Category Archives: Good Food

The Voice of My Generation.

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The Chinese boy’s name was Doonk. Or, at least that’s how he pronounced it when I asked him who he was. And, he’d done everything humanly possible to make my take out buffet dinner as delectable, if gluten and soy free, as he could.

But, sometimes,  we’re just in the right place at the wrong time.

I brought my dinner home, alright. Got it all set up on the sofa, and turned on the TV.

There he was.

Catching the tail end of the finale of his live one at PBS’ Austin City Limits just a day or two before, I’d heard enough to know that James Taylor and his band of back up singers and musicians had been one of the all time best that series had ever known. The collective light in everybody’s eyes told that tale.

And, this night, the time on the clock said 7:06 p.m.; with my carefully selected repast laid out before me, I’d be able to enjoy nearly the whole hour of his concert! This was more than the old single girl had bargained for, on such a Sunday evening in early summer.

Eagerly, I dug in to my meal, glancing up every so often at the radiant face of the man who had clearly come out the other end of a life that had borne its depths with what could only be termed a riding high. Smiling broadly as he sang, segueing from one song to the next with that rare fluency that only comes with the perfect band, the perfect night, the perfect scene, the perfect moment…..he was the perfected artist. As attuned to him as if they were inside his head were the flush, back up vocals, a wailing sax, Jimmy Johnson’s solo bass, and the subtle drumming of Steve Gadd always just under the lead of his clean, smoothe tenor.

To the innocent, Taylor seemed uncontainably happy.

But, I’m old, now. Just old enough. Old enough to know most of the stories – about people, and places, and things. There’s rarely a newsbyte or a bit of sound that comes across the ticker that doesn’t, in some way, trigger an associated memory. My fascination with the pure joy emanating from Taylor’s face was informed. His was a story of triumph.

In the early years of his fame, James Taylor was our lead balladeer. When we were down, or troubled, or we just needed a helping hand, that song……..that song brought it all home, for us. We didn’t know until the next decade that his own life would rise to the heights and plummet to the pit of despair; he would come out to us, eventually, not as a spokesman, but as a confessor of sorts for the rest of the bi-polar community.

And so, as I sat over my Chinese take out, I soaked up James Taylor in his finest hour, feeling the celebratory relief of a life that had come up out of its own troubles, coasting in conquering mode.

But, as if to gently prod my sensibilities, my taste buds started talking back. How audacious of them, really, in the midst of a perfect sensory evening. What was that bitter residue that seemed to be saturating every mouthful of my banquet?

Choosing my buffet meal with alleged care for only protein sources and clean nutrition, one fleeting, personal moment of weakness had permitted two small squares of red jello to pile on before I’d closed the styrofoam container. These had, in the emerging summer heat, decided to melt. Liquified, this red stream had meandered under the whole dinner, soaking up the rice, the noodles, the cheesy potatoes, the shrimp; and, worst part was, this was the artificially sweetened variety. The whole meal had been tainted by an alien chemical; it tasted awful.

Now, everybody knows – at least, anybody who reads a nutritional report produced by health conscious experts – that artificial sweeteners are, in large part, toxic. There is a larger point, here.

My generation is in that rare place: still comparatively lucid, and able to connect vast amounts of information from the past to the present. We are in the decade of now or never, the one that nobody has to tell us is our moment. What’s important, here, is that we go beyond realizing and actually do something with it.

We can look back, while we still have perspective; we can look ahead, while we still have our health. We can make ourselves available to any and everyone who seeks to benefit from our various wisdoms, and we can do even more: we can change our course completely without any concern for the judgments of others. We can break brand new ground, with far more than the idealistic notions of our youth; we now have the freedom to make sound decisions born of  the vision that comes with the experience of knowing.

Had I been some twenty years younger, that melted red jello, that faux food would have ruined my entire evening. I would have brooded at the injustice of it all, maybe even written a letter to the restaurant owner berating his choice of dessert options.

But, James Taylor’s voice was still there, its beauty and clarity undiminished, to teach me everything I needed to know. There was a bigger picture, finally, even if I had needed almost a lifetime to see it. There would be another Sunday night, more Chinese take out to be had. Duke, as his name turned out to be, would greet me cheerily the next time, with added recognition.

And, there didn’t have to be any more melting jello embittering anything. We could all rejoice with the voice of our own, small triumphs.

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© Ruth Ann Scanzillo   6/18/16  All rights those of the author, in whole and/or in part, whose name appears above this line. Thank you for your respec. Bon Appetit.

littlebarefeetblog.com

 

 

 

 

The Grand Equalizer.

classical music, commentary, drama, Encouraging Thunder Award, Good Food, health and wellness, human behavior, humor, political commentary, psychology, social behavior, social commentary, sociology, Uncategorized, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

 

A couple nights ago, in the midst of post-Presidential Primary furor and cresting to the height of their vigorous political panel discussion, somebody on CNN farted.

Now, we’re not talking your fleeting emission. This was a massive gasso profundo, one that could only have come from a colon of awesome dimension, stretched to its ultimate limits of retainment. This was the Grand Prize Winner of all Wind.

I was so gobsmacked, I actually stuck around until the whole news segment revolved, just to see what the audio crew would do with this monstrosity.

Perched on the edge of my buttocks, I waited with poised anticipation for the slightest of scant, aberrating vibrations.

And, then……

Nothing. Absolutely no sign of the mortifying mortar – apart from a deftly inserted, if faint, moment of Muzak, just as the camera pulled back to display the defendants’ line up.

Yes, CNN was nothing, if not prepared. I knew, at that instant, should the planet suddenly find itself under siege by unrecognizable life forms, this giant of the news circuit would be ready to photo and audioshop anything anybody on earth was absolutely certain had been seen and heard. Alternate reality was already in da house.

Even when whatever a pundit had for dinner refused to submit to digestive enzymes, anybody could be rendered the picture of virgin, if probiotic, equilibrium. We live in an air brushed, auto-tuned world.

But, just what are these public personae consuming? Is there some kind of sphincter syndrome plaguing our pontificators? Or, have they all been overcome by a fetish for the fanny fortissimo?

In my day, farting out loud was the predominant domain of the 8 year old boy. Oh; and, his father, on some joint expedition to the great outdoors. I even had a college professor, whose genius expanded to include a profound appreciation for the full on function; Dr. Walter S. Hartley*, composer, multiple ASCAP award recipient, was known to cut one loose, stop, raise a pointed finger, grin mischievously, and declare: “I believe that was a B-flat.”   then, lumber off, with the weighty gait of one whose cranium could barely contain its contents, leaving all to ponder the pitch potential of their own pooter.

Yes; uproariously hilarious to them all, we girls and various other civilized creatures just reserved ours for the appropriate time and place – being sure to strategically flush if guests were in proximity, of course.

But, this? Google “farting on Tv”, and you’ll be mildly alarmed. The women outnumber the men – and, most of them are either broadcasters or politicians.

One could speculate.

The media’s been catching a lot of flack, lately, regarding its veracity. Truth, in fair and balanced reporting. The profession used to be populated by the noble and impeccable, those who embodied what we all called “dignity.” Now, in the interests of appealing to a “wider demographic”, perhaps we’re settling for something that masquerades as the “human” element.

Either that, or the Euro-American diet finds itself at a crossroads. Consult your local gastronomist: health-conscious vegetable smoothies can’t be paired with bacon fat without explosive consequences.

Maybe we should be grateful for the technological touch ups that seem so essential, anymore, to our socio-professional survival.  After all, we’re a cross cultural melting pot, now, and the models held up for our children are coming from the four corners of the earth.

And, that, if nothing else, puts a whole new spin on blooming where you’re planted!

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In Memoriam

Dr. Walter S. Hartley

February 21, 1927 – June 30, 2016

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© 5/9/16 Ruth Ann Scanzillo  –  All rights reserved by the author, whose name appears above this line. Thank you for your respect. Now, pass the Grey Poupon.

littlebarefeetblog.com

 

 

 

 

 

Spoiled Lettuce.

civic commentary, contemplative essays, Good Food, health and wellness, political commentary, psychology, Recipes, social behavior, social commentary, sociology, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Donald Trump was speaking again in yet another televised appearance. At this point, she only watched to keep her eye on him. You had to. You just never knew what would happen next in the theater of pernicious absurdity. But, she was getting hungry.

For the third time in twenty minutes, she stood at the open refrigerator door. They were still there. Organic spring greens, pre-washed three times.

Perhaps her motive arose from a deeply imprinted, Mediterranean gene expression, but she always spent the three extra dollars to get fully viable salad. And, that first serving…mixed with freshly baked Beauregard sweets, olive oil, Apple cider vinegar, a dash of Parm, a sprinkle of ginger…yes; the perfect gastronomic blend*. And, plenty more, where that came from, to serve an agenda guaranteed by all the gurus to melt all the sludge that had barnacled to her belly over the winter .

But, the week had been fraught with interruptions. Duty calls; deadlines. Easier to throw a cheese sandwich, or spread an avocado on the bread. Yet, this time, just too many vital days of life already passed.

She removed the large, canned ham sized plastic container, and opened it. Sure enough. The lettuce was talking back.

Greens were funny like that. Distinct from their isolated, molding fruit counterparts, lettuce created a certain society around its half life; each leaf seemed completely committed to the survivability of its own species. Why they didn’t all just give it up in chorus was beyond her psychology. No; only a few at a time, the ones prevented sufficient aeration by the amassed population, would begin their dissolution, leaving the rest unmarked by any sign of decay.

Even as the stench of each slimy morsel infused the entire collective, the majority was determined to rule. Liberal servings of spinach, endive, Romaine, and arugula remained. Would she play the conservative at this caucus?

The greens stared up at her, as if to challenge her most resolute bipartisanship, yea, her very morality.

Plus, the spoiling leaves were consistently adhering to the healthy ones, leaving snail trails on the surface of each. In order to rescue the edible members, one at a time had to be hand-selected, wiped clean, rinsed, and patted dry.

Here’s where the real would meet the road. Here’s where the mark of intention would confront the heart of the matter. Here’s where the gamete of the game would either take its chromosomes in the order they appeared, or wreak genetic relay. One way or another – selective euthanasia, or worse – the salad would meet its maker.

First, she decided, condemn the obviously contaminated; then, hose down the entire community. Next, dump the collective into the centrifuge, pumping furiously to spin out and extract every last drop of humid toxicity. Then, pour out the bilious liquid; separate; rinse; and, repeat.

Segregate selected, diverse populations. Lay in flat layers, on and under absorbing material. Wait, for nature to render a verdict.

The next morning, nature’s results were in.

The leaves were dry. They’d carried no trace of the scent of their decayed counterparts. She emptied a layer into a salad bowl, and mixed in the baked Beauregard, the oil, the vinegar, the ginger, and the grated cheese.

But, the salad was tired. Though bearing up in color, there was a marked absence of convincing flavor and texture. Not until most of the meal had reached digestive phase would she note the faint waft of spoilage. Had there been residue on her fingers? Perhaps the air contained spores? Could this be a ghosting of greens ?

Naturopathically bent, she went for the apple cider vinegar tonic, following with a denatured charcoal capsule. The salad had moved beyond her jurisdiction. Only the body, functioning as a whole, could feed the final conclusion.

She hoped the same could be said for the body politik.

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© Ruth Ann Scanzillo 3/18/16   All rights those of the author, whose story it is, and whose name appears above this line. Thank you for your respect. *Credit to Amanda Kleckner formerly of Jekyl & Hyde’s/Erie for the loosely based recipe; credit to Chris C. for the inspiration.

Bon Appetit. Namaste.

littlebarefeetblog.com