Amazing Flight #1

Back in the late 40s or early 50s if you wanted a break from the snow, sleet, and slush, you drove from Spencerport to Florida.  It was basically a 4-day trip with Mom and Dad in front, the kids in back.  Considering the highway system, the cars (8 to 12 mpg) and the distractions, it was slow going.  Especially with kids that needed to stop a lot to drink, pee, buy Stuckey’s Pecan Bars, see an assortment of snakes, bears, monkees, alligators and more at the roadside attractions.  But it was worth it to get to see the sun, the sea, and all those oranges and grapefruit after months of dismal WNY winter blahs.

But in the late winter of 1950 or ’51, Dad decided we could afford to fly.  I was already a seasoned flyer, having spent many weekends flying with my Dad in the front seat of a Piper Cub.  He flew out of a dirt strip west of Hilton.  The Piper was yellow, with an overhead wing, aluminum or wood framing and canvas.  Even though I was around four or five, I could pick her up by the tail and help turn the Cub around on the ground.  Dad sat in back with a stick and rudder pedals and I stood in the front seat so I could see out the windows.  I so remember the smell of the leather seat, the aviation oil and fuel, and the noise.  What thrill.  But I digress.

Flash forward five or six years. I don’t remember if it was United, American or Mohawk.  But I remember the Rochester airport was on Scottsville Road and aircraft was the DC-3.  And in my eyes it was huge compared to a Piper Cub.  We boarded on a cold, snowy January morning around 8am.  It was an uphill struggle to our seats.  The pilot got a visual thumbs up from the guy in the control tower next to the hanger, and we were off to Florida.

Flying from Rochester to Tampa was an all day affair.  The DC3 was state-of-the-art and the service and meals were better than what’s available today. But we had to stop to refuel, pick up passengers and mail.  We stopped in Pitts-burgh.  We stopped in Baltimore.  We stopped in Atlanta.  And finally, around 7:00 pm, we arrived in Tampa.  That’s when I had one of the most memorable moments of my life.  I was still dressed in a snowsuit and boots.  The DC3 wasn’t all that warm in the winter.  I was first at the door to exit.  When they finally got the stairs in place and opened the door, it hit me.  There was no snow!  There were palm trees silhouetted in an orange and pink sunset.  There were 80º breezes floating into our cabin scented with orange blossoms.  Talk about “died and went to heaven”.  Sixty-some years later and I still remember that singular moment.  

Beats the hell out of jet fuel fumes in a hot and dirty jetway, crowds of weirdo passengers with ear buds and wireless headsets and grumpy, full-of-themselves TSA gropers.

Four Years Before the Mast - Part 1

I took the Greyhound from Spencerport to Rochester on Monday, July 6, to pick up my paperwork at the Navy recruiter’s office.  Then bright and early the next morning I boarded another Greyhound to Buffalo and another recruiter’s office.  There, around a dozen young men raised our right hands and repeated an oath to uphold and defend the Constitution of the United States of America; to do whatever the Commander and Chief told us to do, and some other stuff.  I don’t remember if I crossed the fingers of my left hand – just to keep my options open.  Then, with an official manila envelope and a small duffle bag, I climbed aboard a New York Central Pullman car for an overnight trip to Chicago.  It never occurred to me at the time that I was leaving more than western New York.  I was enroute to adulthood.

I shared the Pullman with Dick Bater.  Dick was my age and from Churchville.  We signed up together, were assigned the same company at boot camp and leaned on one another throughout  the next two months.  After that we never saw or heard from one another.  Odd.  I remember the train trip clearly.  After a light supper we called it a day and went to sleep. Early the next morning we woke up somewhere in Indiana and got ready for our arrival in Chicago.  I remember the tiny bathroom in our cabin and trying not to nick myself shaving as the car rocked along the rails.  We were met at the station by a line of haze gray school buses for our trip from downtown Chicago to the Great Lakes Naval Training Center. I was to see a lot of that color (haze gray) and did my part in adding that color to a lot of Navy property in the ensuing four years. It was so nice of the Navy to send chauffeurs.  But as we got off the bus inside the gates of the Center it became abundantly clear that we were not considered honored guests.  It was just like the movies; military movies and prison movies.  Before the day was done (7/8/1959), we were given a complete set of uniforms and a sea bag, a whole series of inoculations, showers, medical and dental exams, a box to mail home our civilian clothes and belongings, and a skinhead haircut.  [Seems to me they should have measured us for caps after the haircuts.]  All in all it was a shocking and exhausting day.

We were eventually assigned our company (#101) and herded into our barracks by the always-spotless, no nonsense Company Commander, BM1 Edw. D. Richter.  What an old rickety barracks.  The Recruit Training facility was built in 1911.  It had already seen many of my predecessors from WW1, WW2 and Korea.  While old and drafty, the shingle covered wooden barracks was definitely clean -- Spotlessly clean. I quickly learned how it stayed that way!  The good thing was it wasn’t winter.  So instead of enduring ice, shush, and bitterly cold Chicago winds, we enjoyed balmy summer breezes; And triple digit afternoons on the tarmac drill fields.  After that long first day and the new experience of showering with 60 other young men, I silently cried myself to sleep.  What did I get myself into indeed!

Boot camp was many experiences.  But mainly we practiced becoming world-class janitors and housekeepers.  I mopped, polished, buffed, and scrubbed for nine weeks and two days.  Along the way, we also learned some marlinspike seamanship, firefighting, first aid, how to don gas masks and avoid tear gas, rules and regulations, marksmanship, swimming, and cleanliness.  We did laundry seven days a week with a small scrub brush, a steel bucket, and liquid laundry soap or bar soap.  We hung our clothes with military precision on lines with short pieces of cotton rope instead of clothespins.  And we became experts on folding.  But most of all, we learned how to turn off our brains.  The haircuts, the identical uniforms, the service number:  there real purpose was to make us sailors vs. individuals. Without ever actually realizing it, we spent nine weeks being depersonalized.

Now, all in all, being brainwashed wasn’t a bad thing.  For starters, it prepared us to follow orders without wasting time deciding if we should or should not do as we were told.  It’s completely understandable that in wartime you do as you’re told … instantly.  Or die. Or worse yet, be responsible for the death of your shipmates.   But in addition, being able to turn your brain off and go on automatic also came in handy in the future, during and after military service. I stood watches staring at the ocean or at the end of a pier on a river for hours without falling asleep or passing out.   I went through hazing in my college fraternity without batting an eye.  I later endured lectures, bad concerts, and less-than-memorable marital confrontations or idiotic bosses with little or no stress.  It should be noted that we were not robots. While we could turn off our brains and go with the flow, it was always a conscious decision to do so.  And to be able to turn them back on again.  While never experiencing real war or a real test of the process,  I am somewhat skeptical of the tales of later day servicemen who kill innocent civilians or perform other out-of-body bad deeds and blame it solely of being brainwashed.  The Leader installs the switch but the Individual retains the power to turn in on and off.

After tons of new experiences and way too much marching and standing in lines, graduation day finally arrived.  We stood on the parade grounds for hours (i.e. 8am to 2pm).  As the sun got higher  and hotter, all around me I could hear bodies dropping and the clatter of parade rifles bouncing off the tarmac.  Eventually we were allowed the pleasure of marching around the large rectangle and past the reviewing stand.  And it was a great pleasure; marching equals a breeze and it meant this chapter too was coming to an end.  I vividly recall the music.  There was no digital music or hardware in ’59.  On graduation day we had live music.  And damn inspiring it was!  But in the 9 weeks preparing for that day, our music came out of a series of large PA speakers atop telephone poles.  The source was old and worn 78rpm records.  I do believe we actually marched to the baton of Lt. Commander John Phillip Sousa himself.  And not too surprising.  The March King was on these very same Great Lakes Parade Grounds 42 years earlier as the leader of the Navy Band during World War One.

I received my orders that Friday afternoon and set off to follow them.  But in between there was a long awaited, two week leave back home, with per diem and travel allowance.  Life was good.  I was sure to be a big hit in my dress whites and spit shined shoes.  The first evening home I spruced up, borrowed Dad’s ’58 Ford Skyliner, and drove over to my high school sweetheart’s house to surprise her. Surprise, she wasn’t there.  The story of my life.  Her Mom told me she went to a party in Rochester and gave me the address on Park Avenue.  When I arrived she was having a grand old time.  She had on mini-shorts, a new fad that I was out of the loop on; I thought she was in her underwear!  I was mad as a hornet.  We drove to the overlook at Durand Eastman Park.  I got out of the car, sat on the hood, lit a cigarette and stared out at Lake Ontario in the moonlight. What a drama king.  She cried. We wound up having a really swell night reconciling.

My orders were for some place called Green Cove Springs, Florida.  I had never heard of it but with winter coming on, it sounded pretty good to me.  I got there somehow, and a day early just to be safe.  It turned out to be a tiny Naval Base on the St. John River, 25 miles south of Jacksonville.  Its mission was to house and maintain (there’s that word again) a mothball fleet of large, decommissioned landing ships.  The location was ideal.  During flood tide the river was salt water.  During the ebb it was fresh water.  As a result, no barnacles …   no algae.   My assignment was at the bottom rung of the command.  I was the spend 8-10 hours a day painting the outside of these ships with gorp.  Gorp is a mixture of 30% haze gray paint and 70% fish oil.  Gorp never dries but acts as a sealant and pre-
servative.  We put it on with large paint rollers and none too sparingly.  The application was less “put on” and more “slopped on”.  There was always a oil slick on the river.  In addition to painting, we were assigned a “watch”.  About every 3^rd day I would stand a watch at the end of one of the piers in a small, phone booth-like structure.  I would wear a standard blue uniform with canvas spats, a web belt, and a clipboard with a pencil on a string.  I was to guard the pier for 4 hours.  Then I would be picked up and be relieved and have 8 hours off (sleep or work).  After the 8 hours off watch, I would return to the end of the pier for another four hour shift.  For example, noon-4pm on watch; 4pm-midnight supper and sleep.  Midnight-4am on watch (boring!), and then 4am to 8am shower and go to work.  Three days later, 8am-noon on watch, etc.  I am proud to report that during my four months on the docks, not one ship or pier was stolen.

It was a nice place to work that winter.  At 1300 every day it rained.  It rained really hard for around 10 minutes.  Then the sun came out and the humidity kicked in.  Every day.  You got used to it.  But the docks and gallons of gorp were not my idea of a career.  In my spare time I had noticed the medical dispensary was a really nice place.  It was clean, serene, and looked like paradise with its whitewashed sides, built on stilts, with magnolias and Spanish moss.  So by early 1960 I talked my way into becoming a hospital corpsman “striker”.  A striker is someone who is an assistant with hopes of learning and passing the exams to be rated.  In the case of the Hospital Corp, being rated meant training back in Great Lakes for 14 weeks in the “A” school for Hospital Corpsman.  So that was the plan.  I would learn the craft in Green Cove Springs during the winter and spring, then go to Illinois for the summer, and then be transferred to a hospital or dispensary. That was the plan. More on the plan to follow.

When not painting, guarding piers, mopping and sterilizing surgical packs or learning how to give injections, I loved to travel on liberty.  The first destination was Jacksonville.  I discovered a radio station in the basement of a hotel called WAPE.  They played top 40 and were the big deal in town … the Home of the Ape.  I smooth talked my way into sort of interning there a couple evenings a week.  I tore news copy, did more mopping, and filed records for the DJ.  Their format called for them to play the top 5 songs at least once an hour.  To this day I can’t listen to “El Paso” or  “Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weeny Yellow Polka Dot Bikini” without thinking of The Home of the Ape.

My other destination out of Green Cove Springs was St. Augustine.  Going to Jax was a bus ride.  Going to St. Augustine meant hitchhiking 24 miles across no man’s land (Fla-16) to St. Augustine and then another 5 miles across Anastasia Island to St. Augustine Beach.  They had a wild and crazy dance hall and bar out there at The Beach.  Getting there was easy.  Coming back at 2 to 4am was another thing.  Back then there was nothing between the Beach and town but a lonely road with no traffic and lots of large reptiles trying to stay warm on the pavement.  It got really iffy if the moon wasn’t out!  I remember one l-o-n-g night in particular.  I was too tired (drunk) to make the 5 mile walk back to town so I decided to sleep on the beach till sunrise.  All was fine for around 30 minutes.  Then I woke up soaking wet and freezing.  It seems the sea water under the sand likes to creep up and be absorbed by woolen dress blues; something called capillary action.  It was a long walk back to St. Augustine that night.

But it wasn’t all that bad.  I found a nice old 3-room hotel in St. Augusting. It was on a side street near the fort, Castillo de San Marcos (built in 1672).  I had a 2^nd story large room with a fan, bathroom, balcony with table and chairs, for $12 a night.  Today it’s wall-to-wall Super 8s and a Best Western called Spanish Quarters Inn (40 rooms, no balcony, $90 per night).  The Castillo is still there, behind a Ripley’s Believe It or Not … an IHOP and the Fountain of Youth.

I got to enjoy my stay in the Green Cove Springs Naval Base dispensary for around a month.  Then came orders to transfer.  I got a glowing recommendation from my superiors for Corps School.  But the orders said I was going to Norfolk, Virginia.  There was no Hospital Corpsman school in Norfolk.  My orders said to report aboard the USS Soley DD707, in 14 days.  At the time I didn’t know what DD meant but the “USS” I knew.  I was going to sea!

After another trip to Spencerport I reported aboard the Soley on April 15, 1960.  Everybody else was sick about filing with the IRS that Tuesday.  I got seasick!  When I walk down the pier at the Destroyer-Submarine base, the destroyers were tied up three-abreast on either side.  I quickly located “707” on the bow of my new home, located between two other tin cans.  I crossed the gangplank of the first ship, passed through the quarterdeck and onto the gangplank of the Soley.  I remembered to salute and ensign (flag) of each ship and the officer of the deck (also an ensign).  I presented my paperwork, a manila envelope containing my personnel records, and stowed my sea bag near the quarterdeck to await orders.  I was told to wait up on the bow and sat down with a group of real sailors and chatted.  I soon noticed all three ships were bobbing up and down and not in unison.  Up and down, up and down, like slow moving horses on a maritime merry-go-round.  I was getting nauseous!  I skipped supper that night.

The next morning we set out to sea and anti-submarine warfare exercises around Cape Hatteras.  It’s always rough at Cape Hatteras!  After I lost all the contents of my stomach and then some, I fought my way below deck to my rack. 

The rack or berth on those old destroyers was pretty basic.  The frame was a tubular aluminum rectangle hanging on chains ... 3 deep. Inside was a rectangle of canvas with grommets. A cotton robe was woven through the grommets and around the frame.  No mattress.  We were issued a well-worn pillow and pillowcase, a cotton bag called a fart sack that served as a top and bottom sheet, and a wool blanket.  Ironically the blanket was an Army olive drab with a black stenciled anchor and USN.  Come morning the fart sack was folded and inserted inside the pillow.  The blanket was neatly folded (a primary pastime in the Navy) with the stencil front and center, and the frame chained up out of the way.  In Navy Talk:  Triced up.

I slid into my berth, wrapped my arms and legs around the frame, and held on for dear life for two days and three nights.  There were no other options in my mind. It was way worse than death.  I wanted to die!  I had never experienced such low down depression in my life.  My shipmates tried to get me up.  My boss, the boatswains mate and security chief tried to roust me.  Finally they called Chief Snyder, the ship’s hospital corpsman.  He examined me and declared it was useless.  He said I had overdosed on drugs and they would just have to wear off!     

About three days later I was able to move.  I ate a few Saltines and sipped some water.  Easy does it.  The Soley was still violently bouncing around Cape Hatteras but for some reason I was no longer sick!  It was OVER!  I kept my sea legs or sea stomach for the next two and a half years of sea duty. 

My first duty assignment on the Soley was once again on the bottom rung.  I was a deck hand, a professional, sea-going janitor.  I mopped, hosed and polished.  When we came back in port I chipped and painted.  Now that was a trip.  When in port, we were issued a chipping hammer, a scraper iron, and a wire brush.  On Day One we chipped and scrapped to remove the paint from the hull.  We had to be careful with the hammer because the Soley was commissioned in 1944 and was, by 1960, worn a bit thin in places!  On a hot summer day over the side, we often accidently fell off our boatswain’s chair and into the drink – filthy as it was. After she was scrapped properly, Day Two found us painting her with primer – Red Lead.  Then, on Day Two and Three we painted her with a fresh coat of haze gray and refreshed the “707” on the bow and “USS Soley” on the fantail.   I remember one time we went to sea in the afternoon with the usual coat of fresh paint.  That evening we had some sort of mechanical/boiler problem and had to return to port.  The next morning we were issued the chipping hammer, scraper and wire brush and told to go over the side.  “But Boats (short for boatswains mate)! The paint is still wet from yesterday!”   But The Book said paint.  He took back our tools and issued rags and buckets of paint thinner.  Over the side we went and wiped off yesterday’s paint!  The next day … more red lead and haze gray.

I didn’t like being a deck hand on the Soley any more than in Florida.  And I had my recommendation.  So I approached Chief Snyder and requested I be allowed to assist (strike) in his Sick Bay.  No longer a whitewashed beach house among the magnolias and Spanish Moss.  Sick Bay on the Soley was about three times the size of an airline lavatory, maybe 7’ x 10’.  Within this polished aluminum and chrome palace were a small table, two chairs, counters, drawers, book shelves, an autoclave, and a small surgical light.  We had dressings, surgical kits, some common medicines (lots of APCs). In the bookcase.  a corpsman’s handbook, a PDR, and a Merck Manual.  Above and below the counters were the usual; tongue depressors, thermometers, blood pressure cuff, stethoscopes, gauze, alcohols (grain and denatured), glassware, lab supplies, an ancient  microscope.  All this and much, much more in 70 sq feet.  And all secured for heavy seas.  A haze gray and underway saltwater sailor quickly learned how to batten down!

The Chief was more than happy to take me on as his assistant.  After some initial tests to see what I had learned at the Green Cove Springs and some superficial training, the Chief was free to skip sick call and simply be “on call” in the Chiefs’ Quarters or Mess Deck.  What a deal.  In return, he promised me that if I studied the handbook and the study guide to prepare for the fleet-wide exam for Hospital Corpsman 3^rd Class, he would let me take the exam.  If I passed, he would recommend me for Corps School.  On Land!

Well, I studied my ass off.  I damn near memorized the handbook.  A few months later I took the exam.  I aced it!  Then … disaster.  A few weeks after the exam I was told I had scored high enough to beat the cut off for advancement and was awarded my HM3 rating!  “But Chief”, I pleaded, “you said I could go to Corps School!  I can’t be rated without first going through Corps School!  It’s the rules!”  Screwed again.  Somehow I went under BuPers radar screen and was now a full-fledged Hospital Corpsman, Petty Officer Third Class!  At sea!

 - - - - -

Why had I gone to sea instead of Great Lakes, Illinois?  Why had I been promoted to HM3 without attending school?  Some time later I l learned my Personal Record jacket had a big red stamp on the cover that translated to Political Influence.  It seems my dear father was concerned that his son was in the US Navy but didn't know what a ship or the ocean looked like.  He contacted his congressman, Representative Horton, and complained that he thought a sailor should be at sea.  Rep. Horton made a phone call and I went to sea --- permanently.  Thanks Dad!

Jacket and Tie Required

I came across  a great site for fantasy feasting yesterday.  It's the James Beard Foundation's website.  In addition to giving out awards, publishing books, and promoting themselves, they offer fancy meals prepared by award-winning chefs from around the country at their NYC headquarters, James Beard's former home-office.

Check out the calendar and browse some of the chef's bios and menus for the night.  It isn't cheap.  $170 per person!  Obviously the dinner is delicious and varied.  I was looking at Chef Jon Vaast's menu for a sit down this coming Monday at 7pm.  First off are four hors d'Oeuvres:

• Roasted Littleneck Clams with Bacon and Duck Fat Beurre Blanc
• Smoked Sunburst Trout Mousse with Trout Caviar on Toasted Brioche
• Caramelized Shallot Custard with Parsnip Foam  [pass]
• Heirloom Tomato Gazpacho Shooters with Micro-Opal Basil and Olive Oil

Next comes the four course dinner itself.

• Soup:  Corn chowder with skillet corn kernels and lovage.
• Salad:  Grilled eggplant with Jalapeño - Tomato fondue, Garlic chips, cheese and Olive oil caviar.
• Fish:  Seared Alaskan king salmon with sugar snap peas, wax beans, artichokes, peaches, garden herbs and a Riesling vinaigrette.
• Meat:  Heritage Pork Duo -- Seared leg meat with braised red cabbage and whole grain mustard-buerre fondue;  and Crispy Pork Belly with poached quail egg, cherry-port demi-glace and summer vegetable medley.

Finally, dessert.  Sweet potato cheesecake with summer berry compote.

The wordage in hilarious IMO.  Lovage is a plant that is used in salads (leaves and/or stems).  It tastes something like celery.  Olive oil caviar?  Do olives have roe?  Re: Seared Alaskan King Salmon: Skip all the veggies, fruit and vinaigrette.  Broil it on a cedar board with a bit of dill butter and S&P.  Alaska king salmon doesn't need all that stuff!  The pork duo sounds really tasty.  But only one quail egg per customer?  Feed me for $170.  And what the heck is a "summer vegetable medley"?  I'm thinking the chef is keeping his options open depending on what looks good at the market that morning.  Hopefully it doesn't translate to Birdseye frozen mixed  vegetables.

But what a well-balanced, promising menu.  And I left out the accompanying  five wines, all from the chef's Connecticut location.

Me? I'm having Hungarian goulash and broccoli tonight.  $3.80 per person.  And a bottle of Pacifico.    bon appetit. 

Broiler at the Inn

Had a half broiler this evening.  It was fantastic since I used  a good rub and paprika and I brined it for about an hour prior to broiling.  It brought back memories of the late '40s / early 50s.  Mom and Dad would occasionally take us to the Spencerport Inn for supper.  Fridays it was fish fry.  No exceptions!  But other nights I'd usually opt for their half broiler.  It was plain and simple; salt and pepper, paprika, and butter.

Good eatin'!   Pre - KFC

It was served with french fries in a red plastic "woven" basket with some wax paper and a couple dill pickle slices.  Why the pickles?  Because I loved em!  The best part was that the bird wasn't too hot and I was allowed to "rip 'n eat".  This was as close as a kid could get to playing with your food without getting yelled at.

I've got to admit it though.  Mine is a lot juicier than theirs.

Why Not Composting?

     I think this is prompted by the fact that I was born 72 years ago today and I am in a contemplative state today.  

     Cremation saves a lot of space and simplifies exiting quite a bit.  But I wonder how green it is?  First of all there's all that natural gas required and no doubt quite a bit of smoke, carbon, and other pollutants are produced. Normal casket burial is just wrong; expensive, primitive, wasteful.  We're getting around to rather responsible burials with paper shrouds, thin coffins, etc.  But why not what would seem to be a more natural point between cremation  and burial --- composting.  I mean, really, you do away with the real estate needed, and it's probably more energy efficient than cremation.  Plus, you contribute to the earth; fertilizer.

Sure, standard burial eventually equals composting but it's a long, drawn out process.  Besides, raking a couple bushels of human Rapid-Gro into the soil makes more sense than a 6-foot hole, stone markers, a mahogany box and a concrete liner.
     I'll pass on thinking about how the process should take place.  A giant wood chopper or a blender/pulper is something I'd just as soon not dwell on, thank you.  Still, it's a thought.     Just sayin'.

I'll Take US Automobiles for $200, Alex

     The ElectroPuro bottled water truck just came by while I was in my roof office.  I recognized the sound of their diesel.  It's slightly different fro Ceil or the Coca Cola truck that also stop by.  No delivery needed here today but it got me remembering one of my Dad's unique talents in the 40s.
     Dad was a small town M.D. with an office in the main drag (US-259).  His one-room office faced the street. In between patients I'd sometimes visit with him in the afternoon and ask him about the cars.  He would sit with his back to the street and tell me the make of car as it drove by.  Sometimes he'd even tell me the year.  Amazing. He could suture up a laceration with no scarring.  He took really detailed, perfectly exposed x-rays with an old 1920s Frankenstein-like monster machine. But, to me, those were not nearly as impressive as his audio/automotive talent.  I got so that I could sometimes ID a Buick when it went by. And I could also identify the afternoon Greyhound coming up the street.  But who couldn't.  I could also hear our neighbor's '34 Chevy pickup coming ... from about a half a mile north of us!  

     Can't do that with a Toyota Prius!

What's Bugging Me

You know what bugs me? The flys (moscas) and mosquitos in México are much more evolved than in the U.S. Unless they are very large (i.e. in their Golden Years), they are very hard to kill. I sometimes think they actually hide when I have had enough and grab a fly swatter. And the mosquitoes... they're small and fast. You don't even feel the bite. It's only after they have had their meal and departed that the welt and itch show up on your ankle. Thank goodness for mosquito strips.  Don't go to bed without 'em.

Sloppy but Simple and Scrumptious

Last night I prepared  a Low-Country Shrimp Boil.  Really simple (throw everything in a large pot of seasoned liquid at various times and let it boil) and fun to eat with fingers and lots and lots of napkins.  Forks are for prudes.

 

I used whole small (new) potatoes and a combination of smoked sausage and Italian sausage.  I also substituted Creole seasoning for cayenne pepper.  When completed I have to confess the corn and shrimp called out to me from the large serving bowl, "Butter, we need butter!".  It took less 30 minutes to prepare and tasted so good with an amber beer.  Next time I'll use a roll of paper towels instead of napkins. Remember to either provide trash bowls or simply slide a basket with a fresh trash bag within firing distance of the table.

The meal brought back memories of a wild and crazy party I created at Alpha Sigma Phi in Buffalo back in 1964.  Tom Jones was in the theaters and I planned everything around the banquet scenes.  We dressed in old clothes, laid out plastic drop sheets on the living room floor. No utensils.  While some of the dishes were designed to be eaten by hand (turkey legs), others were intentionally sloppy (spaghetti, chocolate pudding, strawberries in cream).  All was washed down with individual bottles of champagne.  What a lovely mess.  

Then there was the  subsequent Mazola Party and shower scenes.  [Or was that mostly a creative memory?]    :-)

P.S.  Do not drive down the street on a motorcycle with an open bottle of champagne between your legs.