Split Pea Soup!........ A Thing of Beauty and Deliciousness... Until...

 

Memoirs of a Geezer

  

Reflections and Observations -- A Bright Passage from the Fantasies of Youth to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!

This Episode:        Split Pea Soup!........  

                    A Thing of Beauty and Deliciousness...  Until...  

In the glorious and wondrous age of GeezerHood, sometimes one's mind wanders, travels to distant galaxies, where thoughts and recollections live, like distant stars, 
occasionally appearing with greater illumination as the earth spins and, itself, wanders along, following a prescribed pathway through the endless vacuum of space.

In those cerebral wanderings, at times, inexplicably, brilliant thoughts collect like plundered treasure secreted in a gunny sack, as if gathered unconsciously by someone claiming the disorder of kleptomania.   

I should elucidate...   make the specific point for which I appear to be reaching.  My dear mother, now long gone from the mortal sphere, was, by her own admission, to herself and anyone who'd care to listen, an awful cook.  She didn't care.  My mother was a wonderful artist, creating beautiful  paintings, sculpture, ceramics and other art pieces using a variety of media.  That was her joie de vivre.  Not cooking.  She even set a gorgeous table, though the food laid upon it was not particularly palatable, unless prepared by a caterer. 

There was, however, a notable exception.  Split pea soup.  In her "fabled" pressure cooker, the old-fashioned sort with the rocket launcher at its top, that thing that at times exploded skyward, aiming with extraordinary velocity for the stratosphere, but merely landing and poking significant holes in the kitchen ceiling, she boiled smoked butt, cabbage, carrots and peeled potatoes.  

From the leavings of that concoction, the juices, the leftover pieces of cooked meat and vegetable matter, my mother made her marvelous split pea soup.  It was always thick and rich and suffused with particulates, chunky pieces of smoked butt, bits of cabbage, carrot and potato.  I longed for that spectacular culinary delight, one of the very few things my mother did unfailingly well in her meager repertoire of actually palatable edibles.  

I would sit at the kitchen table, knife and fork poised skyward as if I were a fat royal, bib tied under chin, dribbling profusely, entitled to a lavish feast.  The bowl would appear, its savory particulates floating proudly in the rich and beautifully pea-green liquid.  Aaaah....  wonderful!  "Mudder dear, where are the crackers?"

And then one day, while seated expectantly at my side of the pale yellow, formica-topped kitchen table, the split pea soup in its commodious bowl appeared in front of me.  I was already drooling in rapt anticipation.  "Hey," I began, "where are the chunks?  Where

are the usual floating particulates?  What happened here??!!  What's gone wrong??!!..."  

Smiling angelically, my mother began to respond.  "Oh, JoJo honey dear, your brother, Kris, doesn't like chunky pea soup.  He insisted that I puree the soup in our blender.  You know, to liquify the chunky matter.  Your brother doesn't care for lumps in his soup."

"What?" I exploded in rage and disbelief, like the rocket launcher at the top of the pressure cooker!  "How could that happen?  How could he, Kris, usurp the quality, the condition and the texture of my beloved split pea soup?  How could you let him do that?"  I was livid, enraged!  

"Well," my dear mother elucidated, "If I don't puree the pea soup, he won't eat it, and then he won't achieve any nutritional value from his meal.  Your brother doesn't care for lumpy soup.  I have to de-lump it in the blender."

"Well why can't you just make him eat salty broth and a raw carrot or something.  Give him some mushed potatoes or some other slop he doesn't have to chew!  How can you

give him the right to destroy my favorite soup?" And then I muttered, "No chunks, no particulates.  It's an outrage."  And then I further muttered, sotto voce, "Makes a person wonder who Mom really liked best!...  blended pea soup mush...  insanity has permeated our dinner table and ravaged our once peaceful lives!" 

It wasn't until many years had passed that I was able once again to enjoy split pea soup the way nature intended it be presented, with wonderful chunks and particulates swimming happily in the stew.  My sweet wife and life partner, SweetHeart, made the best split pea soup, with attendant big chunks and particulates, all doing delightful back strokes and dips and flips in my beloved pea soup.  Once again, the earth was on its proper course, happily plowing through the ether with big smiles and toothy grins on its continents and in its oceans.  Joy had returned to my once vapid visage!!  

********************************************************************  

As I reflect back in time, I shoulda hidden that darn blender, now I come to think on it, and realize there may have been a perfect solution.  Ach...  Who'my kiddin' the big brother would have found it and maybe hit me in the head with it before replacing the evil, rotten instrument back on the kitchen counter!  

Humbly Submitted 12-20-2022....  Joel K.

   

        

We Miss YOU Already... Um... Let Me Explain, She Just Moved Away!

 

Memoirs of a Geezer

  

Reflections and Observations -- A Bright Passage from the Fantasies of Youth to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!

This Episode:      We Miss YOU Already...  

                   Um...  Let me Explain, She Just Moved Away!

An aircraft arrived, one of its passengers returning home from Israel.  We weren't aware of it, of course, or its impact upon our lives, not until Fred arrived at our door to suggest we wait a bit, wait for his good friend.  "She'll be here very soon.  She'll stay at the Astor until her furniture and piano arrive, a baby grand piano."   

"Wait?" SweetHeart and I asked, sort of in unison.  We were poised to rent our upper flat to an interested couple eager to submit payment and then schedule a move.  

"Hmmm..." SweetHeart mused, an index finger pressed along her jaw line.  "A baby grand piano!  She'll probably live here for a very long time!  That's a good thing."  She remained our very best tenant, becoming a best friend in the process, for 23 years.  We've long referred to her, to Joan, as "The One Above."  That piano gave us sweet music for many of those years as it sang, its black and white notes and chords penetrating through hardwood floor boards and a high ceiling.      

"She'll be the best tenant you could ever have," Fred stated with emphasis, quite insistently, his hand and arm gestures a convincing argument.   "I guess we'll wait," I said in reply, or maybe SweetHeart did.  "I mean, all the way from Israel to rent OUR upstairs flat."  That last remark was definitely hers.    

"She used to live on this street, north of here.  She loves the neighborhood.  You won't regret it for a moment...  best tenant you'll ever have," Fred repeated with even greater emphasis, his warm smile a reassuring promise, a kind of excursus or a codicil to his testament.  

The herald, Fred, arrived at our door in April of 2000.  The "best tenant," Joan, took up residence in June of the same year, or perhaps it was earlier in the year, April or May.  I can't find a record to verify the exact time.  Not terribly vital to this narrative, I suppose.

Don't know if it's a kind of phenomenon, as perhaps not all landlords / landladies and their tenants become friends.   So often, we're told by others, those relationships become more adversarial rather than warm and fuzzy and friendly, with cultural and social interaction mixed into the recipe.   But, after all, 23 years with the "best tenant..."  As landlords, we've been exceptionally fortunate.  

She became our surrogate "Auntie," sharing our cell phone provider, for example.  For 23 years, we've backed her car into her side of the garage.  Joan was never very good at backing.  Didn't matter.  I casually mentioned to her family, a son and two daughters, other relatives and friends, "I've driven Joan's cars for 23 years, but only backwards."  She's had three different automobiles over the years, the first was blue, one green, the current motor, a compact, is silver-grey.

Of course, there were a few challenges in our relationship.  Joan was, still is, an ardent devotee of The New York Times.  For quite a long period of time, the paper arrived sometime between 5:00 and 6:00AM.  It arrived with a resounding thud against the wall of our porch, as if hurled by a beefy shot-putter with great muscular arms.  The wall was just outside our bedroom, the noise of its arrival nearly catapulting us out of our warm bed. We spoke to Joan.  She spoke to the delivery people.  In a couple of years' worth of newspaper arrival explosions we forgot all about it.  (Or was it three years?  I probably exaggerate a bit!)

Joan has been, in the main, a quiet and considerate tenant, neighbor and great friend.  Except when she dances.  Or is it clogging?  Old houses tend to magnify sound, from floors through ceiling to the ears of downstairs denizens.   Things that fall or drop have contributed, over time, to certain evidence that Joan is in residence.  

Only once was there a sort of atomic blast, when a huge mirror dislodged itself from the single nail that held it in place.  We had trouble identifying the source, wondering if an aircraft had crashed into the neighbor's attic.  Glass and debris covered the floor of Joan's bedroom.  She was traveling to visit her daughter in Minnesota.  SweetHeart and I helped clean up the shattered glass and other resultantly exploded material, books and artifacts!  The mirror has not been replaced.

SweetHeart has helped Joan over the years with eyedrops, television issues, cell phone and land-line-phone matters, physical challenges.  I've carried up her groceries and other supplies over the years -- all of the above simply labors of love!  Keeps one in shape, of course, so not a complaint, you understand.  Repairs, too, of course...  plunging and plumbing, paint, knobs that come loose, carrying up, supplying and moving of chairs, leaking downspouts, outdoor umbrellas, luggage, spring and winter window manipulations...  But all of that goes with property-owning territory.  Mustn't grumble...  Exercise is beneficial...     

At 90 years of age, soon to be 91, Joan is moving into an apartment that does not require her to climb stairs, something she's done with grace and, recently, somewhat decreasing ease.  Her new place has an elevator and gorgeous views of Lake Michigan, watercraft and surrounding structures, grassland, the traffic that crawls or speeds along Lincoln

Memorial Drive.  The "crawlers" are cruisers looking for fun and places to park.  The "speeders" are eager to get home or to the tavern, a restaurant or shops, using the Drive as a kind of unintended expressway, unless, at times, when sirens and their official user-occupants intervene. 

We'll miss her terribly, that is, the proximity of her, of Joan, the ease with which we can see her and follow her activities, her travels, her wonderful poetry.  She has published volumes attesting to her poetic talents.  Joan is a rabid reader.  Her books, a mountain of them, will leave with her, or find homes with other avid readers.  Joan is very generous, kind and thoughtful, and funny, too.  She has a terrific sense of humor!  

Happily, she's not moving far.  We'll visit; we'll see her whenever we can, whenever she feels up to hosting her former lower-flat neighbors and friends.  We'll make plans to collect her for a trip to one of our favorite coffee houses, or for a spot of breakfast or lunch.  Errands perhaps, possibly a visit to our local bookseller.  Joan never forgets our birthdays and wedding anniversaries, gifts and treats of breakfast or lunch always part of the celebrations.   

We've grown to love Joan.  To be accurate, or to be honest, we grew to love her almost from the start of what "initial-ists" termed "Y2K."  It only took us a day, maybe two at the most.  She's easy to love, attested to by her many friends, her family, her grandchildren and great grandchildren, her poetry and Shakespeare groups, neighbors and so many others.  Stay well, Joan.  Settle in.  Enjoy your new digs.  We'll see you again in a couple of days!    

Humbly Submitted 12-08-2022...  Joel K.  

   

  

  

 

 

The Joys and Agonies of Writing...

 

Memoirs of a Geezer

  

Reflections and Observations -- A Bright Passage from the Fantasies of Youth to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!

This Episode:        

The Joys and Agonies of Writing...

E.g.     "Making a U-Turn in the Gig Economy"

Joel K

Not my Magnum Opus, perhaps, but, in what in my humble opinion is a creditable, almost noble effort. I started the book somewhat coincidentally with our new, if necessary career path…. Food Delivery Drivers. A joint effort, a partnership, a husband a wife venture, an adventure.

Making a U-Turn in the Gig Economy is a new work, published officially in April of 2022, printed by a superb organization called The Bindery, a creation owing to the genius of Zach. The cover, front and back, spine too, of course, was designed by Diana of “BearBear.” The entire process was accomplished in an outstanding fashion with professionalism and exquisite attention to detail.

The “joy” we can attribute to the fact that it has been accomplished and is now available in print, with gorgeous illustrations by a much-loved collaborator, 16 or so of them by Lucy. One for each chapter, and an extra or two depicting specific episodes in a brilliant career! I editorialize, just a bit. One illustration was made by a younger contributor, Phi Phi. We are grateful beyond our poor ability to express gratitude for those beautiful enhancements to our literary effort.

Many if not most of the ideas expressed in print were created by someone I lovingly call SweetHeart. She is my life partner, and my most cherished collaborator, the better half of our duo, one I would be a bit boastful, I suppose, in labeling “dynamic.” Or maybe I go a bit far…

The book has a beginning, of course, in which I describe our journey from a quite serious financial downturn to a kind of new beginning. We accepted our circumstances with a degree of dignity and aplomb — at least I believe we did, false modesty and self praise aside — though our self perceptions struggled with the idea of “classism.” One is never too old or too important to learn and absorb new life lessons.

As the story wanders into a kind of fresh reality, we find joy, and agonies, along the process. The hunt is a crucible, difficult and at times frustrating and seemingly hopeless. In the end we find light, a passageway. Acceptance! We meet extraordinary people whose generosity and kindness we found to be remarkable, and continue to do so, in spite of economic status, social and societal constructs.

I like to think of our new career circumstance as adventure. We became and are still becoming pioneers of a sort, like dusty, care-worn and exhausted denizens of the conestoga parade, plowing new ground to find ownership, independence and a proud new way of living. Perhaps I go a trifle overboard, like a mariner in storm-tossed seas, rescued by a lifeline, a fortuitous turn of events.

But I don’t want to give away too much. The book is available for purchase, for those who are able to identify, to learn, to be edified perhaps, to consider their own perilous journeys and events in the “Time of the Virus.” Caught in rip tides of struggle, trying valiantly to swim to safety, to survive life’s unexpected upheavals. Earthquakes and forest fires and mud slides, yet pulling themselves, ourselves, up out of the abyss, surviving, moving on, re-building. 

The great lesson learned is, can and should be a shared experience. Write down your own stories, not merely of survival, but of family members and friends, even your own trials and adventures. We all have fascinating tales to tell, populated often by fascinating personalities. Your and our stories don’t have to reach a wide audience, only our own compact and personal orbits, often our only modest limits…. Or perhaps your’s will resonate so profoundly with others as to generate a huge wave, a tidal surge, swallowing and consuming the minds and interests of a multitude. The point is to try, to begin. 

If anyone who may happen to wander into these paragraphs wishes to do so, contact the perpetrator, that’s me, of course. I would be delighted to help, to share, perhaps to counsel if such counsel is desired. Thank you and good sailing! 

"The Nomination is the Award!..." (subtitle) The Curse of Ageism, and What Geezers Face when Discarded, Ignored and Diminished by Society!

 

Memoirs of a Geezer

  

Reflections and Observations -- A Bright Passage from the Fantasies of Youth to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!

This Episode:          "The Nomination is the Award!..." 

                       (subtitle) 

                       The Curse of Ageism, and What Geezers Face

                       when Discarded, Ignored and Diminished by Society!

Can't readily recall where I originally heard the expression, the one used as the main title of this posting.  It seems apt, however, for those who did not have the great honor of rising, somewhat stunned, walking up to the awards presentation stage to be handed the top prize...    but who, nonetheless, were so honored by their peers, one of a just a chosen few...  not blessed with ultimate victory, perhaps, but at least...   nominated, even though steeped in GeezerHood, considered to be out of date, obsolete!

The new book that I was privileged to write and have published is entitled, Making a U-Turn in the Gig Economy.  SweetHeart helped a great deal by contributing excellent topic ideas and editing skill.  Our wonderful granddaughter, Lucy, created all but one of the gorgeous, cartoon-like illustrations.  Younger granddaughter, PhiPhi, drew one picture, and that, too, is featured toward the end of the book's content.

It's somewhat like a serendipitous find while walking in the park, for example, when a large denomination note of currency suddenly and completely unexpectedly appears at your feet.  You stop and pick it up, discovering that it's real.  You stuff it in your pocket, and there it seems to grow, even glow, as if emanating stars and sparkles and bright colors, and you begin to levitate, in a way; you lose yourself in pleasing thoughts of using that find to perfect advantage....

But I digress a bit.  I seem to do that frequently...  The Book...   When SweetHeart and I

discovered a large crack in our "Nest Egg," we knew we had to find new means of generating income.  At a certain advanced age, one finds oneself, sadly, a victim of Ageism and irrelevance.  It matters little how brilliantly you may have performed in your professional life, how many awards and accolades you received along the way.

When we reach a certain age, we become mere labels...   "Seniors," "Elderly," past our prime.  The perception among the young -- to those of us no longer in the bloom of youth -- is like a scar or a poison pen letter or a false accusation or a striped prison tunic with a large number sewn onto its chest position...  A stigma, like a contagious disease, like a toxin.

In spite of brilliant Curricula Vitae (CVs), endless job searches, want ads, internet career sites and too much more, all pursued exhaustedly, we, the "Geezer Set," are rejected, abandoned, ignored and forgotten, like so much detritus cast onto curb sides and rubbish heaps...    So what then? 

We swallow our pride, accept reality and the "career paths" available to us.  In our case, food delivery driving, using our own vehicle on our own schedule.  No base salary, no insurance, no promise of an IRA or a pension or a so-called "golden parachute." 

But then...   like a kind of curative drug, a precious discovery, the great and glorious career has its joyful moments, a kind of re-awakening, and thus we decide to write a book, chronicling our experiences and adventures, the fun and the funny, the enriching and educative moments, the voyage into uncharted seas.  We begin collecting tales, writing down the memories, the rewards and the pains, after five or six years of picking up and delivering food to those who harvest their sustenance from smart phones and the "Applications" loaded into their complex circuitry.  We have something to say, something rare, something relevant and important!

The results, both unexpected and gratifying, can make the joys and the miseries seem almost worthwhile, worth the time and the travel, the mileage, the aging, unbent limbs locked into position in what seems a perpetual motion contrivance, and the costs of fuel and the setbacks and the wasted time and motion that so often come with the territory. 

Again, the unexpected!  We're invited to conduct a class via a university's continuing education program for older adults.  We've been invited to discuss the book before a large and erudite group, a book club, one populated by intelligent and well-read members.  Both events would center on our book, and the gig economy generally.  The former may be cancelled due to low registrations, but it's the nomination that counts, that lingers in memory like a sunlit day at the beach with crusty bread, ripe fruit, cool drinks and sugary treats.  

But then my thoughts return to the potential audience, and whether anyone who lives in

well-to-do neighborhoods has ever had an occasion to be mired of necessity in the gig economy.  There are exceptions, of course.  And, it's summer...  People tend to remove themselves from tedium, travel on holidays to pleasant, sunny and summery environs, and try to recall what it was like to be young and carefree.   Many are buoyed by strong spirits and mugs of cold beer, but like the holiday itself, a kind of phantom, ephemeral, gone like the fading of a dream.

But inside our heads, in our minds' eyes and memory, the things that cannot be removed or erased (save the devastation of dementia, of course), we can savor.   What used to be or perhaps what might have been, and we can lose ourselves in the joy of knowing we were awarded the nomination.  And we'll always have those triumphs, successes, our trophies and our victories.  Those thoughts, those ideas, are locked inside our psychic vaults forever...  or until we're dead!   

(Special Note:    Making a U-Turn in the Gig Economy is available through Amazon.com, as a Kindle, a Hard Cover version and as a Paperback.  One can also purchase the book at a somewhat modest cost directly from the author...   joelkrio@gmail.com...   Thank You!)

[ 2.  The perpetrator dedicates this posting to SweetHeart for her precious and indispensable partnership, support, superb ideas, her editing skills.  In addition, we dedicate this writing to Lucy, without whose gorgeous illustrations, the book would not be the literary and aesthetic jewel that it is!  Readers are welcome to judge for themselves, of course!  "Jewel" may be considered by some to be somewhat hyperbolic!  (But probably not!) ]    

  

          

    

A Fateful Right Turn...

 

Memoirs of a Geezer

  

Reflections and Observations -- A Bright Passage from the Fantasies of Youth to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!

This Episode:         A Fateful Right Turn...

(Author's Note:   This posting is a fable, mostly...  sort of!  It is not about the usual perpetrator, but about an old chum who told outrageous tales, and engaged in equally outrageous behavior.  This is one of his highly polished tales, undoubtedly containing more than a bit of hyperbole.  Nevertheless, I found it and still find it somewhat amusing.  And, who knows, maybe it's all true??!!  I'd contact him in an effort to verify its authenticity, but he's dead!  The story is told in first person narration style, as told to the perpetrator!) 

I'm cruising in my ancient roadster.   It's peaceful.  No radio, windows closed.  I make a right turn.  I continue to drive.  A siren screams just behind my assaulted ears, an explosion of highly unpleasant racket, like a screech owl swallowed a tweeter!  The rear window is flooded with red and blue ink, an other-worldly atmosphere, as if I've been transported to a red planet.  My breathing becomes labored and I expect to see oddly-shaped creatures made of smelly cheese and bumpy green lumpy edibles.  

I pull over.  A uniformed police person appears at my window.  He motions I should roll it down.  I push a still-working button instead.

"Good day, sir.  You know you just executed a right turn without using a proper turn signal, or an arm signal.   Either would have been acceptable."

"I forget how to do them arm signals," I say, attempting a bit of comic relief, to lighten the police guy's potential anger or nastiness.  "I'm just a peaceful Geezer trying to enjoy a quiet day motoring on the streets...  You don't have to call me sir.  I'm just a simple sort of chap..."  

"It's not legal to execute a right turn without signaling your intention to do so!"

"Now see here, office sir,  I'm drinking...  and I'm driving with my knee, holding onto hot soup so it won't slop, securing a box of blintzes with sour cream, cole shaw...  Also too I'm trying to smoke a fat Havana.  I got two hands only, both pretty much occupied.  I can't do everything..."

"Sir, are you trying to be funny?!  Let me have your driving license."  I hand over the license.  

"That's me before my operation," I say pointing to the grainy photo.  I also point to the part that reads, "Veteran"...   "I'm a veteran, Ossifer, do you give citational-fine discounts to veterans?"

"You say you're drinking and driving?  You've been drinking alcohol while driving?!"

"I used to drink boozy stuff, often imported beer when I drive.  I used to like stout and other dark brews.  German stuff.  What's your poison?  Gin, vodka, cheap whiskey?"  

"Don't be impertinent," the officer says commandingly, agitation dribbing from his tone.

I continue.  "Now it's just coffee or green tee, sometimes charged water, bubbly stuff.  I been a drunkard-free former drunk for lotta years now, man, dude, bro....  Do you prefer one over another?  Also too, I got prostate issues so I'm laying off the diet brown pop.  You got any prostate trouble?  How often do you have sex with the missus, or maybe without.  I read that frequent such activity is good for prostate health."

"Step out of the vehicle, sir," he announces, bellowing and belching irritably.  I suspect he's real angry.  

"I'd rather not," I say.  "I gotta go potty real bad, and any extraneous movement may trigger a disgrace.  Couldn't we just have a nice chat?  You outside there, me seated comfortably in my vehicle?  You could come inside, passenger chair.  Heater still works...  

"Look here, young ossifer, my pater was a luminary in law enforcement circles.  A decorated Federal Agent guy.  He got a medal and a certificate and even a phone call from J. Edgar.  He, my pater, captured Nazis, bank robbers, murderous pig swines, too.  (No offense, I add trying for "sotto voce," like, but he hears...).  Who's your police chief?  Probably my dear old pater knew him, taught him FBI stuff like how to investigate them nasty scofflaws and felonious nasties, such like!"  

"I see in looking at your name here on your driving ticket what your family name is.  Your first name is...   Oh yes, I see that too... (odd name, what...)  I've heard of your, um, pa..., I mean, your illustrious father.  I should still cite you for the illegal right turn, however, not to mention your impertinence...  You should speak to an officer of the law with more respect, not to mention sexual innuendo..."

"I won't mention it if you won't...  See here, now, young police official, look around.  There's no other vehicles in the vicinity.  No cars.  No delivery vans or big trucks.  I mean, what's the harm in forgetting to signal a right turn when there's no persons, no other vehicles for miles around?  How about this, why don't you follow me for a bit.  I'll make a left turn using both my electronical signaling stick and I'll hang my left arm out the window, straight like.  You know, a doubly executed proper left turn, like.  Real safe!"

"No need for that.  But in future, use your turn signal or an arm signal."  He hands back the driving license.  "You be careful, now, and have a nice day."

I motor off, careful to use the turn signal stick as I edge from the curb.  "I'll have whatever kind of day I choose to have, nice or otherwise," I state inside the privacy of my motor car.  "I may endeavor to have a really crap day if I want...  Don't know how that young police guy could have snuck up behind me so surreptitiously, the sneaky little poop nose."  I light up a joint and pop open a can of Schlitz.  

(Please Note:   Just to repeat, and to re-emphasize, this story isn't about the perpetrator, but rather about an old acquaintance who frequently misbehaved, including when engaged in motor-vehicular traffic activity.  He often told amusing stories to fascinated listeners.  He should have written them down for posterity, I think!  He did not, so someone had to!  Tak.)

Humbly Submitted 07-27-2022 -- Joel