food and PTB. The lady customer at the table beside mine confessed that she did the same thing while travelling. Nice to know I am not a lone weirdo. Pants The Bear even got a photo op; they let him help behind the counter.

It wouldn't be a stretch to say breakfast at Rachel's was a highlight of my trip. Dunkin' Donuts and McDonald's would have been faster and easier, but they wouldn't have been as good. Fast food chains supply calories but they really don't supply PLACE. The food was really good, no doubt, but I also was able to locate myself in my surroundings. I don't remember the meals or (sadly) the servers in fast food joints, unless they have been particularly noteworthy in their lack of quality. Or even worse, in their aggressive mediocrity, which often makes me feel sad that I spent money there. I will always have a good memory of Boston, because of a place like Rachel's. The size, scale and the human beings there helped me make a connection, helped me feel like I was in a different room in my house rather than feeling too far from home. That sense of place is invaluable, and I hope to make it back. Rather than feeling like I flew a long way to see the same thing I could have driven a few blocks over for back home, I got to know a part of Boston and ate well in the bargain.

Road Food, Part 1

I traveled to Boston earlier this year, in May, for the American Institute of Architects annual convention. I had to go by myself this year, couldn't bring the Wife-N-Child this time. This meant I was alone, untethered, set loose in a city where it is a) Easy to walk around; b) Easy to find Guinness; and c) Easy to find good eats.

Aaaahhh, the Garden of Eden (Eating?). Convention? What? Where?

Fortunately, I was able to STICK TO THE PLAN. Said plan consisted of me grabbing my stuff, heading for the nearest 'T' stop, quick ride for educational and business type stuff at the Convention Center (Note: The Hynes Convention Center is freakin' HUGE. Pack a lunch, wear comfortable shoes), then a breakneck trip through downtown Boston for lunch and sightseeing and stuff for the Folks Back Home.

I exercised more in three days than I had in three months. Man, was it worth it! I ate some seriously dee-lish victuals, including a pastrami sandwich as big as my face. Sam LaGrassa's, on Province Street, in case you find yourself in need of lunch in Beantown. I tried running back to the T after that; Pastrami + jogging + briefcase = hernia/near hurl. Great sandwich, bad idea.

The second night I was there, it was raining, I was lonely and tired, and found myself wandering around the Downtown Crossing area. I had almost decided to grab a sandwich and head back to my hotel, when I happened to read in my NFT (Not For Tourists) guidebook a little blurb for the Silvertone Bar & Grill. Persuasive, plus it mentioned comfort food (i.e. mac n cheese, mashed potatoes, the usual suspects). Looking up form the book I could see the diner sign just down the block. You know what happened next.

The place was packed, but I got a table by the bar because I was by myself. I think the hostess took pity on me. So I ordered a beer (Harpoon lager, I think) and made eyes at the meatloaf. The waiter recommended it, said he ate that regularly of all the things on the menu. Tired, a little buzzed (empty stomach, remember?) I took the meat loaf.

Oh.My.God. This wasn't just meat loaf, this was Meat Loaf Prime. The Ur-Meat Loaf. The Big Bang of Meat Loaf. With the mashed potatoes and green beans, it was too much. But I ate everything, mopped the plate, then scraped up the last molecule of gravy with my spoon. I would have licked the plate if I wasn't in public.

Here it is, in all its glory, perhaps the Best Meat Loaf In The World:



Best of all, I felt at home, warm and dry, and not so alone anymore. Many thanks to the Silvertone. If you make it to Boston, look 'em up.