I associate mail order food with my father. When I was growing up, he
and I had very few connections. He took me to only one professional
football game. He never came to Back-to-School Night and had no
interest in any of my hobbies. I remember him as dour, not very
talkative and disapproving. I was part of his second family and he
was, I’m certain, just a bit too old to have a young kid running
around.
Added to that, my father was burdened by tragedy. He was the eldest son of a prosperous Jewish family in Odessa on the Black Sea. Unfortunately when the Russian Revolution swept across the country, Bolsheviks rampaged through his neighborhood, lining up and shooting many people, including my father’s family. Being Jewish and well-to-do were two strikes too many at a time when “line them up against the wall” was taken literally.
Luckily for my father, when all this happened, he was studying at the University of Kiev. He learned later that his mother had survived because she had very thick hair. When she was shot at point blank range, the gunpowder was apparently so weak that the bullet merely lodged in her hair, knocking her unconscious and otherwise leaving her unharmed. My father never returned home to Odessa, having been told that he needed to flee the country, which he promptly did.
What the hell is Happy Hour and why is everyone talking about it? The happiest hour for me is when I eat. But if it means standing around with drinks in your hand, eating from some communal barrel of glop, count me out. I don’t think Happy Hour would have appeal for me even if it were at a restaurant I wanted to go to. It just sounds awful. Or am I a snob?
I don’t want to sound mean. Because I’m not. That said, I would sometimes ask my dad who this guy was or that guy. It would be a random dude that let’s say was always hanging around Jan Murray or Red Buttons. Sorry I’m not coming up with bigger names, but these were big names in my world. I guess I could say Frank. We’ll get back to Frank.
There is an edible experience I had as a child that remains unsurpassed. The year was 1963, I was ten. I still think about it and have tried many times to recreate it. I need to ask my brother if he remembers the moment as vividly as I do.
I sing to my grandsons, one via the wonders of video "Skype-ing," and
the other up close and very personal. I perform the usual stuff mostly: "The Wheels on the Bus," "Old MacDonald,""Itsey-bitsey Spider", and "The Alphabet Song," with everyone's favorite line: "L-M-N-O-P."
