Societal Satire in Shorts

From Soup To Nuts

S. G. Lacey

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Tapas – Pesto Bruschetta with Gazpacho – Spanish

        Turning off my car, I sit stagnantly in the driver’s seat, enjoying the relative calm for the first time in hours with my rumbling, noisy engine now turned off.  In reality, this is just another of the many excuses I’ve made in an attempt to hinder progress throughout this journey.  And yet, now I’m here. 

        I hate these holiday gatherings.  However, my familial heritage requires that I make an appearance.  Now that I’m at the scene of the crime, I may as well venture inside.  It’s damn cold out here. 

      The heater in my old hatchback crapped out half an hour ago.  Which may actually be fortuitous, considering the containers of food sitting on my passenger’s seat.  Both of these offerings, one very pungent and starchy, with the other vegetable rich and smooth in texture, are meant to be served chilled.

      As the New Wave pop song playing through my headphones ends, as my vehicle’s crappy speakers are no longer functional, I concede it’s time to enter the house.

       Opening the car door, I’m hit with a brutal blast of frigid air.  That explains why the cockpit of my ride feels like an icebox.  The outside temperature has dropped 30°F since my departure 4 hours ago.  My essentially directly northernly trajectory, from downtown Nashville, TN to the exurbs west of Cincinnati, OH, has apparently been accompanied by a significant shift in the weather.

         Rubbing my hands together for warmth, I rise out of the stained and sagging seat, a cockpit I’ve inhabited for many a road trip since my parent gave me this jalopy when I turned 16 years old.  It took me a month to build up the confidence to drive this rusty rig to school.  But the freedom provided soon swamped my juvenile lack of confidence. 

        Now, 4 years older, I’m still self-conscious, but in different ways.  I went to college young and naïve, but am quickly becoming a grown woman.  The privileged halls of Vanderbilt University will do that to a person, especially an insecure lass who’s only able to attend this elite institution because of a generous need-based financial aid package. 

     In just 3 short semesters, I’ve learned many things, not just from an educational standpoint, but even more importantly broad life skills.  I’m thriving on my newfound city environ, and despise rural life even more each time I make the trek out of the classy city I now call home. 

       And yet, I currently find myself standing outside this old farmhouse, where the crazies which I’m forced to call my family have gathered bi-annually for the past two generations.  Once in the summer, around the 4th of July holiday, and once in the winter, on one of the few weekends which separates Thanksgiving and Christmas. 

        While the exact timing and attendees vary, the location is always the same.  The old family homestead.  Based on the chipping, faded-yellow, siding, and dingy, semi-translucent, windows, it looks like this place hasn’t been properly maintained since that inaugural event decades ago.

     Why did I drag myself back into this situation yet again?  What am I seeking?  Respect.  Acceptance.  Love.  Commitment.  Who the hell knows?

      Slamming the door of my sedan closed with impressive vigor, considering my recent sedentary posture, I move around the hood to the passenger side, carefully watching for stray patches of ice.  Considering my heeled feet, and skirted legs, this is not a good time to make a misstep and end up on my backside in the frozen, muddy, track.

          An occurrence I can unfortunately relate to from past experience.

         Daintily plucking the duo of dishes off the side seat, a deep bowl, and a broad sheet pan, each covered in light blue tinted plastic warp, I make a graceful pirouette, closing the passenger door with my extended foot halfway through the half turn.  This semester’s folk-dance classes are clearly paying off.  In fact, the exhilarating “flamenco” was my inspiration to learn about bohemian gypsy culture, and execute the Spanish hybrid combo snack I’m presenting today.    

       Moving with purpose, as if the entire world is watching, or at least the entirety of my theatre elective classmates, I stride confidently forward up the rickety porch steps, which display a noticeable slant.

        By chance, my randomly selected culinary balance, with the heavy liquid on the downward right side, and the light tray on the uphill left, combined with the dominant arm mismatch of my generally weak muscles, conspire to cause problems.  By the last step of 6, I’ve inadvertently shifted to the far-right side of the entry ramp.

        A rotted hole in the stoop, just large enough to ensnare my heel, further hinders progress.  I find myself teetering unstably, but with no way to brace myself.  Hands occupied, my frail, sweater-covered, shoulder bumps against the thick porch post, which is likely the only element holding up the sagging roof.

        Suddenly, I’m spinning again, this time in a much less controlled fashion.  With one leg still pinned, my only goal is to avoid spilling all the food I’m carrying.  Fortuitously, the tray lands first and flat, sliding off quickly along the frosty decking as I release the grip, and focus all my faculties on the heavier, more unruly, soup pot.

       How facing skyward, sensing impact on my back is imminent, I’m able to secure the handles of the pot with both arms in the air above me just before crash landing.  The harsh jolt sends the contained red liquid spewing vertically, most trapped by the plastic cover, but some stealth droplets are able to sneak out the sides of the seal, with gravity causing them to rein downward.

       Right onto my fluffy white sweater, knit by my deceased mother, which I only wear on special occasions.  Based on the color and consistency of the liquid, combined with the tint and texture of the fabric, these blips are going to be difficult to get out.

       Rising to my feet quickly, I make sure all my body parts are still functioning, and more importantly, glance around to confirm that no one saw that gaff.  Fortunately, there are no other visitors walking up the driveway currently, and the front door of the house remains closed. 

        Phew!  That could have been another damaging blow to my already tattered persona amongst many of my relatives.  

       Passing through the entryway, I shuffle across the living room rapidly without acknowledging the few elders seated there, and move directly into the kitchen.  Here, I plunk my carefully crafted contributions to the party down on a small bit of open countertop space, then make a direct line for the tiny bathroom, the only one on this floor. 

       My bladder is about to burst from the aggressive coffee intake during the long car ride, and my attire needs some attention.  For once on these busy gather days, it’s unoccupied.  Finally, a lucky break!

      Taking care of both issues to the best of my ability, I make my way around the dining room, using small talk to effectively avoid immersive conversations with a great uncle, and the Mexican woman who is the newest addition to our family circle, by marriage of course.  Other than the wedding, which occurred 7 months ago, I’ve never had any interaction with her.  No reason to start now.

     Moving my dishes to the appetizer table, I peel off the protective plastic skin from both plates, then assess the damage.  After rearranging a few pieces of bruschetta, and wiping some gazpacho off the sides of the bowl, this delectable duo looks just as lovely as it did when I left my college apartment in Nashville.

       Next, I carefully examine the rest of the compiled snack spread.  Mine are by far the most refined offerings of the bunch, a brilliantly red soup, alongside a vivid green spread sitting atop crusty white bread.  A beautiful color combination, considering my newly imagined national heritage, the result of a lusty union between a Spanish beauty and an Italian stallion a few generations back.  Any adopted ethnicity would better than the actual white trash truth.

        I usually toast the baguette pieces, then apply the aromatic smear, but I have no interest in getting near the cramped kitchen, and the gaggle of interrogating women who are undoubtably housed within. 

       I realize I’m starving, having had nothing to eat today besides the liberal sugar and cream in my 36-ounce caffeine infusion on route.  Grabbing a sky-blue cloth napkin off the accommodating stack, I load up 3 pieces of bruschetta in the palm of my makeshift carrying vessel.

      Having recently converted to veganism, I don’t know how many food options will be available to me as this meal progresses.  Not many, if my childhood recollection of this eclectic countryside gathering is even remotely accurate.

        Enticed by the intoxicating aromas, I grab one more garlicy, nutty, herbal toast point, and after deftly surveying the scene to make sure no one is looking, I briefly dunk the bottom of the bread into the healthy, refreshing, vegetable-rich, soup, then shove the entire morsel into my mouth.

        The flavors are even better than the smells, with two key elements leading the charge.  The oily bitter notes from the toasted pine nuts, and the sweet flavors of the vine ripe roasted tomatoes.  Both ingredients are expensive, relative to alternatives this time of year, but key to establishing the authentic European flavors.  “Deliciosa”!

        I need to hit the bathroom again, to double check my make-up and attire after the rushed entry, then find a glass of white wine to calm my shaky nerves, before many inevitable in-law interactions.  Maybe two glasses.  I wonder how long I can stay in hidden in the restroom today.

 

Hors D'oeuvres – Classic Cheese Fondue – Swiss

        There’s nothing better than an elegant silver pot of molten cheese.  Just combining the ingredients in the kitchen back home returns me to provincial Switzerland.  It’s been too long since I enjoyed a vacation across the beautiful mountainous terrain which personified my upbringing. 

         Instead, I stuck wasting my days off from work making useless treks like this one across the heartland of America.  As with many countries in Europe, aside from the landlocked Swiss, all the excitement happens on the coastal perimeter, as opposed to the isolated inland.

        At least I can transport part of my heritage with me wherever I go, in the form of a gooey, smokey, nutty mixture called fondue.

      This savory concoction starts with an equal blend of famous Swiss Gruyere and Emmentaler cheeses.  This ratio provides the desired texture, color, and most importantly, taste.

      A few delicate additions further amplify the flavor: white wine for boozy thinning, garlic for aromatic pungency, lemon juice for bright acidity, nutmeg for subtle sweetness.  Each of these key ingredients help separate authentic fondue from the thick nacho cheese slop served at sports stadiums across the United States.  No wonder there’s so much obesity in this country.

       I live with my husband in Champaign, IL.  The shared sound is where the similarities end between this dumpy city and the European region renowned for its bubbly alcohol production.  The former is my frustrating home for now, the latter a place which I’m dying to visit soon.  Instead, I find myself stuck here in frosty Cincinnati, OH, at the very end of November.

      There is one other factor which limits the ability of my spouse and I to travel freely.  The twins which we accidentally conceived 5 short years ago. 

      This realization jerks my eyes up from the cheesy slurry, though I continue stirring slowly, to the broader living space landscape.  My maternal eyes are instantly scanning for one specific pairing. 

       It doesn’t take me long to spot the pair of young girls, one in a red plaid dress, the other monochromatic green, both with matching blond pigtails and stretchy white leggings.  These stockings are more visible than when we arrived since their small, glossy, black shoes have apparently been shed somewhere in the house for the time being.  That will be a fun search mission when we pack up to leave. 

      These girls are predictably immersed in the growing group of young children, deeply engaged in a complex, invented activity on the living room floor, which seems to incorporate every board game in their grandparents’ home. 

       It’s an impressive collection, though I doubt any of these boxes still have all their required pieces.  While this child monitoring operation is sporadic and random, my food execution is much more organized and curated.

    As the fondue eating experience is somewhat new to many in the crowd, I’ve been hovering near the pot, demonstrating to rookies how to skewer the desired object with one of the provided toothpicks, twirl the piece carefully in the cheese sauce, then bring it to the mouth, holding a napkin underneath with the other hand to catch any creamy drips.

          A delicate and sophisticated means of indulging.  However, neither of these adjectives apply to my redneck in-laws.

      Anything tastes better when dunked in melted cheese.  Unfortunately, my inherited relatives, who I’m happy to acknowledge are even remote blood relations, are taking this sentiment to the extreme.  Of course, I brought all the sophisticated accoutrements.  A cubed baguette.  Fresh pear wedges.  Thinly sliced prosciutto.

        Despite these elite dipping items, just a half an hour into the service, all manner of nastiness is now contaminating my flowing fountain of golden goodness. 

       First, a few exploratory types start combining bread, fruit, and meat all on one stick before dunking.  Not exactly traditional, I’ll at least give these guests credit for innovation.  It seems like Americans are always intent on making things bigger and more complicated, especially when it comes to food.

        Next, Uncle Someone or Other shows up towing along is hefty wife, as well as several bags of fast food from the local burger joint.  I find it rude enough to bring such swill to a holiday party personified by delicious homemade food.  Adding insult to injury, this jackass decides his fries would be tastier dipped in cheese sauce.  My fondue is now soiled with fryer grease.

        The last straw occurs when a grimy boy of about 12, likely one of my husband’s seemingly infinite nephews which live in these remote parts, approaches the fancy pot of liquid gold.  Rather than using the wealth of available skewer sticks, he picks up a handful of bread, and dunks these, plus his dirty digits, directly into the pot.  Apparently immune to heat, or my loud verbal rebuke, he lets his paw linger in the slurry for several seconds, before extracting the hand, and stuffing it directly in his mouth.  Disgusting. 

        I’ve had enough of this fiasco!  At least there’s a few other sophisticated euro food offerings, like the pungent pesto paste which sits directly adjacent to my station.  Hopefully these opulent ovals aren’t contaminated with similarly grimy mitts to my own product.   

        Maybe going to watch my children play in the living room will improve my mood.  If not, I’m sure the big glass of red wine I’m about to pour myself will.

 

Snack – Beef Short Ribs with Peanut Sauce – Korean

         The weather is relatively balmy compared to an average November day in Ohio.  Any time the sun’s out, and it’s not precipitating, I prefer to be outside.  Today is one of those days. 

      Having started my life in Cleveland, on the perpetually breezy shores of Lake Erie, I’m happy for the relative calmness my current interior state location provides.  Fewer people.  More land.  Less wind.  Each element is a step up in my book.

          But the most impactful life change is the accepting family which I’m now part of. 

      Abandoned shortly after birth by my mother, and never having known my father, I spent my formative years bouncing around between various shelters.  Not exactly the best way to build one’s friend group, or get immersed in normal society.  Other than the last name on my string of paperwork, “Jindo”, and my general physical appearance, both which are suggestive of Korean origin, I know very little about my origin story.

       There’s a distinct benefit of living on this farm when compared to my previous places of residence.  The reliable supply of tasty food, be it caught, cooked, or cultivated.  I’ve increased my weight by over one-third since being adopted.  My body, and even more importantly my mind, are much better off for it.

         However, this is the most glorious day of my life, topping any previous feasting sessions.  Since dawn this morning, various succulent offerings have been materializing for me to indulge on. 

         But the coup de gras, which currently sits in front of me, is a rack of ribs, most of the succulent meat already having been consumed, but with the stringy clear cartilage still holding the hard white bones together.  This connective tissue is my favorite part, high in nutrients and requiring skill to extract the most beneficial bits.

       Pausing briefly from my vigorous feeding frenzy, I take a deep sloppy drink of water, hoping to wash down the chewy chunk wedged in my throat, and dislodge the stringy strands stuck in my teeth.  I should probably eat slower, but this meal is too good to pass up.  Plus, I can’t risk any of my siblings coming by to steal my savory sustenance.  However, I do need to take a break to relieve myself, considering all the hydrating recently.   

       I know from experience, during these large parties the bathroom situation is a real cluster, so decide to just stroll over the brush hedgerow at the edge of the yard to relive myself.  On route, I make a wide lap around the lawn to ensure no one is around to witness this act. 

      The coast is clear.  And my bladder is now empty.  Peeing standing up, another of the many benefits of the male anatomy.

       What’s also still empty is the entire backyard.  All the children must be in the living room playing with toys.  And the adults are likely engrossed in various mundane conversations. 

      Fine my me, I appreciate solitude at times.  However, all the good food is also inside.  My grumbling stomach suggests it might be time to make another stealthy run through the house to procure some more snacks.

       Slinking in through the cracked open back door, I move with caution, trying to draw as little attention to my entrance as possible.  It seems like visitors always want to engage with me, slapping me on the back, shouting my name loudly, or grabbing onto my nose.  I’m in no mood to be accosted by a herd of crazies.  This is a good time for a quick grab and go. 

       There are definitely more people here than an hour ago.  This small farmhouse is already crowded with the 6 of us who live here full time.  Now, I count over 25 warm bodies, making it almost impossible to navigate through the interior space unseen.

      Standing quiet and observant in the rear entryway, which sits adjacent to the bustling dining area, I finally get a chance to make my move.  A clumsy, hungry teenage approaches the lavash spread, and is apparently so engrossed by the diversity of options available, that he drops the piece of candy he was in the process of opening. 

       I swoop in and scoop up this morsel, then quicky retreat, before the lazy lad can even bend down to look for the lost item.  Great success!  I doubt it will even be missed, considering the wealth of options on the table above.

       Happy with my execution, I exit the way I came, returning back to my sunny post in the chilly backyard.  The item I scored is a new one for me.  A round, dark brown, disc, with serrated edges.  To large and hard for me to inhale in a single gulp, I chomp the pod in half, revealing a softer, lighter brown, interior.

      The flavor combination is also somewhat foreign, though on the second, and last, bite, I recognize the interior slurry.  Peanut butter, a treat my new parents sometimes provide me as a reward for good behavior during a play session.        

      Enough sweets, time to get back to work on that large rack of ribs.  Or what remains of it.  There’s definitely still some good meat on these bones.  

     15 minutes later, I’m regretting my consumption habits.  Traditionally I’ve been able to gorge myself to the point of bursting without any ill effects.  But something is different now.  It must be that peanut butter cup I wolfed down when a kid dropped it.  Apparently, the outer chocolate layer on this particular candy apparently doesn’t go well with my internal chemistry. 

     Sprawling out in the grass, stomach seething from a combination of digestion and disruption, I get my gastrointestinal tract do its efficient work.    

 

Appetizer – Pumpkin Soup with Roasted Pepitas – Mexican

      There’s a lot to keep track of around here.  Fortunately, my entire life revolves around multitasking.

      Most of the activities I’m keeping my eyes, and ears, on, are common and simple.  3 children, one each from previous marriages, plus a newborn my current husband and I recently conceived together.  Hence the rushed wedding, just before I started showing physically, but clearly out of order, for anyone who cared to do the monthly math.  Based on my limited experience with this foolish family, basic arithmetic, and potentially the entire field of logical reasoning, is not their strong suit. 

       I always shudder at the “current” moniker, but my relationship history has not been stable or predicable. 

      Preordained to my first mate on the Choctaw Indian reservation in eastern Oklahoma where I grew up, at just 18 years old, I found myself in a miserable, abusive situation.  Fortunately, my fertile loins were not completely ravaged by this savage.

    Fleeing my tribe, and my livelihood, I entered traditional American society with a mix of apprehension and excitement.  The midwestern United States proved to be quite different than my sheltered upbringing, offering up both new challenges and opportunities.   

      A connection at the local diner where we both worked, me as a waitress, and my future ex as a line cook, resulted in the tall lad I can see standing in the corner, watching football, with a bottle of beer in hand.  His positioning in the back of the room is clearly strategic; conveniently placed to avoid any social interaction.  He’s close enough to see the small TV with sharp eyes, and discrete enough to enjoy an adult beverage without anyone calling him out. 

       At just 14 years old, my boy is clearly not of legal drinking age by United States governmental standards.  But I started into the booze much younger than him, and have recently committed to avoiding all forms of hypocrisy, considering how much this nefarious and contradictory practice abounded during my own upbringing in Choctaw Nation.

      A low murmur draws my attention from far afield to the ground at my feet.  Here, a tiny human lies snuggled in a homemade wicker basket.  This individual is so small that its features are indiscernible under the thick wool blanket, aside from a round, bald head, the tell-tale feature of any advanced being, including most aliens.

     Rather than bend over, I simply use one of my moccasin clad feet to gently rock the woven container, who’s round bottom allows for soothing, wavelike motions to be generated with just a deft flick of the toe.  The infant inside immediately falls back into the default state of perpetual and silent slumber. 

      How great would it be to return to the simple life of a baby?  Eat, sleep, poop, and repeat.  A model of efficient growth and development. 

     Two-thirds of the crew accounted for, including all those with my genes, I take time to focus on the task in front of me. 

       I’m standing behind a rickety plastic folding table, covered with a colorful diamond-patterned cloth, atop which sits a chipped white porcelain bowl.  We brought all these items from our modest home, right across the border in Indiana.  It’s a pretty presentation, exuding homeyness as opposed to modernity.  Just like the nutritious creation housed within. 

      My key contribution to this event is more recognizable from an olfactory, as opposed to visual, standpoint.  The burnt orange slurry in the vessel sitting on the table is reminiscent in both color and texture to the flash flood arroyos which materialized from iron oxide-infused red dirt runoff after a heavy rain back on the reservation. 

       While both concoctions are liquid based, this pumpkin soup offers up much more flavor, and a smother texture, than the grimy, gritty water which helped maintain our outdoor existence.

     Though the recipe started out traditional, for this rendition I’ve taken several creative liberties, driven by both strategy and convenience.  Copious amounts of green jalapenos and red chili powder were toned down to yellow onions and smoked paprika.  Diversely shaped but expensive heirloom squash was substituted for readily available pumpkins, some cored and carved, on account of the recent Halloween holiday which my band of youngsters thrive on.

        Most of this holiday meal is self-serve, but I prefer to dish out my soup on my own terms, for several reasons. 

      Explaining the flavorful contents of this thick liquid concoction, which is completely unique and foreign to nearly everyone.

      Acting as a diligent server, an act which is ingrained in my heritage for any proper meal, and a task which I find committedly rewarding, as opposed to potentially ingratiating.

        Applying the appropriate ratio of sweet, crunchy seeds, plus smokey, spicy chilis, to the base concoction, depending on my visual and verbal assessment of each customer.

     Further becoming engaged with the numerous attendees here who I don’t know.  Earning acceptance into this complicated crew is a tiring process. 

       I’m sure my husband’s daughter, a friendly but slow lass of 12, is fine.  She adores this family, and the attention this empathetic contingent rains down on her.  That’s fine, I’m happy to take the day off from monitoring even one of my charges.

      Content with the chimpanzee playground landscape, and with no hyenas charging forward to eat, I take up a large spoonful of pumpkin soup, savoring the aromatic, nose clearing, properties of the liquid’s heat, in both thermal and spice form.

       Delicately putting the toasty utensil to my lips, I take a tiny dose of the concoction, then let it linger on my tongue, allowing my taste buds to engage.  The flavor progression is exhilarating.  Still, there’s something a little divergent from the memories of my youth. 

      Intaking the entire spoonful allows me to quickly determine the off flavor.  Pumpkin spice, a vile combination of cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves, and allspice, which my husband mandated I add to align this soup with the festive holiday season.  Ginger is the only component of this blend I would consider including on my own, though in freshly grated as opposed to ground form.

       It seems like American’s put this pungent spice concoction on anything in the fall season.  He even wanted me to roast the pepitas in this brown grit.  I know from experience, if kids won’t eat roasted pumpkin seed pods after a vigorous carving session, then no one will.

        This confusing semi-desert flavor is way to overpowering in my simple soup.  Yet another example of why I should ignore his guidance in the kitchen.  Maybe, if I add a few sprinkles of cayenne pepper from the small pouch in my purse, I can return this dish to its traditional native roots.  Any proactive lady carries hot sauce in her handbag these days. 

        I’m all for compromises in a relationship, but when it comes to cooking and children, I’m steadfast in my resolve and confidence.  Too bad it took me 35 stressful years to reach this point of relatively structured sanity.