HALLOWE'EN

I am not one of those Scrooges who hates Hallowe'en. (Yes, I know that's a mixed metaphor, but I'm pretty sure Scrooge hated Hallowe'en as much as he hated Christmas.) I am still old fashioned enough about it to spell it the old way we leaned in school with an apostrophe (Hallowe'en) instead of this new fangled way without the apostrophe (Halloween). Who gave them permission to alter the contraction for "even" (as in All Hallows Even)? Is this some plot by the liberals trying to change everything, or maybe the religious conservative trying to destroy Hallowe'en altogether? One way or another, there's dirty work afoot.

When I was growing up Hallowe'en was the harbinger of the holiday season. The sign that were had arrived at a special time of year was that on Hallowe'en we were allowed to scarf down all the candy we could wheedle out of the neighbors. Candy was a rationed commodity at our house. Mom was one of those modern mothers who believed the foolish opinions of dentists who think that candy is harmful to children. Why do humans have two sets of teeth if not to cover the likelihood that the first set will rot out from indulging in jawbreakers, licorice, chocolate creams, M & Ms, gum drops, jelly beans, Milky Ways, Goobers, and whatever other delights come from the confectioner's imagination? Not so at our house. Candy was doled out with the same parsimony as Scrooge paying Bob Cratchit his wages. So Hallowe'en was a candy bonanza. You had to get it all down on the day, however. By November 1 all remaining candy was confiscated and disappeared into Dad's lunch.

The first challenge of Hallowe'en was to pick a suitable costume. When you were little, you're mom provided one. I had a cowboy outfit I must have worn a few times. Then there were all these old clothes that we had gotten from our grandmother than made great Gypsy costumes. Hobo costumes were popular among boys. It didn't take much but an old shirt and some burn cork on the face. (WARNING: Always be sure the cork has completely cooled before rubbing it on your face. It can leave you with a permanently altered complexion otherwise.) I tired go in a costume I made myself of Emperor Ming from the old Flash Gordon movies. I even painted my face with yellow tempera paint Big disappointment. Nobody knew who I was supposed to be. Even worse was the year I went in a homemade Dracula costume, complete with wax fangs. My sister went in a bride's dress, and somebody thought I was the minister. Goodness, you don't think that scarred my psyche so that I became a minister to disguise my secret longing to be a vampire? Bleah, bleah. Can you tell me the vay to the blood bank. I vant to make a vithdrawal. Bleah. Hoo boy.

In good old Chicago we started trick or treating as soon as we got home from school, while it was still light. You wanted to get in as many places as possible before supper time. In seventh grade our ding-dong teacher said we shouldn't say "trick or treat" because that was threatening people. We should say, "treats please." Come off it. People would think you were nuts. It's taken 40 years to get back at her, but I modeled the villain in my novel Not All is as You See after her.

Where I lived people wanted to see who was under the mask when you trick or treated them. Neighborhood kids got better goodies than strangers from the next block. At least that's what we were told. Now, what were good treats? Pennies were good, nickels even better. Dimes were unheard of. I my view candy bars were ranked with Milky Ways on top, then Snickers, Three Musketeers, Baby Ruths, and Butterfingers on the bottom. I am amazed that several of the kids I know actually prefer Butterfingers. What is the matter with the youth of America? Bubble gum was pretty good. Hard candy only so so. Apples weren't the worst–I happened to like them–but you could get those at home anytime because they were healthy. Who wants healthy food at Halloween? The absolute worst treats (hardy a treat at all) were popcorn balls. I'm not sure what they put on popcorn to make it stick together as a ball, but I think it was horsehide glue. Why would people waste time making these things when they could go to the store and buy a perfectly respectable candy bar to give away? Most adults have this odd notion that homemade stuff is better than store bought. No it isn't. Anything advertised on TV is bound to be better than something cooked up in someone's kitchen. Store bought stuff is full of tasty chemicals and preservatives that no kitchen stocks.

There were years when Hallowe'en fell on Saturday. Oh, what a day that was–all day to trick or treat. One Saturday stands out in my mind. I think it was late morning when the trick or treating started. The door bell rang and my mother went to answer it. I think she had actually put the candy in the bag before she realized the trick or treater was my grandmother. Grandma had dressed in an old denim jacket and my grandfather's old cap. It was a good disguise. She then headed to my Aunt and Uncle's house around the block and pull the same trick. For several years she entered the spirit of Hallowe'en with the same routine, only now everyone was prepared for her with a special bag of candy.

I moved off on my own, but I still look forward to Hallowe'en only I'm the one passing out the candy. Well, at first I tried raisins because they were healthier. Most of the kids hated them. I've only found one lad after me own heart who likes raisins. His picture is at the end of this blog. I tried dimes for a while, but the kids thought I was only giving pennies. So, I moved on to Snickers and Milk Way bars, small ones, but not the teeny-tiny ones. Here in Florida, no one starts trick or treating until after dark, so some years I miss most of the kids because I'm out for evening meetings or things.

As in my day, little kids are dragged around in a daze dressed in costumes their moms find cute. Older kids still put together their own outfits. Some inventive, some not. I have to say I was startled one year by a boy around 12 dressed in a girl's cheerleader outfit, but Hallowe'en is Hallowe'en. At least he had a costume. Some of the boys don't bother. They just stick a pillowcase in the doorway and collect the loot–sometimes returning several times if it's something they like. Most of the kids say thank you, which gives me hope for the future.

A couple of things bother me about 21st century Hallowe'en. As with everything else, the commercialism has gone to an extreme. A few years back Hallowe'em lights appeared to decorate your home. In my day decorations consisted of a Jack-o-lantern in the window and maybe paper cutouts of black cats or something. The stores not only sell candy and costumes, but all sorts of odd stuff. Who needs silk boxer shorts with pumpkins or ghosts on them. Wait. Never mind. I just remembered the guys who live around here who wear their pants down around their knees.

The other thing that disturbs me is the increasing number of "Judgement Houses." These are religious equivalents of the Haunted Houses. The idea is that you show kids what it's going to be like when they are sent to hell from being a non-believer. That's supposed to scare the hell out of them, I guess. I've never heard of that working, For that matter, I have never heard of anyone going over to the side of Satan because they wore a witch costume on Hallowe'en. It's always seem to me that if you make fun of that sort of stuff–witches, ghosts, monsters, werewolves, vampires–you defang the notion of the occult, so to speak. And I don't buy the idea that dressing up in nice costumes is better than wearing scary costumes. Well yes, a five-year-old princess is much more pleasant than a fourteen-year-old carrying his head under his arm, but clowns are not amusing. Most little kids are terrified of clowns. So am I, and of mimes, and weird people who do street theater. I'm also afraid of politicians, but I'm writing about that next week.

In any case, Hallowe'en came about as the evening before All Saints' Day, November 1. So fellow saints, may the Lord God bless you on your way and greet you on your arrival.

Wayne

YUM, PART 2

As promised in the last episode, here is one more special recipe from our family's special collection, Spaghetti and Beans, or as Grandma Kofink would say, Spergehtti and Beans.

This one is easy because it requires no leftovers. Everything is made fresh. And it only has three ingredients. Spaghetti, canned pork and beans, and bacon. Think of that: one ingredient is pure carbohydrate, one is high saturated fat, and the other is reasonably nutritious.

Start by boiling some salted water, enough to make a package of spaghetti. Now we are talking plain old unadulterated spaghetti, none of this stuff with spinach or tomato or basil flavoring in it. Just plain old pasty spaghetti, the stuff real Americans ate before all this falderal of "pasta" started sneaking in. When the water is boiling, toss in the spaghetti. If your fastidious, break it in half first, but that takes the fun out of eating it.

Next, while the water is boiling, cut up some bacon into small squares. Oh, come on now, you aren't going to ask that are you? ENOUGH! That's how much. Then fry it in a small frying pan until it is crispy, but not burnt. This is a slight departure from grandma's method of cooking. Grandma believed something wasn't done until it was a little black around the edges. That applied to bacon, cake, and sometimes vegetables also. Think of it; she was making blackened fish long before it became popular. And the only spices used were salt and pepper.

Where were we? Oh yes, frying bacon. While the bacon is frying, dump a can of pork and beans in a sauce pan. Maybe use a couple of cans if you want. Mom always used Van Camp's, but I have found I prefer Campbell's. Stay away from any of those fancy-schmancy ones that have added brown sugar or molasses or barbeque sauce. You want a good-old tomato sauce base. Heat the pork and beans carefully so you don't burn them onto the bottom of the pan. It's murder to get off.

All right, we're getting close now. When the spaghetti is done, (We always tasted it to see if it was done–really done, not au dente. Some people I know throw a piece on the wall. If it sticks, it's done. We would NEVER have done that in out house.) drain the spaghetti. Spoon about a third of the fried bacon into the beans and mix well. Now the secret technique. Put the drained spaghetti in a bowl and pour the rest of the bacon and all the grease on top. I hope you're not going to waste any of that perfectly good, artery-clogging fat. Mix the bacon, grease and spaghetti. Serve everything right away because you don't want to eat the spaghetti after the bacon grease starts to congeal. It's yucky and reminds you what's going on in your heart as you eat it.

Each person piles spaghetti on their plate, spoons the beans on top, and mixes it up. No matter how much spaghetti and how much beans you make, it will never come out even. You will always run out of spaghetti before you run out of beans. I don't know why. It's a mystery of physics. My dad always like to accompany this with soft white bread spread with margarine. It was useful for pushing the beans on your fork. We NEVER ate a salad or green vegetable with this. Hey, beans are vegetables, aren't they?

That's all for today from the German-American-Eastern-European Chef. This is me saying, dig in.

May the Lord God bless you on your way and greet you on your arrival.


Wayne

YUM, PART 1

My mother had a fancy towel (never used) hanging in her kitchen. It showed a man being given a spoon full of something she was cooking. In his thoughts was another picture of himself with an older, grey-haired woman also giving him a spoonful of something. And underneath were the words, "Not like mother's."

Ah yes, nothing is like Mom's cooking, except maybe Grandma's. There are so many things that my grandmother's made that are lost now. Grandma Kofink always made a cherry cake–pink cake with maraschino cherries. I searched through all her recipes, but couldn't find it. My grandma Szlavik could make breaded chicken and pork chops that were out of this world. I've tried making them, but they aren't the same. Maybe she used lard. And then there were her Christmas cookies–delicious, flaky cookies. I have never discovered any recipe that is close.

Enough about what I can't do. I am about to share with you three very unusual dishes. A couple of them you might find in some form or another if you looked hard enough, the last one no one I have ever talked to has eaten unless they are relatives.

Dish One: Grandma Szlavik's Fired Noodles ala Mom's Version. This is a wonderful way to use up those left over noodles from Sunday's pot roast. What? There aren't any left over noodles? That's probably because you didn't make enough. The only way you can be sure no one's gone hungry is by making enough so that there is always some leftover. Leftovers are part of a frugal cook's planning. So what if you eat the same meal two or three times in a week (four times during Thanksgiving and Christmas week. A 40 pound turkey goes a long way.)

OK, I'll have to allow that you don't have any leftover noodles. You'll just have to make some. It's best if you do it the day before so they can develop that wonderful rubbery consistency from being left in the fridge over night, but in a pinch you can make some up and fry them the same day. Buy egg noodles–none of the reduced fat or no yolk noodles. They're yucky. Real egg noodles, extra, extra wide. Sadly, no one seems to make the really wide noodles, so you'll have to do the best you can.

First, cook the noodles in boiling water. DON'T OVER COOK THEM. If you make them too soft they'll congeal when you store them overnight or fall apart when you fry them. Next, drain the noodles very well. If you don't they'll get nasty in the fridge or they'll spatter hot oil every where when you fry them. Not a welcome experience. Heat a big ol' frying pan. My mother always used a cast iron pan. You can use one of these modern no stick pans if you want, but the finished food will lack that nice tangy flavor of rust.

Now the issue of the stuff to fry the noodles in. Mom always used Crisco, big, artery clogging lumps of the white stuff. (Grnadma probably used lard.) In the interest of health (as if frying anything could be healthy) I use canola oil. When the pan's hot, dump in the oil. How much? Enough. We never measured anything. Not just a thin film, but not so much that you could deep fry French fries. Use your head, for goodness sakes. Now I follow the frugal gourmet's advice: "Hot pan, cold oil, food won't stick." I'm not so worried about the sticking. As a matter of fact. A little sticky gets you those nice crunchy bits when it burns on to the bottom of the pan. No, I suggest using cold oil to avoid hot fat squirting in your eye when you dump the noodles in. OK, ready? One-two-three dump in the noodles. Stir them around with a spatula (a wooden or plastic one of you're using a no stick pan.) Get them nice and greasy. If there isn't enough oil, put some more in. (You see why I only make this a couple times a year. My heart couldn't stand the shock more frequently.) I can't really tell you how long to cook them. I like the noodles to have some crunchy ends and be a light golden brown here and there.

When you've got them to the right degree of doneness, add the eggs. How many? How should I know? Enough, but not too many. I think two eggs to 8 ounces of noodles is about right, but who am I to tell you how to do it. If you're the fastidious type, break the eggs into a bowl and mix them up a bit with a fork. Don't get carried away with a wire whisk or anything, for gosh sakes. You're not making souffles or any of that sissified gourmet food. This is basic peasant stuff. When did you ever see Julia Child using leftovers in a recipe? If you're more daring, just break the eggs on the side of the pan, flop them in, and them stir them around in the eggs real good. You've got to work quickly or the eggs will fry into a lump. You want them spread throughout the eggs. Add salt and pepper and when the eggs are cooked, you're done. Toss it on a plate and dig in.

Now when my grandmother made the same dish, she would add cottage cheese at some point and stir it around in the eggs and noodles. That's OK, but I prefer it cheeseless myself.

Dish two: Grandma Kofink's Pancake Soup. People look at me like I was nuts when I talk about pancake soup, but it is something well known among certain groups of German speaking people. Basically you use pancakes as if they were noodles. Here's how my father's mother did it. First, you need some pancakes. Not fresh pancakes, left over ones that have been sitting in the fridge for a day or two wrapped in waxed paper. What, you don't have any left over pancakes? You didn't make enough. Didn't you learn anything from making enough noodles?

These pancakes have to be real pancakes made from flour, eggs, milk, and a bit of baking powder, none of that Bisquick garbage. How much of each ingredient? How should I know? Grandma never measured anything. Just don't put in too much milk or they'll run all over the place. Make them nice and solid–and thick. Don't make fluffy, delectable pancakes. Make them so they stick to the ribs. In my family pancakes were not eaten for breakfast. They were eaten for supper, with syrup or jelly on them.

Back to the soup. First, get the water boiling to make a lot of bullion. How much? Do I have to even try to answer that? Enough!!!!!! We always made bullion using Wyler's Beef Bullion Cubes. No other brand would do. Yes, I know that bullion cubes are mostly salt with a little caramel coloring, but we're talking good, cheap food here. If it tastes good, it's good enough. You gonna spend all day cooking down beef stock for pancake soup? Get real.

While the bullion's simmering, cut up all the pancakes into cubes about 1/2 inch on each side. Put them into a big bowl or something.

When everything is ready, each person takes a soup bowl, puts in plenty of pancake cubes, maybe sampling a few to savor that wonderful doughy consistency. Now, mother ladles hot bullion over the pancake cubes. I suppose if you don't have a mother living with you, you'll have to do it yourself, but be careful, for goodness sakes. Don't spill any on yourself. Watch in amazement as the pancake cubes swell up in the bullion. You'd better eat it in a hurry or the pancakes will start to fall apart. Finished? Fill up another bowl and start again. Mmmmm.

Well, this has been long enough. I'll have to save the last delicious recipe for next time. Bon Appetit.

May the Lord God bless you on your way and greet you on your arrival.

Wayne

NEW CAR

I bought a new car. Yes, I'm pleased to have it, but the process of obtaining drives me crazy. It's one of the few transactions we modern Americans still do like old-west horse trading. The buyer has to figure out how far down he can get the price while the seller tries to figure out how much the can get without the customer walking out. No one goes into the grocery store to argue with the clerk about the price of corn flakes (unless it scans wrong). I argued the price down three times, but still probably paid to much. Oh well.

I start planning for a new car years ahead of time. I had to finance the first few new cars I bought, but I new that was a waste of money. So I started saving the payments I had been making once the loan was paid off. By the time I was ready for my third new car, I already had all the money save–much to the dismay of the dealers who want to cheat you on the loan as well as the car.

I always held on to my cars too long. By the time it came to trader them in, they were worthless. In fact, three times I was still paying for repairs on the old car after I had traded it for the new one. I swore not to do it this time. My late, unlamented Ford needed new brakes, new tires, and some plastic do-hicky had broken over the gear selector mechanism. The a few weeks ago, all the dashboard lights went out except for the turn signals which stayed on continuously. I hit a bump and everything went back to normal. I took that as a sign that its demise was near.

I had studied the available cars and I knew what I wanted, a Honda Accord, the same car I wanted when I bought the Ford. I didn't by the Honda because the dealership was filled with idiots. They argued with me that the car was not made equipped the way I wanted even though I had checked with the manufacturer's website and knew it was. So I walked out. The dealership has been sold so I decided to try again. Well, this time it was a different problem. They didn't have exactly the model I wanted. And it being the end of the season, they weren't going to get anymore. So I picked a different model–which I didn't like as much, but it would do. Now the price looked good, except as usual the dealer had put all sorts of added junk on the car to jack up the price. This goes on everywhere.

Eventually all the haggling was done, I paid for the car, signed my name or initialed about 471 times, waited for the car to be prepped and then got ready to take delivery. Now usually the salesman points out all the controls before you drive off, but this one didn't. Well, what's to know. A car's a car, right? Wrong. First thing happens is I make a turn and wack the gizmo that starts the windshield wipers. I can't figure out how to turn them off. Second thing happens as I pull up to my insurance agent to transfer the policy. I can't get my keys out of the ignition. Eventually I solve these problems, and decide to read the handbook before I go out that evening to the theater.

I get to the theater without mishap, but off course it's still daylight. Coming home it is dark. I confidently twist the knob that turns on the headlights and the little light indicator on the dashboard comes on. Perfect. I'm driving along and, and after a few minutes I'm saying to myself. "These are the worst head lights I have even seen. I can barely see anything." So I pull over and look at the lights, Yep, the headlights are on. I drive some more and figure that something must be wrong with the headlights, maybe they aren't aligned right, so I'll have to go back to the dealer the next day to get them fixed. I also notice that they dash lights seem rather bright, so I turn the dial that I think dims the lights. Nothing happens. Something else wrong.

I get home rather late, but dig out the handbook again and discover I had driven home with the parking lights on. Seems the car has running lights that use the same bulb as the bright headlights, but at a lower power. I also discover that the dial I had been turning to dim the lights actually directs the air conditioning vent. The lights are dimmed by turning the little stem that resets the trip odometer. Well, of course. That's the logical place to put it. More about these items later.

Next day, Saturday, I purchase the one accessory that I can't do without–a leather steering wheel cover. I always use them because they make the grip much firmer and more comfortable for my old arthur-ritis ridden fingers. Now I have put several of these on before, and it usually takes an hour or so to lace it on. Not this time. I started putting it on, but had a terrible time getting the needle through the holes. After a while I un-threaded everything and used an electric drill to open up every hole. Then I put it back on the steering wheel and tried again. It hadn't done much. The kit comes with two needles. The first one broke, the second one slipped out of my fingers and down into some inaccessible crevice under the driver's seat. Fortunately, I still had a needle for a previous cover so I used it until it bent beyond straightening. So with a half attached steering wheel cover, it was off to Walmart to buy a whole package of needles. Back to work, only to find out the cord was too short to finish the job. I had to make do with triple strands of carpet thread. After NINE hours the task was done, and an entire Saturday shot to pieces.

Oh yes, there was another peculiar aspect to this little project. I was working away with my sewing which occasionally required ,me to sit in strange positions. As I leaned one way I hear an odd clicking noise and the all four windows rolled down half way. Very strange. I thought I had hit the window button, but when I tried to raise the windows, nothing happened. The ignition needs to be on to operate the window. I go back to work while pondering this strange occurrence. I thought maybe this was some sort of safety device that prevents a person (or animal) from being sealed inside a over heated car. Maybe when the interior temperature reached a certain point and the sensors detected a person sitting in a seat, the windows opened automatically. This did not seem likely, but it was an idea. Some hours later, the same thing happened again, and the windows rolled all the way down. Weird. One again the handbook revealed all. It seems there is a special feature of the remote door unlocker. If you hold down the button to unlock the doors, it opens the windows. Under normal circumstances, you have the keys in the ignition, but as I was working inside the car, I kept the keys in my back pocket. When I shifted my body just right it pressed the remote and opened the windows. Geez, that could be a problem. I wonder how far away that think works. Could I accidentally open my car from inside the house?

Having solved the mystery of the opening windows, I studied the handbook to I can get an idea of the maintenance schedule. Although there was a section on maintenance, it seems that there was no schedule. There is some sort of device that displays the needed maintenance. You access it by pushing on the same stem that dims the lights and resets the trip odometer and the results is displayed on the same little panel that has the milage. I am surprised you can't drive the car by twisting that little piece of plastic.

All right, I'm getting the hang of this. I get to church safely on Sunday, Some people oo and ah about the new car. Some seem rather disturbed that I have a Honda which they regard as being above my station in life. (Hey, that's a H for Honda on the front, not A for Accura.) I'm still waiting for the abuse for not buying an American car made in Mexico instead of a Japanese car with parts made in the United States.

Well, I heading home from church. Now I have to explain that I am far sighted. I wear glasses only for reading, not for distances. That's usually not a problem because I don't usually read a book while driving. However, I am, not quite familiar with all the little icons on this car and the tiny little words written within some of the indicators. So I'm crusing along and notice that little display that tells you everything next to the twisty-pushy thing that seems to regulate everything. Well, it seems to say "TEMP A." I assume it's the engine temperature. It's up to 162 so it can't be the air temperature. But there is another gauge with a thermometer that tells that. Have I bumped the magic gadget so it is telling me oil temperature? Is this some sort of warning device that comes on to tell me something is getting to hot? The temperature is climbing" 161.1, 161.2, 161.3 and so on, and I am getting alarmed. I fished my spare reading glasses out of the secret hidey hole for glasses and looked at the display. It actually says "TRIP A" not TEMP A". It's showing the trip milage, which is what it supposed to do normally.

I was also rather concerned recently because some of the controls on the radio seemed to be in Braille. Who in the world drives a car and needs Braille? Turns out there are some bumps so you can feel which control is which when reaching over at night to change the setting. What relief! It's bad enough watching out for drivers talking on their cell phone while driving.

All of this reminds me of a children's book I once had, the magic school bus. It's about a bus where a gold button appears which when pressed makes the bus fly off to exotic places. I'm going to read the handbook again to see if there is a button like than on my new car.

Well, whether you make you journey in a new car, an old rattletrap, by scooter, or on foot, may the Lord God bless you on your way and greet you on your arrival.

Wayne