There's always room......

After thinking about the meals of Spam I consumed as a child, I was in a nostaglic food mood this week. Naturally, I thought of Jell-o.

Every meal consumed with extended family members included the wiggly stuff.

If we were at Aunt Vera's house, we were served her claim to fame...mandarin orange Jell-o. It started with orange Jell-o to which was added canned mandarin oranges and orange sherbet. It worked once. It worked every time Aunt Vera entertained.

Grandma thought, "What's not to love?" and added it to her "A list" as well. Grandma didn't entertain as much as Aunt Vera, but when she did, Mandarin Jell-o was there at the table, right along with Grandpa and Uncle Jim.

Aunt Dena made jell-o a staple as well. Hers was always molded into a fancy wreath-like appearance. If Martha Stewart had been around in Aunt Dena's day, she would have asked Uncle Harry for a subscription to the magazine for Christmas. Aunt Dena put a little extra in everything she did.

So we sat in their tidy little post-war bungalow in their tidy little dining room, eating Thanksgiving dinner that just had to include the wreath-like gelatin. The open center was then filled to overflowing with miracle whip. Looking back, it was something of a miracle I grew up at all. At the time, however, I didn't thing it got any better than lime Jell-o with gobs of Miracle Whip.

My mother's jello was lemon in color and filled with assorted chopped vegetables including, but not limited to carrots, green pepper, celery, and cabbage. I should clarify the term "filled". To say vegetables were added to the syrup before cooling is putting it mildly. Mom's Jell-o mixture was a little bit like eating slimy cole slaw. I loved it.

The picture I included this time is of a recipe called "Tuna Jell-o Salad." It has eggs and olives in it along with the tuna and celery. Fortunately, no one in my family ever heard of it.

Childhood

We’ve been listening to an audio book about growing up in mid twentieth century
Mid-America. I admit it got me thinking of my own mid twentieth century childhood.

As a child of the era, I lived in a kind of post WWII utopia in South Minneapolis.

We were a family of five, living in the house where my mother and her siblings had grown up.

I was a few months shy of kindergarten when my brother was born.

Having a brother didn’t change things for me until he was big enough to walk. Then I was elected chaser. As chaser, I was supposed to catch up with him and bring him back. Usually, it meant grabbing him off the porch and hauling his squirming self into the living room where he could be properly supervised. Once I sprinted up the sidewalk after him, reaching his naked but for a diaper body five houses away from home. After the running up the block incident, a large hook and corresponding eye were installed on the porch door and doorframe. That made my life much easier.

Mom got us off to school in the morning. She had my leftovers from the night before hot and ready to serve when I walked home from the elementary school for lunch. She was there, often times removing sun dried clothes from the lines strung all over the yard, when I came home at 3:00.

Dad left early each morning. He was home by five and dinner was served immediately after that. Usually, dinner was a (red) meat and potato affair. After a friend gave Mom a curious recipe involving Velveeta cheese, tomato paste, and Spam, the menu expanded. The Spam and cheese were put through a grinder, the tomato paste added, and then it was spread on hamburger bun halves to be broiled and eaten. I didn’t question the combination. I was nothing if not obedient. I ate it.

The other member of our household was Uncs. Uncs was my mother’s bachelor brother. Having Uncs there was like having a fan club. He read to us by the hour, delighted in handing out nickels for any and all occasions, and didn’t mind kids who liked to tag along.

I tagged along to the bakery, where the nice lady always rewarded my good behavior with a sugar cookie. I tagged along to have the oil changed. I loved watching the car as it was hoisted up in the air. I tagged along to the barbershop and watched Joe, the neighborhood barber, carefully trim Unc’s comb-over. Uncs always knew when it was time to get a haircut because he had sprouted what he referred to as “goople-feathers” at his collar. Joe was great at removing goople-feathers. He wasn’t half bad at trimming comb-overs, either.

As my parents aged and eventually moved into a senior living apartment, my oldest daughter bought their house.

Mom, now in her nineties, still lives in the apartment. She is having some friends in for lunch this week. Guess what’s on the menu?

Back Online

I felt so unconnected!

For 42 hours, I was unable to open my email. Because I send communications for my church, this was a biggie.

First on my list was to contact PC Man, my computer geek buddy for answers. I left him a voicemail. When was the last time I actually called the guy? Probably the last time my email was down. (We usually email each other.)

PC Man called the service provider. He pressed two. He listened. He pressed 4 and 1 and 5 and 2 again before hearing, “If you’d like to speak to a technetium, press O.”

He pressed O. The phone rang 72 times. Nobody answered.

But did this stop PC Man? Oh, no.

PC Man has the cell phone number of the owner of the service. (He did not tell me how he happened to have this information. I didn’t ask.)

He called the owner’s cell number.
At 3:30.
A.M.

A series of calls later, morning arrived, but there was still no service available.

I talked to PC Man just after lunch. The tech guys were keeping him informed, sort of.

“They won’t give me details,” He said. PC Man is a detail sort of guy.

He called me back again, at dinnertime, to say we were finally up and running.

And so here I am, back in service myself.

Technology is great. Knowing the right number is priceless.

Famous Detective

We are addicted to fictional detective Nero Wolfe.

For years, a road trip has merited the borrowing of one of our county library's audio books.

After a camping trip with our granddaughter, (and with Nero along for the ride, of course) Caley looked at the clouds."That one looks like a sailing ship," She said. "Here is one that is a pretzel. And that one looks just like a wolf. I think I'll call it Nero."

Thursday's prices at the pump ($3.29 per gallon) negated any idea of a lengthy trip, but an audio book, a state park sticker that still has two months to go, and a packed lunch later, we were on the road again.

Fifteen minutes from home, we reached our destination.Our short journey took us to Fort Snelling State Park. This is a park of contrasts. Nature at its finest with river views and hiking paths competes with a mile long bridge buzzing with traffic and a sky buzzing with the planes arriving and leaving from Twin Cities' International Airport. The Mall to End Them All is minutes away.

And yet a sense of calmness remains in the park.

We ate turkey sandwiches. We munched on grapes. We drank sodas. We listened to Michael Pritchard reading one of our favorite Nero Wolfe books.

There are a dozen or more of these audio books in our library system. We've heard them all. We've heard some of them more than once. It doesn't matter. We'll listen again.

There isn't much color in the park, yet. A warming spring sun has melted the snow. Robins flutter into nearby trees. But much of the landscape remains a dull brown as it awaits the green that surely will come soon.The deer blend into this brown scene, but if you look closely, they are plentiful.

And so we sat, windows open, listening to the pickle Nero and Archie got themselves into, this time. (Nero and Archie get themselves into a pickle almost every time. It is part of their charm.)

That reminded me that I should have packed us each a pickle!

Oh well, there's always next time.