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.