Meatballs, Wherefore Art Thou?

It's interesting how for many people, their childhood memories centre around food. Whether they were special event meals, holiday fare, or memorable foods mom or grandma cooked. I too have fond childhood memories of a particular mealtime.  

When I was about seven years old we moved from a shack in northern Ontario, to a series of rooms and flats in the big city. Both my parents worked. Back then, eating lunch at school was not a thing. You went somewhere, anywhere. Sometimes, as a treat I was allowed to go to Morris' Grocery Store on the corner of Clinton Street. I'd ask for a bun and he'd put the 5 cents "on the bill", to be paid by my parents later. Once a month or so, mom and dad would spring for a lunch counter meal near my school and I'd get fish and chips wrapped in newspaper. Even now, I can almost smell the wonderful intermingled aroma of fish, chips, and newsprint. I was a young child, but fears for safety did not seem to be an issue back then. 

My dad often worked shifts, so generally, I was able to come home for lunch. He usually prepared a Kraft singles cheese sandwich, or Campbell's soup (mushroom, chicken noodle or tomato). From time to time there was vegetable soup, but I hated those weird little white and orange cubes floating in what looked like red grease. The peas were identifiable, nothing else was. 

It was very special being able to spend even a short time alone with dad each day. As strange as it sounds, we occasionally watched soap operas (they were 15 min. episodes back then) or cartoons. Other times, we assembled something with Minibrix or grew sea monkeys on the kitchen table. There was not much time, but we made the best of it.

On very rare occasions, dad had a day off and made one of our all time favourite foods...rice and canned Puritan meatballs. This particular meal took a little longer to prepare and was also a go-to camping lunch. I recall that the cans were a bit larger back then, nonetheless, dad and I polished one off by ourselves. On our camping trips, there was magically enough for all three of us to eat. It may have had something to do with my mom's insistence on vegetables and the addition of a very delicious salad to complement the meal.  

I had totally forgotten about rice and meatballs until my stepmom asked about them some months prior to dad's death. She wondered why he kept talking about rice and meatballs and why, although her homemade meatballs were fantastic, dad kept insisting they weren't the same. 

"The same as what?" she would ask.

I explained about the canned meatballs as best I could.

During his final months, we brought dad to our house from time to time. I found, and sometimes made him rice and canned meatballs. His face lit up. I'm not certain whether this processed food was really that delicious to him, or whether it just triggered some wonderful memories of years gone by.

I had forgotten about canned meatballs until I spotted a familiar looking tin with a not so familiar logo at our local Giant Tiger. Cordon Bleu? Was my memory that poor? Despite the exorbitant price, nostalgia made me want to pick up a can and try them. I did, and the taste was as fantastic as I had remembered. (Of course, these would not be to everyone's taste. I do hear some refrains of "yuck" as people are reading this). My friend Google told me that the Puritan company had been bought out at some point. This explained the only slightly different looking label.

I decided to purchase another can to keep on hand for myself for use when hubby would insist on eating some of his own favourite Fear Factor foods. I zipped over to GT and noticed that there were about a dozen cans on their sell-off shelf. Although I wondered why, I wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Then, not wanting to be greedy, I picked up only two of the 1950's priced delicacies. Mistake. 

Imagine my surprise and dismay, when weeks later and ready to replenish my pantry stock, I couldn't find a single meatball tin at any store. I texted a photo to my friend asking her to watch for these meatballs. Within the hour, she sent me a picture which her niece had messaged...same can, same request. Wow, a kindred meatball spirit! She too had searched everywhere. Were they discontinued? Were they too expensive that people didn't buy them? Suddenly, I felt a huge loss.

The good news is that we have since located the meatballs at Walmart. The price is slightly lower than it had been. Possibly the newer cans have shrunk like so many                                    other products nowadays. 

Alas, canned meatballs live on!  Yayyy... 

But wait. Do I detect Puritan products on the same shelf?

Anyone addicted to Puritan corned beef hash in a can?

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*** NOTE - Just to be clear, although delicious and convenient, these meatballs are far from a good food option. I am not promoting them. They contain a fair bit of fat and a ridiculous amount of sodium.

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Birdicide



I was thinking it had blog potential

As we stood outside an aviary in a park in Germany, one of my cousins asked, "Why are you taking that photo? It's just a plain yellow bird. There are prettier ones on the other side."

"I'm taking it because it reminds me of the canary I killed when I was little."

"What! You killed a canary?" my cousin reacted in shock.

"Yes, but I was little, only three and it was an accident. We had a pet canary and I wanted to hold it. I took it out of the cage and accidentally squished it." I responded.

"What? You killed a bird?" she asked, incredulous, as if she hadn't totally internalized the first response.

"Yes, but I was little, only three."

I stood there feeling a little like Hannibal Lecter as one of my other cousins chimed in. "Don't worry about it. She doesn't understand. She's never had children."

That comment seemed to act as an explanation that appeased everyone including my distressed eldest cousin.

Would that it had been that simple during my childhood. I could have been saved a lot of guilt and embarassment. On the other hand, the experience has become part of who I am today...a person with an evil and secret past...a bird murderer.

I heard the sad tale of our dead bird several times a year, every year as I was growing up. My mom used to sigh, then show the blurry black and white photo of me sitting beside the little cage. This always prompted people to ask, "Where is the bird?" The story of the canary's tragic demise was recounted to family, friends and strangers. It was one of those traumatic events that psychologists claim we easily remember from our formative years.

We lived in a mining town in northern Ontario. I have no idea why we had a canary, where it came from or what his name was. I could probably remember with some psychological counselling or perhaps under hypnosis, but to be honest, I don't really care.

I used to watch mom clean the bird cage and take out the canary. I was fascinated and envious. Often, I'd ask, "May I hold him?"

The answer was always the same. "No."

Children don't understand that response. Children require reasonable explanations even at age three. I was no exception. In fairness however, my parents were practically children themselves. They did the best they could with what they knew. They hadn't heard of Dr. Spock or Dr. Seuss or Dr. Phil. Of course, neither had most of the rest of the world. 

One day, I inquired about holding the bird and received no answer. My mom always used to say, "Keine antwort ist auch eine antwort." (No answer is also an answer). I reached into the cage and removed the feathery creature just as my mom yelled, "No! Don't touch that bird. Besides, he'll fly away."

Thinking back on it now, I'm fairly confident that my terror upon hearing those shrieking words caused a reflexive jolt that ended with this sad statement. "No, look how nice and still he's laying on my hand."

After hearing the story of how I squeezed the life out of that little canary with my bare hands, everyone was appropriately disgusted and gave their deepest sympathy and regrets to my parents...either for the loss of the bird, or for having such a deviant child, I'm not certain which.

I am fairly sure though, that I have since, repaid my debt to bird society. I've hatched and raised dozens of chickens and ducks. I've nursed injured sparrows and robins back to health. I've fed bread to swans, geese and other wildlife. I've allowed birds to build nests under, and subsequently poop all over my deck. I've hung feeders outside in the winter. But just in case there's something more I can do....if perhaps this bird in an aviary in Germany is a distant relative of our long deceased pet, I am taking a picture. Perhaps I'll even place it in an album next to the old black and white photo of a 3 year old me sitting beside the cage, staring longingly at the canary inside. Or maybe, I'll just write a blog.



Wild child eyeing her unsuspecting potential victim



Things My Mom Taught Me

I remember the last words of wisdom my mother ever shared with me. "If you don't have your health, you have nothing."

Today would have been my mom's 80th birthday. She died at a young age. Sadly, the times I think of her are becoming fewer. I do remember her voice, her mannerisms and gestures and I have memories which are becoming increasingly difficult to retrieve in any sort of detail. As with everything else, there are "triggers" that cause me to recall comments and events. Sometimes, they make me chuckle, other times, I realize how they have shaped my life.

One obvious example happens each year as Good Friday approaches. I can usually hear mom's voice in her 'Woinemer' dialect. "Karfreitag is de heiligschte Dag im Johr". Good Friday is the holiest day of the year.

Even before my parents became devoted church goers, they refused to do anything which seemed like "work" on Good Friday. They had been taught, and now, so have I. Good Friday was always elevated several notches above Sunday's "day of rest " status. If you had no clean clothes to wear, too bad. No laundry was to be done on this day...tough lesson especially during my teenage years.

I got to thinking about and appreciating some other things that mom taught me: thoughtfulness, kindness, consideration and common sense. To this day, I do not slam a door, but I turn the knob and close it gently behind me. I know that it is rude to shout, point or use an excessively loud voice particularly in public places. Persons older than myself are to be respectfully addressed by their title and surname. When cooking, turn the pot handles toward the back of the burners for safety. Do not eat raw dough because it will give you worms, and of course, always wear clean underwear when going out even if it has the wrong day of the week written on it.

My mom taught me about the environment, before it was in vogue. Be sure to thoroughly boil the lake water before drinking. When being followed by a bear, keep walking and don't bother trying to climb a tree. Always put trash in your pocket until you find a proper place for disposal. The chewed gum that became lodged in my jacket one day turned into a whole other learning opportunity.

When I was a child, mom read to me. I gained knowledge of German stories, poems and songs and I am pleased that I still remember most of those. She cured me of many ills using a simple remedy... camomille and peppermint tea.

I know that mom had countless friends. She cared about people and went out of her way to get to know them. There wasn't a person she had ever met that she didn't like or remember. I think it worked both ways.

Mom died when her only two grandkids were very young. My fondest memory of all is when she used to bounce them lovingly on her lap, start chanting a rhyme, then tip them backwards causing them to giggle with glee.                                    

"Hoppe, hoppe Reiter
wenn er fällt, dann schreit er
fällt er in den Sumpf
macht der Reiter plumps."

Today, I learned something new about my mom thanks to 'Google'. I learned that she used to recite Goethe.

Mice, Lice and Other Fun Infestations

What is it that causes adults to remember some childhood good times, a few embarassing moments, but all, and I mean all, scary, bug, or vermin related experiences? Here are my stories.

During my family's early years living in the city, we rented a series of two room flats, usually on the second level of someone's house. At one particular location, I slept on a cot in the kitchen. I recall hearing scratching sounds and rustling noises during the night. After one restless sleep, I mentioned this to my parents who informed me that it was mice. It's tough for an eight year old to sleep well after receiving such information. There were no visions of sugarplums dancing in my head. Instead, I had nightmares about mice, waltzing across my young, sleeping body.

I also have memories of school headlice checks. Those shishkebab skewers through the hair became a regular event back in the days when there were actually school nurses onsite. As soon as my mom heard of a case of lice anywhere in the western hemisphere, she began looking through my hair as if she hoped  to find gold. She found neither lice nor gold but felt appeased as she located and disposed of the occasional speck of dirt.
 
In order to escape the city, my parents took advantage of invitations to peoples' cottages. We enjoyed the swimming, the saunas, the social life. I was a kid. I liked going out and collecting frogs. It was fun to see how many I could line up on a large rock that jutted out of the lake before they would take their leave and jump into the water. One day, I found an extra large one, a bullfrog. I set him down and admired my lineup. Suddenly, he turned and gulped the small frog beside him. I watched in horror as little legs dangled from the bullfrog's mouth. I quickly grabbed the rest of my froggy friends and tossed them back into the bushes. Tears streamed down my face after I witnessed this act of cannibalism.
 
Another incident happened when I was ten years old. We had relocated to a better neighbourhood and now rented two rooms and a kitchen. My parents' bedroom was large enough to double as a seating/entertainment area and they even managed to squeeze in a  full-sized tree at Christmas. At last I had my own tiny room and a convertible sofa bed. One morning, I noticed some rather large spots on my pillow case. Odd. I didn't think my hair was that dirty. My parents first discovered them...bedbugs. They traced the source to one of my recent sleepovers at a family friend's. After emptying a rather large can of RAID and opening the windows, while fanning the smell, they discussed their fear of potential eviction. That night, I slept on the floor. The next night, I was the "bait" to see whether the invaders were gone. They weren't. This time, it was all out war. All crevices, creases and the wooden frame were treated. Traumatic!

Perhaps these sorts of incidents toughened me up. I once earned money picking dew worms at a local golf course. It was hard work but didn't seem icky. When I went to an art camp with a group of adults, the cabin was full of mice. Some women freaked out. Others moved into tents. I went to sleep. At work we had visiting scientists bringing roaches, reptiles and assorted wildlife. Interesting. 

Recently I made a hotel reservation for my friend Mona and me. She was concerned and asked whether I had checked the web for bedbugs at that location.

I'm still laughing.