Cookie's Kitchen

On June 12, 1981, Raiders of the Lost Ark was released by Paramount pictures and went on to become one of the greatest movies of the 80’s–possibly one of the greatest action-adventure movies of all time. I was 9 years old. Directed by Steven Spielberg and starring Harrison Ford, it was propelled by two of the most influential figures of modern action movies. I was first introduced to Harrison Ford by a little sci-fi flick called Star Wars, released in 1977. Star Wars is the first movie I remember seeing, which just so happened to be at the Drive-in theater. Harrison Ford was my hero and by all accounts could do no wrong. I mean, he was Han Solo, and if Han Solo was going to be in a movie, I was going to be there to support him that first weekend. I remember going to see it with my mom at the Mark Twain Theater in St. Louis MO, which itself looked like an action movie set piece, with dilapidated walls and a rust colored templar artifice. The PG-rated Raiders (I like to call it that because it’s cooler to say and shows off my economy of words) was an incredible movie, and if you haven’t seen it yet, please stop reading this post. This movie had everything; dangerous jungles, the Paramount Mountain, a monkey, John Rhys-Davies, snakes, skeletons, trucks, giant boulders, folding coat hangers, treasures, sword guy, Nazis, poisonous dates, submarines, the Ark, and all sorts of plausible action, Yada, yada, yada, along with the incredible music. And don’t forget the face melting. There was plenty of blood splatter, especially when that brute who looked like the Iron Sheik was introduced to that airplane propeller.

Early 80’s blockbuster movies had their share of gross-out gags, scares and intense spookiness that all lived happily within the confines of the PG rating, and I got to see them all. Poltergeist, Gremlins, Time Bandits, Something Wicked this Way Comes, Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, etc. Some of those movies had some downright disturbing moments. So much so that after Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom and Gremlins, complete with beating hearts ripped from chests and enough alien slime to put Nickelodeon to shame, the Motion Picture Association of America debuted a new rating on July 1, 1984, that identified movies including content not suitable for young children. By adding the PG-13 rating, parents had a better chance of knowing what their kids were in for when they sent them off to the theaters. However, a flimsy PG-13 didn’t keep me from seeing any number of movies with copious amounts of mild language, brief nudity, and drug usage. (Hey, what’s up Weird Science?). The first movie to draw this rating was Red Dawn, which convinced us that not only was the bomb going to drop on us any day now (see the TV movie The Day After), we were also going to be invaded by the Russians and Cubans, and our only hope was a bunch of kids in Colorado with some guns they picked up at a local sporting goods store (RIP Powers Boothe). Five days later, the classic Dreamscape was released, also slapped with the PG-13 rating (It was apparently a very busy summer for Kate Capshaw). So, what effect did all of this questionable material have on my impressionable brain? My guess is that had I been shielded from such filth; I probably would have gotten that dream job at Fannie Mae or Freddie Mac or maybe even make the world a better place by inventing Olestra!

One thing is true though, I watched several PG-13 movies while under the age of 13. Movies explicitly not under parental guidance. However, mom and the local theater chain definitely drew the line at R rated movies–those would have to wait until they came out on VHS. I’m guessing this is the reason it took me so long to see The Breakfast Club and Stand By Me.

On June 11, 2011, Super 8 was released, earning generally positive reviews from critics, even though it never became the next E.T. or made much of a dent in the cinema landscape, it is regarded as a strong entry in the directing career of JJ Abrams, who was influenced by the films of Steven Spielberg. My son was 11. The first trailer had a Close Encounters of the Third Kind vibe, and Ben was enraptured by it during the 20 plus previews that unspooled before another summer movie outing that him and I have long since forgotten. This flick had everything; aliens, trains, kids on bikes, meta-moviemaking, the army, Kyle Chandler, Area 51!!! Ben was all in.

As the date got closer, more previews released, and Ben started to get more and more excited. However, I noticed something that concerned me as a “responsible” parent. The movie was rated PG-13! How could that be? I wondered. Back in my day, if I wanted to experience some good old Spielbergian cinematic thrills, I could without restriction. But here it was in bold on my TV screen: PG-13. No child under 13 was allowed to view this movie under any circumstances, lest they surely die. Obviously, that was not the case; however, it was a warning. How could I, entrusted with the rearing of a young child in this dangerous world not heed such a well thought out and researched warning like this one? As a good father, how could I bring myself to expose Ben to decidedly non-age-appropriate fare? It’s possible looking back that maybe I over-exaggerated the peril, but nonetheless, I had decided that he was not going to go see it, at least not right away.

How was I going to explain this to Ben? He was so excited.

So, like any good parent, I avoided the topic altogether. That was a great tactic for about a day or two, when he inevitably asked me when we were going. Would it be our normal Saturday morning showing after a Friday debut? That was an approach that I used for many movies when Ben was growing up. Even the most popular movies had few attendees at the first Saturday morning showing. Ben and I called it “Popcorn for Breakfast” and we saw tons of movies that way. However, I just didn’t feel comfortable taking him to his first PG-13 movie without knowing what he was in for. Who knew how it could possibly scar his impressionable psyche, which I was responsible for protecting as long as I could. Obviously, I knew that I could not keep him from more adult fare forever, but it just didn’t seem right to rush him headlong into it, especially when I hadn’t seen it. I had already had some missteps when I attempted to show him some of the movies I grew up watching that were actually rated PG. I did not remember that the robot from Short Circuit was interested in Ally Sheedy in that way. I did not want another Johnny-5 incident, so I came up with a brilliant plan. I would go to the movie first and make sure that it was ok for him to watch, and then we would go later after I vetted it. Ben seemed to be OK with the plan, and even though it was extra work on my part, it made the most sense.

I remember going to see Super 8 at the theater with a friend and thinking that even though it wasn’t a life changing movie that would shape all future movie-going experiences, it was pretty good, that it was not so objectionable as to scar Ben for life, and that it would be OK for him to see.

I also remember taking Ben to see it, and us having a good time even though it was unremarkable.

Here’s where our story takes an odd turn (not unlike a good Spielberg movie), he remembers clearly that I did NOT take him and that he never did get to see it as a child, and for the next ten years I sure did hear about it.

“Oh yeah, like that time you took me to see Super 8?”

“You really liked that movie? really? was it as good as SUPER 8?”

“Kyle Chandler? in what movie did he ever play a dad?”

It would come up in conversation so much so that it became a running joke for the two of us. According to Ben, most of the disappointing things that happened to him growing up can be traced back to me not taking him to see Super 8, including an under-nourished love of film that sent him spiraling into the arms of books and a love of English and grammar (gross). Actually, compared to the actual movie, all of the conversations and fake arguments that Ben and I had about whether or not he saw Super 8 with me were more entertaining than the film itself.

So last summer at the ripe old age of 21, Ben finally (or maybe for the second time) got to watch Super 8 with me. And….it was fine. I think it took us so long to get around to watching it because we knew that once he saw it and there would be no more debate, that it just wouldn’t be as fun. The movie was fairly unremarkable and ultimately sad, because now there is no more unsettled argument, no more conspiracy, no more mystery, no more guilt. Ben and I watched Super 8, and it was…..fine. As I think about our story and how much fun it was to talk about and debate, I’m reminded over and over again that is usually the case. It is much more fun to talk about the thing than the actual thing. Remember when your friends saw Monty Python and the Holy Grail, and quoted endlessly from it, and then you finally saw it and it was weird and not nearly as funny as they remembered? It’s kind of like that. It is funny though because we went to see countless movies together, many that he doesn’t remember because he was too young.

It is true that even though I was given a longer leash as a child than I was prepared or willing to give Ben, there were absolutely moments in which my parents clamped down and protected me not only from the worst parts of the world but from my own tendencies. And, for as seemingly fragile as I thought Ben was when it came to Super 8, I was also the parent that seemed non plussed to find out that he climbed a tree tall enough that his friends could no longer see him. As a parent, we often try to make up for what we think our parents lacked when raising us. The same way that we desire to provide our children with things that we didn’t have growing up, we also desire to give them the experiences that we didn’t have. The adventures that I lacked when I was a kid, I tried to make sure Ben had. In contrast, I also tried my best to protect him from what I thought would jade him earlier than absolutely necessary. I’m sure my parents felt the same way when raising me. However well intentioned, my parents and I both had our moments, and I think Ben and I both turned out OK, depending on who you ask.

“Music can name the unnameable and communicate the unknowable.”

-Leonard Bernstein

When I was a kid, my mom listened to A LOT of Barbara Streisand. She had a very large collection of Streisand music on 8-track, album, and cassette.   Growing up in the 70’s and 80’s during the height of Babs’ power, I experienced Disco Babs, Movie Star Babs, Director Babs, Broadway Babs, and several other iterations of Babs.  (However, political Babs was later, which I was mercifully saved from.) Her infiltration was so complete that for many years I thought that she wrote “New York State of Mind” and was somewhat disappointed and underwhelmed when I heard the original by that hack Billy Joel.

Through mom’s love of Barbara and assisted by the welcome captivity that comes from being a child, I grew to love her music as well. I remember staring endlessly at the cover of the Streisand Superman record thinking that she sure was prettier than the actual Superman and that a Superman movie starring her would be a lot more interesting. At the time, I didn’t categorize her music per se, but just listened and appreciated it for what it was. Since she used an abundance of different writers and was comfortable covering other people’s songs, there was a good variety to her music, even though she is mainly categorized as “easy listening”. (Easy Listening is just that, comfort food for the ears. There’s not really that much for the listener to do rather than sit back and enjoy. Perhaps cozying up by the fire and enjoying a delicious cup of hot chocolate with your trusty lapdog Shep. Way more inviting than other genres with names as off-putting as Technical Death Metal, Grind Core, or Screamo. Thanks but no thanks.) Babs’ voice was powerful and unique, and she was able to elevate many songs with sparse and simple arrangements with her voice alone. She has recorded a couple of Christmas albums and even one in French. She also carved out an enviable niche with duets. Over her career, she has recorded with many distinguished singers including Frank Sinatra, Judy Garland, Ray Charles, Neil Diamond, Donna Summer, Celine Dion and also Don Johnson (a anomaly occurring when a lesser talented person dates or is married to someone more talented and accomplished than them in a different field, and that person is included in the more talented person’s artistic endeavor, which is why there is a Guy Ritchie-directed movie starring Madonna.)

Due to my Babs exposure, one of my favorite movies of all time is the Streisand-era A Star is Born. I wore out the soundtrack and watched the movie several times on VHS after mom recorded it from the Sunday afternoon movie of the week. (At one point in time, every movie we had in our collection was recorded from the Sunday afternoon movie of the week, interspersed with small clips of wrestling matches, music videos, and clips from Saturday Night Live. You’re welcome, mom.) It was the third filmed version of the story of a young apprentice that soon overshadows her mentor. It was the first one that was set in the music industry, and music was one of the main draws of the film. The soundtrack was number one on the Billboard charts for six weeks and certified quadruple platinum. The tunes that Kris Kristofferson fronted were massive anthems inhabited by an over-the-hill rocker. I was amazed at how the songs felt like a lived-in collection of greatest hits even though they were written special for the movie. Babs’ songs traced her as an artist in the movie from a talented and tentative amateur that gets pulled up on stage by her boyfriend, who is clearly burned out, to a confident star belting out the love theme from the movie. The soundtrack on its own told the story vividly, and I remember listening to it over and over again. It’s probably one of the reasons that I was so fascinated with live music and performing at a young age. I even sampled the beginning of the song “Queen Bee” for a song that I wrote many years ago. (I am pretty sure that there are no outstanding copyright issues since no one really heard the song and I lost the cassette years ago). I’m of the opinion that this soundtrack is much better than the most recent version, and I’m also willing to accept that I’m biased because my mom loved Barbara Streisand, and so did I.

Don’t get me wrong, mom and I shared a lot of other music together. We had a giant old console stereo with a built in record and 8-track player. (for the non initiated, I would describe the 8-track as the worst engineered music delivery system ever created with a seemingly random pattern of switching tracks in the middle of songs as well as the fact you could never rewind a song and car stereos loved to eat them.) The console stereo of my youth was the heaviest piece of furniture in the house and lived in my basement unused for many years until I recently repurposed it for blanket storage. (Possibly the only handy thing I have ever done in my life and it almost broke me). Music filled the house every weekend when we were home, and we also devoured Live from the Met on Saturday nights on PBS. I would practice piano for hours and mom, even though she appreciated me gaining the technical skills needed to play piano, also often asked me to play something that she knew and would be clearly annoyed when all I did was practice scales or make up my own songs. I’m not saying that she didn’t encourage me, but I think she was eager for a time when the music filling the house was that of her own son. I can’t remember many times that were we home together growing up when there wasn’t some type of music either playing in the background or as the main event. I have vague memories at a young age of pretending that I was a conductor as I furiously blazed my way through the 1812 Overture and always fell to the ground at the end after the Canons went off, obviously exhausted from all the conducting. There were also the lip synch/tennis racket guitar concerts I would give, highlighting “An evening with Elvis” as well as several Disco-themed Bee-Gees dance parties for one. Mom tried to appreciate the music that I was into at the time and claimed for a while that Jump by Van Halen was her favorite song, but I’m pretty sure that she just had a bit of a thing for David Lee Roth.

But Barbara was different.  At the time I was not sure why.  There was something about her songs that just clicked for mom.    Babs’ songs came from a myriad of world-class writers, including Carole King, Barry Gibb, Alan and Marilyn Bergman, Diane Warren, Paul Williams, and Jim Steinman, so they covered many different perspectives and experiences. Those songs captured several different moods as well as periods of music that ensured no matter what you were going through there was a perfect song that fit. Even though Babs was fluent in all these styles, mom’s favorite was the ballad.  At the time I think I preferred Disco Babs myself, and she even had the ability to turn a ballad into a disco tune halfway through (see Enough is Enough).  Streisand shined on the ballads, something about her voice made you feel what she was singing, and mom certainly felt it. 

As a child I have vague memories of mom being upset many evenings after dad left for the night. At the time, I did not know why she was upset, as she didn’t put me in the middle of it, but I did know something wasn’t quite right. Their relationship was both complicated and unconventional, and I wasn’t privy to the details until I was older. Dad left every evening during the week around 10:00pm, but he did stay with us during the weekends. This time was stressful for mom and many times music, and especially Streisand, would fill the house in the quiet when dad wasn’t there. Dad actually didn’t seem to enjoy music all that much, and we really never listened to much of anything when dad was there. But when he wasn’t, the TV went off and the music came on and up.

In 1984, when I was 9 years old, Barbara Streisand released Emotion. It was her 28th album. To say that she was prolific is an understatement. I remember it being a pretty good record, but mom wore it out. She listened to that record A LOT, and even bought me the sheet music to a couple of the songs so I could lean to play them. Those songs were sad, passionate and deeply felt. Make no Mistake, He’s mine and Left in the Dark. Songs about love, loss, resentment, jealousy, and complicated relationship themes that mom could relate to at the time. I think she resonated with these and other songs on the record because they helped her better connect with the things that she was feeling and gave words to feelings that she couldn’t. Bab’s vocal style personified the emotions that she was singing about, and they had a profound impact on mom. At the time, there was no one that mom could talk to about what was going on with her personally, but Babs was her confessor and therapist all rolled into one. Listening to those songs was therapeutic and helped mom get through some really difficult and confusing times in a way that no one else could. I certainly was aware that she was upset a lot and knew that something wasn’t right, but those were things that she couldn’t talk to me about, and rightfully so. I was just a kid, and she did her best to protect me.

The interesting thing about it looking back is that I don’t think mom was necessarily a big Barbara Streisand fan. Her songs came along at a time when she was going through some things and they became a vehicle for her to process what was happening in her life at the time and then move on from it. As I got older, I would give mom Babs related merch as a gift for holidays and even though she appreciated the thought, several of the later albums and DVD’s I gave her would go unwrapped. It always was a curiosity to me why she no longer seemed interested after having such a deep connection with her music when I was younger. Babs’ music helped her process things that she was going through at the time but wasn’t willing to dwell on. She wanted to move forward, and that’s what she did. She never really felt compelled to go back to that place. It’s fascinating and deeply meaningful to me how sharply my mom’s relationship to Babs and her music contrasts to my connection with the exact same artist.

When I listen to Barbara Streisand, I can’t help but think of mom. The same music and artist that helped mom through some very difficult times that she choose not to dwell on reminds me of incredible times that I often revisit when I start to miss her. She passed away 10 years ago, and I can honestly say she was one of the best friends I ever had. Sometimes in the car or at home, I’ll put on a Bab’s record and be instantly transported to simpler times, when it was just me and mom, and Babs. I view it as a true gift that we can still have this connection through music.

Explaining my affinity for Babs to people is difficult, and not a quick story. It’s actually a story about my love for my mom, and my appreciation for the person that helps me remember her best.

When I was young, my dad would pick me up from my grandma’s house after school, and he was in charge of dinner. He had no idea what he was doing. When pressed for time due to baseball practice or a piano lesson (baseball didn’t stick, but piano did), dinner consisted of either microwaved Chef Boyardee Ravioli or Campbell’s Vegetable Beef Soup. Occasionally, they came cold, straight out of the can. Both of them were actually pretty good considering the circumstances, and after a while I actually preferred cold vegetable soup to the warmed up alternative. If you could get past the strong aluminum taste and sound of the fork scraping against the can, they were actually pretty good. Many times, dinner hinged on whether or not dad could find the can opener.

Even though dad’s repertoire was small, it did not deter his enthusiasm for frying anything he could get his hands on. When given enough time, he could certainly make a mess in the kitchen for dinner. Dad was a master at fried bologna sandwiches four or five slices deep and fried so crispy you could hear it break when you pressed the bread together. He always made the entire package of bacon, no matter how many pieces were actually needed (the correct answer is all of the pieces) every time, no exception. A favorite of mine was hamburger with cheese and then an extra piece of cheese, along with the best fried potatoes I’ve ever had. (I’ve been able to repeat the hamburger, the key is to just keep adding American cheese and some Worchester for good measure. However, I’ve never been able to get the potatoes right. The crispier they get, the more they stick to the pan. If I don’t get them crispy enough, they are just mushy and still stick to the pan. Do I not have the right type of pan? Do I need to do something special to the potatoes? Do I need a certain kind of potato? We all have questions that we hope to ask departed loved ones if we ever see them again on the other side, and near the top of my list will be “how did you get those potatoes both thin and crispy?)”

He was at a bit of a disadvantage as an older dad with absolutely no experience in the kitchen. He didn’t have much of a hands on role in raising his first two kids, and didn’t have me until he was 45. When I started grade school, mom went to work full time as a bank teller and didn’t have time to cook during the week anymore. So dad was the next man up, and I can only imagine that first night looking around the kitchen, shell shocked, in full on panic mode. I didn’t have much patience for that, and “that’s not how mom does it” was a common refrain in our house during the week. In retrospect, it’s a miracle I survived.

The kitchen was mom’s happy place. Even though it was small, she loved it. Every weekend I remember the house being full of great smells and music spilling out of our under-the-cabinet radio. She was always experimenting, trying new and crazy things, which had mostly positive results. I don’t remember any of the absolute duds, so she at least must have been able to cover her tracks well. She had all of the gadgets and gizmos, choppers, mixers, and a container for every known type of food. It wasn’t just the food–every item in the kitchen had some sort of deep connection for mom. When I was older, I donated an old meat slicer of hers and it was like I sold a sibling to the circus.

Mom was an inspired baker as well, and her Christmas poppy seed cakes were a huge hit with family and friends, garnering orders starting in September. I must have been too young to properly appreciate the poppy seed cake at the time. To me, they tasted terrible, and at some point I heard that they caused you to fail drug tests, and I knew for sure that at anytime they were going to implement a strict drug test for the local CYC eight and under boys baseball team, and I didn’t want to risk a dirty test (even though I never played due to complete lack of athletic ability). The poppy seed cake only ever grew in legend, yet I have never had another–part of me doesn’t want to try them because I’m afraid I will still think they are awful, and that will (somehow) tarnish mom’s legacy.

When it came time for me to start cooking for the family 15 years ago, I really had no idea where to start. Up until that point, Jenn did all the cooking, but right before Thanksgiving one year, she came down with the flu and pneumonia within a couple of weeks of each other and was out of commission. So my first real meal was Thanksgiving dinner Simple right? So I did what any self respecting IT guy would do, I downloaded an app and started looking up recipes online. I have no idea how that first one went, but we all survived, so it must have been OK. I had a lot of fun, and asked Jenn if she would be okay if I was the primary cook for us going forward. She was ecstatic. My wife never loved cooking, and food for her was always more about necessity than ingenuity. Over the years, my cooking style has evolved– or shall we say, coalesced, into what I loved about my parents in the kitchen .

On most Saturdays and Sundays, I get into the kitchen early and get a chance to mix it up a bit. Just like mom, the kitchen is my happy place. I pick a complicated recipe that will take all day to make, start mixing various sauces, chopping ingredients and placing them in their special measured out containers, and partaking in plenty of samples. Unlike mom, I’m not much of mad scientist in the kitchen, and have a strong desire to follow the recipe down to the last item, which often results in quick missions to the store to get capers, specific types of butter and a zest-worthy lemon. I’m also a gizmos and gadgets guy, with my Mueller Chopper as my most prized kitchen tool. I also inherited some pretty awesome kitchen stuff from mom, including a Griswold 9 cast iron skillet that was her mom’s. It’s kind of a big deal if you ask me. Usually a good three course meal takes up to three hours to make, with several stops to taste and adjust the playlist to find just the right tunes to fit each activity–also stopping periodically to check the score of the appropriate sports game (Go Sports Team!) and refresh my drink accordingly. For me, the more people the better. One of my joys is cooking all day for a house full of people and sitting down and enjoying a meal together.

Weeknights, however, are a different animal. I often find myself channeling dad. On these evenings, I have about 20 minutes to throw together something compared to the leisurely three hours that I give myself on the the weekends. There is definitely less sampling and playlist adjusting, but other things take a hit as well. I have to be creative and simple at the same time, with varying degrees of success.

Here is a list of some of the things that I have come up with over the years. This is no way an exhaustive list, but the ones I find myself going back to over and over again, as well as some that remind me of a good story, which I can’t resist.

• Family Sandwich is a large deli sandwich, at least 12 inches, preferably a King of the Hill Sandwich from Schnucks that allows each person to take as much as they want as well as add their own condiments at will. I’m not exactly sure when family sandwich became a weeknight staple, but it definitely is a go-to and probably the easiest to pull off because basically I just buy a sandwich and we eat it. Done. (After doing some informal research, I have discovered that family sandwich isn’t possible in larger families, since it it usually gone before everyone gets a crack at it.)
• Making a chef salad is a great option since you can put whatever you want in it within reason and you can continue to refresh it as the week goes on. Your only limitation is the lettuce, since that is usually the first thing to go. You can also be creative, and if you have extra time, and you can even make your own croutons, which can be quite delicious. However, be careful what the proportions are as you add ingredients to it as chef salad can easily become “cheese salad”.
• (The Crock Pot^TM is every weeknight cook’s best friend. It’s also known as a slow cooker, if you don’t actually own a Crock Pot^TM . Crock Pot^TM is kind of like the Kleenex^TM of slow cookers. For simplicity sake, and to not have to use my ^TM anymore, I’ll just refer to it as a slow cooker.) The slow cooker is every weeknight cook’s best friend. The tricky thing about a slow cooker is that even though it is simple by nature, it can get get complicated on either side of the prep, depending on what you’re making. There could be any number of extra things to do, including chopping, browning, mixing sauces, boiling noodles, or going to McDonalds when you forget to actually turn on the crockpot before going to work. Also make sure that you don’t overcook it. Apparently you can burn something in the crock pot, and it’s an especially disturbing kind of burnt.
• Another easy one that all the kids love is pigs in a blanket, with the adult version of that being normal sized hot dogs sliced down the middle with a slice of cheese inside, and wrapped in a crescent roll. Only recently did I figure out that you need to spread out your crescent rolls as to not take this meal from being a hit to gag inducing. No one likes gooey dough wrapped around a cheese-stuffed hot dog.
• Soboro Donburi is an Asian dish that includes ground beef and a green veggies with white rice. However, without this information ahead of time and if you eat all of the rice, it just looks like a bowl of hamburger with peas in it. (Also, is it just me or does everyone hate peas? I mean, it’s not completely unwarranted. Small green blobs of nothing worth mentioning, and no discernible flavor profile.) “Hamburger Peas” doesn’t quite have the same ring to it. This one is pretty easy to make, but you have to make sure that you have enough rice, or you will be mercilessly mocked by those that you feed every night.
• Wild Rice Casserole is a weeknight staple at our house. Throw some long grain wild rice in the rice cooker (also a must have for any self respecting weeknight cook), and then mix it up with some precooked chicken, soup and wine, top with some parm and throw it in the oven. Super simple, but it’s tasty enough to seem complicated.

I’ve been able to find a happy medium when it comes to cooking and this is in no small part due to what I’ve learned from both of my parents. There’s an art to mastering a weeknight meal–probably more so than during the weekend. The bulk of cooking you’ll do is by sheer volume, and the mistakes seem bigger because they are harder to fix under a time constraint. Too many of these quick mistakes and your hungry friends and family will be searching for the can opener.

Back in 1992, a book was published called The Five Love Languages by Dr. Gary Chapman. At the time it came out, the Five Love Language theory was all the rage as people raced to figure out how best to communicate love to one another in a way that would be most readily received through either words of affirmation, service, quality time, gift giving, or physical touch. Any pre-married couple worth its weight poured over this book hoping to label one another so they could be the perfect spouse, to various degrees of success. At the time, I was pretty convinced that my love language was gifts. However, after almost 30 years of narrowing it down, I actually think my love language is Orange Tic Tacs. Allow me to explain.

I have an deep affinity for Orange Tic Tacs.

I can’t get enough of the little buggers.

I honestly can’t remember when my fondness for these little delicious orange bursts of flavor began, but I remember as a young child receiving a case of Orange Tic Tacs for my birthday one year from my grandma, and feeling so loved and valued by her that my mom and dad could have set the new Huffy Bike they got me on fire and I probably wouldn’t have batted an eye. Thinking back on it, she probably had to go through great lengths to acquire an entire case of twelve at the time, since there was no Amazon.com (yes they are available online. I checked.)

My very first car was a 1973 Super Beetle, which just so happened to LOOK like an Orange Tic Tac. It’s a slight understatement to say that I was obsessed with this car. I saved up to have a really nice stereo put in it, which was promptly stolen and then attempted to be sold back to me at school one day. The heat for the car was supposed to come from the engine, which I never really quite understood, except for the fact that it got really hot and the electrical tape that I used to close off the vents would often melt and get on my shoe. Needless to say, It was my prized possession for several years, and also elicited my first and only “stalker” which turned out to be some guy that followed me all over town until he finally cornered me and asked me to be in his Super Beetle Club (uh, where do I sign?). The inside had white canvas on the ceiling and I remember reading that cleaning it with toothpaste and a toothbrush would get it as white as the day it came from the factory. I vividly remember this because one hot summer day I was in our driveway vigorously scrubbing the ceiling when I was called into the house to take a call from my first real life girlfriend saying that she needed to break it off because our relationship was bad for her reputation. Who knew?

I digress

Also, I actually can’t stand all other original Tic Tac Flavors and I’m not actually sure why they exist. If you want a mint, get an Altoid or something that actually refreshes your breath. Tic Tacs are NOT mints. They are candy, plain and simple. and the only flavor worth anything is orange.

For a brief shining moment in time, there were also Banana flavored Tic Tacs, which were specially made for the Minions movie in 2015. I did get my hands on a couple of boxes, but by the time I did, they were terribly stale. And yes there is a difference between a stale and fresh Tic Tac. You cannot comfortably chew a stale Tic Tac. So it’s difficult to tell how good they would have been in 2015, but in 2018, not great. So given the fact that I only had stale ones and as far as I can tell, they are no longer manufactured, Banana Tic Tacs don’t technically count. I will say that generally in most food items, artificial banana flavoring is the absolute best (I see you Banana Laffy Taffy and Banana Sno Cones), when ironically, actual bananas leave something to be desired. If you could somehow engineer a banana that tastes like artificial banana flavor, I think you might actually be onto something.

Again, I digress.

Most trips to the store almost always include one box of Orange Tic Tacs, which are usually at the checkout. I quickly find myself judging the quality of any retail grocery outlet by whether or not Orange Tic Tacs are indeed available. I always feel a small sense of victory and a great deal of satisfaction as I surveil my items, and included among the spoils are my favorite orange treat. At some point I remember that Target actually stopped carrying them. I quickly asked to talk to the the manager about if it was an oversight or if they actually thought that they could continue on without Orange Tic Tacs. I mean, come on. As I laid out all of the obvious financial benefits and business upside to continue carrying them, I can only imagine that the manager was slightly annoyed and maybe equally impressed by my conviction and tenacity. A recent scan of a local Target confirms that they currently do carry Orange Tic Tacs. You’re welcome, everyone.

For some reason, a box of Orange Tic Tacs makes me smile. I’ve even tried to make a case in my brain for it being a combination of all the love languages rolled into one.

• Gifts: This one is pretty obvious
• Words of affirmation: “Hey, would you like a Tic Tac?” (note that most people do not turn down a free Tic Tac)
• Quality Time: Time spent enjoying Tic Tacs together.
• Acts of Service: Giving someone a unsolicited Tic Tac feels like you are performing some sort of good deed, because you are making them happy. It even looks like medicine.
• Physical Touch: Even holding a Tic Tac is fun, unless you drop it. That’s a zero to sixty from happy to sad, especially if it is your last one and you drop it between your seat and the middle console of your car, and somehow it gets lodged UNDERNEATH the carpet and the car and no matter what you do, you can’t reach it, and it’s there for years and is probably still there even though you sold the car several years ago…

This small orange candy, mint or whatever you might want to call it means something to me. I’m sure that there was probably a particular moment in time when it began, or it’s possibly just the memories of family and youthful days gone by that have added up over the years and created this connection. What I do know is a day that includes Orange Tic Tacs is just a little bit better than one that doesn’t.

“Hey, would you like a Tic Tac?”

I’m a big fan of salami. I’ve never done a deep dive into how salami is made. Which is likely why I’m a big fan of salami.

When I was a kid, the go-to was the hard salami sandwich with yellow mustard on plain white bread. Not toasted, not melted, nothing. Also, it had to be at least three pieces of salami and if not that much why even bother? Oh, and a cup of milk. Always a cup of milk.

I’m also not sure exactly why only hard salami, but that was a requirement, and it couldn’t have any of those peppers or anything else in it because that just distracted from the salami, and again, why even bother?

It also had to be very thinly sliced because again, why bother?

There was never any talk of warming up the salami first. Blasphemous! I thought. I was very content to eat my cold salami sandwiches for the rest of my live long days.

Over the years I also expanded my repertoire to include salami roll ups, which included cream cheese, various herbs, and recently a small slice of pickle. Delicious. These would most likely come out around the holidays as a snack, and usually I wouldn’t make a pass by the tray with at least grabbing a couple as I quickly passed by, and then as I passed by again.

I was reminded of all my Hard and Fast Salami Rules (band name) as I was pleasantly surprised by having someone buy me one of these bad boys today for lunch.

If you are wondering, this is a Gioa’s Hot Salami Sandwich from Goia’s Deli on the Hill in St. Louis. https://www.gioiasdeli.com/

The existence of this sandwich actively flies in the face of all of my preconceived notions of how salami is supposed to be enjoyed. it is simply one of the best sandwiches around.

The best thing about it is that acquiring this sandwich was a surprise and someone else bought it for me. Miracles do happen.

So it’s been quite a while since I’ve posted on here as the eight of you that read this blog are appearantly literally starving for new recipies!  No need to worry, I have indeed been cooking, experimenting, and basically making a mess in the kitchen for these last several months and promise that I will have some new stuff up very soon.  Hang in there!

For those of you that have never read this blog before….shame on you!