Pig in the Parlor Or How I'm Really Shanty Irish

There were families I knew growing up who had that one room NO one was allowed in. I used to call them Museum Rooms because they were restricted. All that was needed was a red velvet rope. You could look but not touch. This was the same rule they applied at the RISD museum as well that had ropes and display cases. Pam's house on Liberty St, a block away, had a mother who threatened us boys with slow death if we were caught inside her house. That made us fantasize about slinging mud on her carpets. We managed to get in once but we had to swear to Pam we wouldn't touch anything. I was surprised at what I saw. No clothing on the floor, no toys spread around and the place didn't reek of ashtray. The place was organized like a calculus equation. “Who lives like this...it's like a kind of  Hell.” I thought. Her Mom's parlor looked like something out of 70's MasterPiece theatre that PBS ran.

These parlor rooms, were for showing off your “arrival” to a bit higher middle class society. You used them to entertain anyone higher on the ladder than you. Should the local parish priest drop by, get out the good coffee, maybe some Lorna Doone cookies and invite him to sit on the plastic protected couch you got from Ethan Allen. Perhaps some Glade spray to get rid of the stink of dog before he comes in as well.

We...my house...didn't have any such room. In fact, all of the rooms looked like a Hollywood special effects hurricane fan had been turned on. Our home was cluttered and disheveled. Mind you though, there were no mushrooms growing from the couches, no free ranging cockroaches either. We were clutterers but not grubby pigs. There was, however, a pungent smell of Newport cigarettes my Dad and Mom inhaled ad infinitum. This was when cigarettes weren't vilified like they are today. I think our ceilings were “antique bone” color from the original ceiling white that was once applied, thanks to the tar and nicotine. No amount of Glade was going to conceal that miasma.

As a kid, I knew I really didn't want to invite anyone inside for a couple of reasons. One, the obvious mess the place was and the fact I couldn't really predict what mood my Mom would be in that day. Why give first person account fodder for gossips? Our neighborhood was full of bored, stay-at-home Moms who wanted the hottest slander that could be spread. And boy, did some of them love to air everyone ELSE's dirty linen! You have to love these self-appointed guardians of the neighborhood morality bitches who pronounce judgment like head cheerleaders.

This untidiness changed in a hurry after my Dad was finally installed as XO at a local bank. With that promotion, it was my Mom, not Dad, who decided it was time to move up into the world. Within a 6 months, she had managed to get him to buy newer furniture, redo the kitchen, curtains and the only improvement my Dad wanted was a circuit breaker system instead of those old fuse boxes they originally installed in the house. Once done, my Mom was satisfied and then sat in her usual spot at the kitchen table and stuck up a Newport cigarette. It was maybe then I would bring other friends over the house.

Now we were Lace Curtain Irish. Respectable, honorable and up to snuff.

In time, we cluttered all this up too. But it was a “tasteful” clutter mind you! Meaning? There was more expensive junk lying about and not in it's place. You see, the floor is really a giant shelf that many people don't utilize!

Once, after my Dad's death, we had to have an appraiser go through our house to inspect it and I was in the den, with an old styled balsa wood plane being pinned to the cardboard I had laid out on the floor. The poor guy had to gingerly step through the maze of useful junk I needed to complete it. I think my mom had the look of “busted drug dealer” all over her face, that kind of look you see on that TV show, COPS.

“Slattern Mom! Slattern Mom! Whatcha gonna do when Better Homes and Gardens come for you!”

**

Today, I can be OCD at times but that's only when I have to get things done RIGHT. No joke, I can be like this to the point you can predict what I'll do next. HOWEVER, give me some down time, some free latitude and all that goes right out the window. My kitchen table is a desk for many, many projects that don't need doing right away. Not only that, I can correctly point out which piles of paper relate to what. It's also collated with piles of documents I have on the couch! Dusting? Well, I'll get to it. Vacuuming? Well, it isn't that revolting yet. This old Behringer measurement microphone that doesn't work anymore? Well, can't throw that OUT yet! That old tuner that also won't work right at times but still can if I need it as a back up? No, it must stay! Right on the living room floor with the myriad of other audio cables I have there and that I may need in 2026!

I'm no longer lace curtain (by the way, I need new curtains too). I was Lace for about two years but I got over that! At this age, it's easy to get over. Who the hell do I need to impress now?

Things I Notice...

There's a Quickie Mart near my house run by Jordanians. I've been popping inside for so long now they know my name. I don't know their true Arabic names as they all have adopted cute American ones. The guy in the evening behind the register definitely isn't a “Bob” and doesn't look like one either, but that's what everyone calls him.

There was a much older man who ran the place on occasion, dressed in his country's natural garb. For three days I'd see him in a row, ordering the usual pack of Marlboro lights and Coca Cola. On the fourth day, he couldn't keep quiet.

“My son...these products you purchase...they are not good for you. Your body is Holy. Christian holy too...both are the same!”

“Yeah, I know, can you put them in the bag anyway?” I say.

I know he had my best interests at heart. Muslims tend to steer the hell clear of caffeine and nicotine. So do Mormons for that matter. Ever see a sick Mormon? They all look like incredibly healthy Boy/Girl Scouts with rose colored cheeks and ejection fractions of Olympic athletes. You know, I guess some of these practices do have a payoff .

But that isn't the funny story I want to tell. Here's one where everyone else thinks I'm old as dirt now.

I had stopped in one night, probably tired and limping a bit and bought TWO bottles of Coke and I schlepped it towards the door when all of sudden I feel someone yank the bag from my hands. My first thought was, “Shit, I'm being bag snatched!”

Nope, it was the young, barely 20 Something Jordanian who was running the store that night. He had grabbed my bag and brought it to the car, opened the back door and placed it on the seat. He turned around with a mile wide smile and I stood there, sort of shocked. I then pieced it together about what happened.

“I will help this poor, old, decrepit, broken down, near-death old man I will!” this kind hearted kid thought.

“Uh, thanks...” was all I could muster up to say.

He kept smiling like those smiles you see on foreigners who don't know any other way to communicate. I drove off, kinda miffed that he thought I was that lame. But with the deepening crow's feet I have and blinding white mop of hair, I guess I do look like 91 years old to a 19 year old kid.

Every generation thinks they are the first to discover everything. So did mine. I'll hear a young person tell me, with great enthusiasm, about a new club, restaurant, place or whatever to me like they were the first White Man to step on Antarctic ice...and especially to me do they tell it because I'm too infirm to go out anymore apparently. 
 

“Ron, there's this place near the beach, it's a Hippie Commune thing, full of gifts, art work, even farm animals. It's called The Umbrella...”

“Factory.” as I finish her sentence.

“You've been there? When?” She asks with surprise.

“Oh, 30 years ago I think” I say.

“30 years....” she trails off.

30 years ago, to these kids, is when Woodrow Wilson became president. To me, it was a few months ago.

I better get used to this. There will only be more of it.

I Learned Math at Home, not School...How to COUNT Money.

I'm not sure if they did this in your school, but once a year, a Yo Yo company would show up to sell us kids their toys. The teachers would herd us into the auditorium for a quickie 20 minute sales pitch and afterward you could go up to the stage and buy one. Here's an old Simpsons flick showing exactly what I mean.

Click!

Perhaps it was due to having a Dad who worked in the banking industry that I turned out like I did, a kid who learned how to treat money. The first lesson about money I learned was this: Don't Piss It Away. The other lessons my Dad taught me at the kitchen table was how interest worked, how loans and mortgages worked, in the bank's favor...always and one time he let me hold a $13,000,000 Federal Bank transfer order. When I saw it I though were were RICH! He let me down pretty fast when he said his bank routinely moved money from the Boston Federal Reserve to various other banks in the New England region. It wasn't for us but it was a quick thrill.

He also taught me about the stock markets and warned me that I could be easily taken, like being raped by a rhinoceros, if I played it wrong. He also did forensic accounting for the FBI on a case by case basis I learned much later (that's how they nailed Al Capone, by digging into his finances). The guy knew his shit and I absorbed as much as I could and became consumer savvy.

So, at times I would try to explain to the more dull kids I knew in school why they shouldn't buy this or that as it was a rip off or completely misleading. It was like trying to hammer a nail into a rock as these kids would point to the supposed fun they'd have if they did buy it. A salesman first job is to get you emotional about a product or service, once done, your brains run out your ears and the son of a bitch can nearly charge you what he wants.

Some of us are old! I do remember that the backs of many comic books had ads for various toys and curios that you could order. What I saw when I looked at them was junk. But for others...it was a different story.

“Of course it's real! See! They say the gold ring is GENUINE!”

“Read it again” I tell them “It says, Pure, real, genuine, 100%, authentic, fake gold...that last word negates everything that comes before it!”

“But there are more good words than bad!” I was told by the kid. I then realized I can't explain English grammar rules to this fool nor word positioning. I tell him in another way, “do you really think they'd sell you a solid gold ring for $1.99?”

He ordered it anyway and was out $1.99 plus postage and handling. When I asked a couple of weeks later, he said he hadn't received it yet. I began to think he didn't want to admit he got a die cast aluminum ring coated in glittery gold paint.

**

So, in 1979 at Goff Jr high, the Yo Yo company was back again and we were told we'd be herded to the auditorium later in the day. In nearly every class we had before that, I kept bitching to those around me that we're being forced and shoved into buying this shit that we could probably buy for less at the Ben Franklin's store down the street.

What I didn't know yet, was that the kids were listening to me this time.

We're herded into the assembly hall and we see it again, the proficient yo yo artists do their thing on stage. Around me, I hear murmurings of annoyance and disgust for the stage display from the other kids. Some of the mutterings were nasty and audible to the stage.  When it was time for anyone to go up to the stage to buy one, just three did.

Afterwards, we're sent back to class. When I was in Mr Holt's class, Mr Forrest, aka: Stone Face, our principal, comes over the intercomm to bitch us out. He harangued us about being disrespectful, uncooperative and non compliant. After he was done, I said, a bit too loud that, “Mr Forrest is pissed at the sales, his “cut” wasn't as large as it used to be.” I said it as a facetious remark but it was overheard by our teacher Mr Holt.

Holt replies to me, “HE was saying that you all were supposed to learn a lesson on being a consumer, on capitalism, how a transaction works! That you all took this opportunity and turned it upside down on it's head! You all ridiculed this guy!”

I lost it...I'm surprised I didn't add the word "fuckin" before every verb and adjective as i spoke.

“WHAT? I'm to be ORDERED to purchase things? I have NO say? If I work for money that I now OWN then I ALONE will DECIDE how it is to be SPENT! NO ONE will dictate to me!”

Before Holt could respond, about 10 other kids in the class started immediately yapping about how I was right.

Finally when the kids quieted down, Holt has his last say. “When I was in the Army, I knew guys like you...guys who bucked the system...cause dissension.”

I reply

“Guys like me? Guys who can think for themselves? Spot crap when they see it?”

Oh he hated that. The look on his face betrayed his real feelings.A few teachers and administration were alerted to me I came to know later. 

** 

Oh dear...how many salesmen I have denied over the years, revoking their hopeful commissions? Guess I wasn't a team player huh?

A quote from my Dad I remembered: “You have assets...everyone else wants them. You DON'T give them ANY w/o careful consideration!”

Daddy, You're a Fool to Cry...

You know, I got a woman
And she lives in the poor part of town
And I go see her sometimes
And we make love, so fine
I put my head on her shoulder
She says, "Tell me all your troubles"
You know what she says?
She says, "Daddy you're a fool to cry
You're a fool to cry
And it makes me wonder why"

I won't use her name because Rhode Island is way too small. So it'll be Danica for now. Danica was a “sort of” trust fund girl and way out of my league. Her Dad managed to create a little business Empire and bought all three of his daughters a house when they got married. Nice life huh?

When I met her at her front door on our first official date, she stood there in white capris, with a glass of white wine in her hand and I said “Hello.” In the next second I looked straight past her into the well appointed, large home. Once invited in, I quickly scanned the place some more and realized this girl was more then well off and comfortable. She had been married at one time and her now dead husband had been a Major Domo in the RI education system. So money wasn't a problem at all for her. Nor was the hefty life insurance policy that kicked in.

I spotted a German coffee grinder, an Italian coffee maker and espresso machine on the huge kitchen counter. A six top gas grill and the kitchen had vaulted ceilings with nice, professional lighting. My kitchen has single overhead globe light. Customized upholstered kitchen chairs that fit snug up against this inlaid teak/mahogany table made by some master craftsman, I'm sure. My kitchen table says “Formica” on the bottom of it.

“Shit..” I thought to myself. “All I have in my pocket is $175 to wine and dine her tonight.” She had that, at least, in wine in her mini wine cellar I found out a bit later. My attempt at going to the Capital Grill would mean nothing as she probably fed her cat from there. This was the mid 90's mind you so do the inflation factor there.

But, as time would tell, she did dig me for who I was and didn't mind I was from...ugh...Pawtucket, living in a smallish Cape Cod style home that needed a good dusting.

Soooo...how do I tactfully state this? Early in the relationship, after we finished making love/fucking/makin' bacon/doing the Fantango, I lay there on the bed like most guys, exhausted and spent. I was starting to drift off when I hear this from her.

“What bothers you? Really, down inside?”

I get startled out of my nice, deepening relaxation and in my head I say “Huh? What was that?”

It sounded like an interview question to me. So I answered it in that applicant's way, turning all negatives into a positive. I had to THINK now. Damn. My brains ran out out my ears ten minutes earlier for Christ's Sake. I felt like I had to spurt out some resume lines to satisfy her.

An aside that has nothing to do with this but now I think of it. A woman I knew was being interviewed for a psych research/professor/statistician position at Brown U. It was one of those all day interviews where they tour the place, meet various committees and the administration. Finally, she's at the end of her day and realizes this job isn't for her at all. The final bit of the interview process asked her this:

“Where do you see yourself in five years?” they asked.

She answers:

“In five years? Hmmm...to tell the truth, in five years I'd like to become a Shetland pony.”

She got up and left. She had then taken a job at RIC where there was “less horseshit” according to her.

I always thought that was funny and ballsy.

Anyways...

It's 3 AM and I can't sleep and my left eye is hurting. Jesus, pink eye or eye lash cancer, gotta be one of the two. It looks like someone has socked me there. I had the stereo going and that old Rolling Stone's song comes on, which I haven't heard in years and I hear that line, “...tell me all your troubles.”

“Oh wow” I thought, “I remember THAT.”

You don't have to schtupp me in order to get me to “reveal” about myself. I can reveal at most anytime if in the mood. If I have known you for a bit, I can volunteer some pretty shocking stuff if I want too and follow it up with a brush off attitude. “What was I going to do about it? It was out of my control anyways. You just deal and move forward, there's no other way.” 

 Click if you want to hear the song.

 

A Couple of Warm Christmas Stories

Once again, I have run out of things to talk about which explains the lack of anything posted. I have told most of the cooler Christmas stories I have known so here's a few Xmas vignettes from the long, long past, when phones were screwed to walls and there were three TV channels.

Archies's Tavern was a locally famous restaurant here in Pawtucket that was situated pretty much on the grounds of a chemical complex, namely, Teknor Apex. No matter which side you stood, N,S,E or W of Archie's, your view was of chemical silos, networks of pipelines, rail junctions with rail cars full of polyvinylchloride. Perhaps the most scenic view was of an auto body shop that looked like the mafia would torch soon. Mendon street was never known for it's curbside beauty. I'm sure zoning ruled it “Industrial.”

Archie's was famous for their “Caveman Cut” beef entrees. They served you an untrimmed slab of meat that jutted out past the edge of the plate and being a kid, I swore most adults ordered it “barely singed” with the blood still running. To me, that was “raw.” I have to give the restaurant credit for one thing though. They finally succeeded getting me to like mushrooms. Prior to that, I saw most mushrooms as growing off of anything dead and why would I want to eat that? Mushrooms were EVIL. Thanks to a Castelucci recipe, I learned that if you marinate mushrooms, they were heavenly.

It was the Xmas week of '75 or '76, I forget...I'm old, when my Dad got good and juiced one night there.

Nearly every Friday night, we'd go out to a local restaurant, then hop over to Almacs in Seekonk to the do the weekly shopping. As with most nights out, Dad would order his two Manhattan cocktails but then wait till we got home to break open the Narragansett beer. Mom would have “one” beer as she would get drunk off of the fumes and Dad might have four as they watched the Friday night line up of Mary Tyler Moore, Loveboat, Newhart or what have you.

But that particular night back in the mid 70's, Dad had about four Manhattans at Archie's. I'd seen this from time to time and it wasn't a great problem. In fact, if he were buzzed it was a hell of a lot easier to caboodle favors out of him if you pitched the idea just right towards him. It's how I finally got my BB gun once. When we left Archie's that night, a light fog had crawled in and started to freeze on any surface, including the roads. There was a thin layer of ice on everything that you know is incredibly slippery.

We got into the giant Impala my Dad drove, he fired it up and tried to drive away, but the tires just spun and spun causing a huge roar. The car would lurch forward, roll back and back and forth we went. Normally this would piss my Dad the fuck off but he was laughing his ass off this time as he gunned the engine again and again.

From the back seat, I could see my Mom, turning her head towards him and just watching in a dull amazement. Finally, the tires bit the road and we shot forward. It was all of 400 yards to get back to our house. That took nearly 20 minutes.

“RICHARD! LOOK OUT!” my Mom yelled as he slid though an intersection, right past the stop sign.

“Ahhh...it was empty!” my Dad retorts.

On York Ave, he managed to slide the car into a snow embankment near Stop & Shop. My Mom just fumed as he rocked the beat back and forth to get it free. There are times when your parents forget they even have a child in the back seat and start talking freely.

“Ever since you got promoted, you think you can do anything you want!” my Mom complained.

“What? Can't I enjoy my success once in a while? It took me ten years to go from comptroller to CEO! I'm gonna enjoy it when I can!”

“Let me drive the car home!” Mom says.

“You can't even drive a standard!” says Dad.

“THIS CAR ISN'T A STANDARD!” yells my Mom

She was right. My Dad pulled some lame excuse out of his ass.

We finally get to our street when my Dad manages to slide into the curbside of our house. BANG! The giant monster of a car nearly bounced off it when it hit. My Dad laughed.

“You HIT the curb!” my Mom yells.

“It's my OWN curb for God's Sake Maureen! (I swear to God on High, he said this)

Inside the house, my Dad was enjoying opening his Narragansett while my Mom, who sat at the same table, had smoke coming from her ears. He then starts singing the opening song from the Mary Tyler Moore show when it came on.

“You're gonna make it after all...” Dad croons to Mom.

“Shut up Richard!”

**

Christmas Eve mass was always held at St Joseph's on Walcott every year. I guess when we were old enough, we finally attended it and I swear the only reason was to blow off the Christmas Mass the next morning at 11 AM because we had presents to open, relatives to visit with. I wasn't a particularly religious kid and I wasn't always keen on even attending regular Sunday morning masses let alone one at midnight. One, it was late and I wanted to sleep. Two, it was usually f'ing freezing out at that time of night and I preferred to be warm and snug INSIDE my house. I'm still the same way, by the way.

One year, my brother, who was a full blown teen then, said he'd “meet up with us” at St Joe's mass at 12. When asked where he was going that Christmas Eve, he said to Mirza's, his best friend from that time.

“Oh..Mirza's? Say hi to them all for us.” My brother complied and said he would.

So, after getting into my itchy woolen suit my parents had bought me from Sears, we all piled into the car for the four minute drive to St Joe's. I was resigned to this as I had no say, but realized it would be short enough (vs. the High Mass that next morning that lasted as long as a Pope's funeral) and it WAS Christmas tomorrow plus a whole week off from school.

The church was packed and Mom, Dad and I settled into the pew and I kept looking around for my brother. I finally spotted him, along with Mirza, Burns, Chubsie and Dirt Bomb (aka Jimmy K) sitting about five pews behind us.

Kneel, stand, sit, kneel, half sit, do the Watusi as we Catholics do during Mass. My brother and his friends were making a small, slight, barely audible commotion amongst themselves, but not enough to draw the ire of the of congregation. It's what teen boys do when they pack rat together.

About five minutes later, I heard a strange sound, an almost gurgling sound followed by a SPLAT! A second later I hear an older women's “Oh Dear!” comment.

I turned to see my brother, who is holding his mouth, making a bee line through the pew of people, to the aisle and out the door. Jimmy K, the infamous “Dirt Bomb” started to laugh but then caught himself quick.

What was odd is that my parents didn't notice this nor see their son bolt. There was some slight murmuring near those pews but it died down once the priest started officiating again.

“Huh? I wonder what that was about?” I thought to myself.

Later once we get home, my brother is already there with Mirza and Dirt Bomb. I ask what the hell happened and Dirt Bomb says, 'Your brother puked in church!” and busts out laughing.

After a few seconds, I realized they're all piss drunk. My brother had ralphed up whatever cheap vodka they were drinking before they went to church.

Apparently that was the whole plan, as my brother was old enough to go to midnight mass with his friends, alone. They were first at Mirza's house getting gooned on cheap Popov vodka.

I don't know who had to clean up the puke at St Joe's though, probably some poor altar boy.

Merry Christmas and everyone lived happily ever after!

39 years ago. Wow. Pink Floyd's “The Wall” came out 39 years ago. Anyone born on that day in 1979 now fears the impending doom of real middle age this year! Just one more till 40! Hit that and everyone rushes to finalize any dream they were trying to build or even attempt. Because once you push through your 40's, the story of your life is largely written. Afterwards, it's mainly epilogue.

I haven't listened to The Wall in it's entirety in years to tell the truth. I have soo many hours of music on tiny SD cards that I'm overwhelmed with choice. But tonight I listened to it again since today was the anniversary of it's issue. Not only that, I can thank bit torrent protocol and a little thievery for getting the re-mastered version of it tonight. The remaster ain't that bad.

I had forgotten or perhaps more truly, I found out finally how well crafted the album is. And again, after packing on the decades I hear it differently now. It's two hours of Roger Waters obsessing over every rotten thing that ever went wrong with his life, and I do mean obsess. If you forget the lyrics and listen to the music, it's a long, grating steely guitar horror show with a relentless background beat of the blades of Vietnam Era Huey attack helicopter. Listen to the instruments, it's there! That “thump, thump, thump” shows up in various synthesized sounds throughout. I'd put the album right up there with the movie The Deer Hunter for it's ceaseless stewing in PTSD. Both do a great job at immersing you in it.

Jesus, it's work to listen to this and to defend yourself from it's vibe at the same time. The album is a damned assault on a coherent mind. The music is doing exactly what Roger intended, which is to nearly inoculate you with his agony.

Apparently after hitting 60+ years, Roger finally made some peace with the worse angels of himself, or at least learned not to haunt himself forever with his personal demons.

I have too, mostly. We all do as we age.

The other thing that struck me about listening to it all the way through was that I did the same as a young teen. I had this album when I was 15 and can remember how many times I played it from beginning to end. At 15, I was a sophomore in high school and attending Driver's Ed classes at Jenks across from McCoy stadium. I can remember it being a cold bitch of a winter too. A ton of memories came to me and here's what struck me.

I was a child then. Still a child at 15. Every kid who's 15 is! How could I possibly have fathomed this album at 15? I couldn't. I hadn't lived enough years to even grasp it yet. I thought, even at 14, I was a worldly teen, doing whatever the hell I wanted and getting away with it. I felt BIG! Yeah. Sure. I was an “adult” then. Cue the laugh track! In one year, I'd be driving a two ton car. In three years I could legally purchase a firearm. Lord Above! How can we possibly think anyone 18 and under is mature enough for anything like that? I sure as shit wasn't!

I'm pushing 55 soon and I notice that my thinking is doing something the developmental psychologists I knew an eon ago told me would happen. My thought process is concertizing. Like a knee joint, your thinking gets “stiffer.” You slowly lose that flexibility to notice subtle, fluid nuances in conversation the young can twist and jump around in. You then tend to rely on what's worked all the time, a smaller set of tools that's always been there for you and not the nifty artworky stuff the young love and can use with impunity. (I think I have just described 'conservatism' in my convoluted way!). In short, I suffer from knee-jerk dismissive-ness when I hear the kids talk. I tell myself “I know better” and can outright reject what they say or believe. But, that's the price of gaining that wisdom of experience. And you can't achieve that till you pack on DECADES! Or am I covering up my 'getting on in years' inflexibility with lofty sounding words like, wisdom? Probably both! I am a zillion times smarter now and I also rebuff kids too easily.

Anyways...

The 55yo self vs the 15yo self. God, what a difference that is I came to find out tonight from just listening to music.

I'll steal station 101.5's tag line, “The Sound Track to Your Life” because it sounds cool. For me it's kinda true. I find that I can pigeon hole my entire life according to the Top 200 List to each year I lived. The Wall did that to me tonight.

I'll Bring the Popcorn

I once was invited, about ten years ago, to cook a Thanksgiving dinner, or at least help with 80% of it. I haven't done it since. What happens is that people start to butt in as they're absolutely sure you're doing it wrong. The real problem is that they've never seen how it was done right in the first place, ever, in their lives.

Add to that those who bring a pot luck dish to add to the dinner. They insist you critique it. That's an occasion to whip up a big FAT white lie, or many of them.

I”ve been in this career over 20 years. I'm not Jacques Pepin and don't claim to be. There are a few things I can do that I bat out of the park, routinely. And...there are other things I can butcher with almost 100% certainty each time.

So, a week before we were to meet, I warned the others, who were going to “help” to understand what prep means. Prepping doesn't mean you do it at 8 AM for a 1 PM dinner.

“Well, why not? They can ask

“Where are you going to put the food you make to keep it warm?”

“The oven.”

“Won't the turkey be in the oven then?” I say.

“Ohhh...” The light bulb finally goes off. “But what about the top of the stove?”

I answer, “We'll be cooking off those items that have to be done in the last hour, all four burners will be occupied.”

Silence...

I finally say, “There's only so much equipment and room here, we have to use strategy!”'

**

I had preheated the oven and after a while I opened it up to stuff the turkey in. What was odd, I should've been hit in the face with a heat wave but was met with a nice warm breeze instead. I looked at the dial and it said 350 degrees. Uh oh, something's up. I asked B when he used the oven last and I hear this, “Oh, about 10 yeas ago”

“B, this oven is waay off. It's not 350.” After you work for years around ovens you can guesstimate the temperature from just how your face is hit when that first blast comes from a just opened oven.

I get shouted down.

“Oh, the oven's fine! It works! Put the damn bird in the oven.” B says.

So I do, but behind his back, I jack the dial to 450.

I found this funny as some guests were about to go ballistic when I was about to dump something called a mirepoix into the garbage after I had used it.

Many meats, including turkey, are best cooked on top of a layer of carrots, onions and celery, that's a mirepoix. It adds flavor, color and all sorts off goodies. When the turkey was done, I hefted it out of it's pan onto a plate, drained the juice than was about to toss the browned, nearly burnt mirepoix into the trash.

“What are you doing!” Two people spoke up.

“I'm done with this, it can go now” I say.

“No! No!” We want it! We'll eat it! Those two say. They looked at me as I were nuts.

I stood there, realizing I could not explain to them what those veggies were for and how destroyed they were after baking in an oven for over 3 hours. I'd be shouted down. So I shut up. They put them in a bowl to eat when everything else was done.

Those who live in Plymouth pride themselves on NOT eating that canned cranberry sauce. They make their own. D. had brought her own in as a pot luck addition. The berries are cheap there and they damn near grow everywhere there's water. D asked me to try a bit and I did. The “sauce” is not pureed and it has berries in whole form still. I tasted it and nearly gagged. The acid in them would knock out an ape. Not only that, the berries were still crunchy which told me they were barely scalded when she cooked them.

“So? How is it? She asks. In that anticipation I'd pat her head for a job well done.

I lie as best as I can. “Oh, it's fine, put it in the fridge.”

I turn back to the counter and don't dare swallow this crap, waiting for that moment when I can spit it out. I manage.

A Simple Trick for Mashed Potatoes.

I had drained a pot of them and then returned said pot back on the burner to evaporate any water that was left. Once again, the crew had to interject their disapproval.

“You'll burn THEM!” I hear Dammit, once again if I TRIED to explain why, they wouldn't believe it. This time I ignored them and drove off the water. Why have mashed that's sloppy? Let the butter do the creaming trick instead of thinning water.

The same holds for making your own autumn squash too. Get rid of that water! Unfortunately, D was in charge of making those.

Finally we hit the table and pass the food around. Due to being raised with manners, I HAVE to put some of the other's pot luck food on my plate to at least seem I want it. EXCEPT that destroyed mirepoix. Though I see everyone else taking a heaping of that greasy, burned mixture.

I pile up my plate and I noticed D's crunchy cranberry sauce and her water-shedding squash is already forming a little river polluting everything else on my plate. Everything else seemed to be in order though. I chow it down, taking the most minimal bites of the cran and squash.

So, after we're all done, K wants to surprise us with her own pumpkin pie which she made from scratch. Well, this might be good I say to myself.

I did, until I saw her cut the pie up. The center of it was still gelatinous and all I could think was salmonella. The pie wasn't cooked all the way through. So, being nice, I accepted my piece and ate all that WASN'T near the center. Though no one puked the days after though I came to find out.

Had we done the Charlie Brown Thanksgiving, it would've been far easier.