BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

Nope. Not the electronic kind.

I’m talking about SPAM™ …Actually, since SPAM™ is ridiculously expensive (something like $3.29 a can… Probably due to the popularity of its name) I opt for TREET™ … Different company, same kind of can, same rectangular hunk of pressed pork leavin’s. And, it’s only 99¢ per can. Gotta love that.

Why? It means I can get three times as much of it.

Now here is the thing about SPAM™/TREET™/TRAM©/SPEET©. I love the stuff. Don’t know why. I mean, I definitely didn’t come from a well to do family, so I ate more than my share of the meat-like schtuff as a kid. Along with Vienna Sausages, which I also love. And, well, our psyche’s do tend to rebel and we normally eschew that which reminds us of harder times. But, the psuedo Virginia ham-like goodness of these canned pork leavin’s don’t really conjure a bad memory for me. In fact, it is more like a comfort food. It makes me remember a time when my family was still around – you see, with the exception of my sister and a few distant relatives, my ancestral family is gone. So, at this semi-advanced stage in my life I am a bit nostalgic. Therefore, I am all about things that remind me of better times, even if we were dirt poor and the times didn’t seem “better” when they were happening. Now, looking back on them, they seem like the best of times. But, that is the way with nostalgia, so who am I to complain?

Now, there are tons of ways to serve TREET™/SPAM™… Dice it up in some scrambled eggs. BBQ it. Roast it on a stick at a camp out. Hey, I’ve even diced it up and added it to homemade lentil soup. This stuff is so friggin’ versatile, I could go on forever. The possibilities are that endless.

However, I’ll stick to a single recipe…One of my favorite ways to enjoy these pressed and potted pork renderings is to slice the block into 1/2 inch thick slabs, sear ’em real quick in a hot skillet, then place a couple between two pieces of wheat bread with a slice of real American cheese. Now that, my friends, is good eatin’.

Okay, so I know you are wondering why I am devoting an entire blog entry to SPAM™/TREET™/TRAM©/SPEET©. Well, it’s simple really.

I love it. My wife and kid, not so much. The kid turns her nose up. My wife, on the other hand, will eat it if it is the only option and she’s really, really hungry. But, usually, she likes to point out that she doesn’t like it. Lately, she has even been on a kick of telling me that it is “bad for me”…

So, step forward in time a bit…I was having a potted-pressed-rendered-pork-leavin’s sammich just the other day. I was really enjoying it. The Evil Redhead proceeded to ask in a somewhat accusatory tone, “Do you realize how much saturated fat that stuff has in it?”

Honestly, I didn’t. So, I checked the can.

About 4g saturated fat and 6g of protein per serving (which is what I was having – 1 serving) 3g of carbohydrates in the form of sugars. It was about 130 calories, not counting the bread and cheese. Now, I will grant you, the entire fat content of a serving is 11g, but not all fat is bad. In fact, our bodies require it to function. And remember, only 4 of the 11 grams were saturated, which is the bad kind.

Now, the interesting thing about this is that when she asked the question, she was enjoying a serving of Strawberry Milkshake Flavored Malted Milk Balls.

Out of curiosity, I checked the box.

Her single serving was 180 calories, had 8g of saturated fat, 31g of carbohydrates (26 of which were in the form of sugar) and 1 whole gram of protein.

She was slightly stunned…

Based on what I was reading, her snack was worse for her than mine was for me. Not to mention, mine actually had significant nutritional value, whereas hers had next to none. I was also going to no longer be hungry. Her, probably not so much.

Of course, EK is about as big around as a stick, and her family is predisposed to live to 100 without any heart or artery disease, so the not so nutritional value of the malted milk balls probably didn’t hurt her one iota. But, hey, that’s not the point…We’re talking nutrition here…

You know, I think I’ll take the pork leavin’s over the candy.

More to come…

Murv

Thirty-odd years ago, I found a cassette tape recorder under the Yule tree with my name on it. Now remember, I said thirty-odd years ago, so we are talking about the bulky recorder which, even though it was state of the art in its day, was about the size of a dinner plate and as thick as a half dozen said plates stacked together. This item was something I had wanted for some time, as it would allow me to record my thoughts fairly rapidly, and I didn’t yet know how to type. Little did I know that this tape recorder, long since relegated to a junk pile somewhere, would be the source of a very special memory, bittersweet in its content.

But, before we get to that memory, allow me to bore you a bit more. This season used to be my absolute favorite time of year. Up until 2003, with the exception of a few years of struggle, I was like a kid whenever the holidays rolled around. The lights, the Yule tree, the eggnog (yes, I’ve blogged about my beloved eggnog before)…all of it. At the risk of being cliche, yes it was magickal for me.

My first stumble with regard to the holidays came in 1987. My wife and I were married on Samhain (Halloween for you non-Pagans) that year, so that Christmas should have been infinitely special…But, shortly after our wedding, the week before Thanksgiving in fact, I received a call from a local police department requesting that I come down and identify my Mother’s body. I won’t go into details about that here. Perhaps another time. Suffice it to say, the holidays meant very little to me that year, and for a few years after that.

I managed to pull out of the slump to an extent, although the season was never as bright nor anywhere near as magickal as it had been for me in the past. I continued at that pace for a number of years, until 2003. Mid October, while I was appearing at a festival, my father crossed over- suddenly, unexpectedly, and very quickly. I didn’t find out until I returned to St. Louis, because my extended family had lost my publicist’s business card, and my wife and daughter were with me at the fest, so there was no way to get in contact.

Again, the holidays lost their magick. In all honesty, were it not for my wife and daughter, I would likely not celebrate them at all. So, by way of explanation for this boring recitation of the past, I can only surmise that I suffer from a mild form of SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder)…A depression more induced from life altering trauma than a lack of light, but very real nonetheless.

But, I have digressed a bit…I started this off with the memory of a tape recorder, and I should get back to that. The tape recorder itself, long gone and clunky in this day even if it still existed, is really more the source of the memory than the memory itself. You see, that particular Christmas, thirty-odd years ago, my maternal Grandfather, Elvis Babb insisted that all of the kids and grandkids come home for the holidays–home being, Fulton, Kentucky. A tiny spot on the road town, overlapping the state line between Kentucky and Tennessee, and bordering the farming community of Water Valley. This was the place of my birth…the home of the Fulton Banana Festival, small town values, and the Hornbeak Funeral Chapel–a place I have spent more hours than I care to remember, both as a child and since as an adult. I suspect I will visit its interior a few more times before my own crossing…

No one was quite sure why my Grandfather was so adamant about everyone returning home for Christmas, but he fought against all objections, and saw to it that everyone gathered there in that little house on Grymes Avenue. So, my family made the short trek from St. Louis on Christmas morning, arriving in Fulton to spend a few days with everyone. As usual there was more food than anyone could possibly eat, a roaring fire in the wood burning stove that occupied one corner of the living room, and a sense of happiness that made everything special–yes, magickal.

Of course, all of the family being from that small town, there were other relatives to visit, and that we did. However, there was a particular day when I was left at the house on Grymes…me, my younger sister, and my Grandfather, sitting next to that roaring fire. My sister, being several years younger and somewhat oblivious due to her age, occupied herself with one or more of the toys she had received only a day or so before. Me, I sat and listened to my Grandfather tell me about a fishing trip we were going to take when summer rolled around once again. Little did I know that we were taking that fishing trip right then and there in his imagination, and lovingly painted in words for me to experience with him. In later years, when that realization hit me, I committed that story to paper…Perhaps someday I will feel self important enough to publish it in an autobiography…but then, maybe not. I guess we’ll see…

But, there I go digressing again…On the heels of the story, my Grandfather asked me to go get my shiny, new tape recorder. When I returned with it, he had in his hand a harmonica. This harmonica had been a source of entertainment for the family in years past as this man could play it like nobody’s business. I started a fresh tape, and there, beside the fire, we created an impromptu recording studio while he made the musical instrument talk, sing, cry, and even morph into a freight train that sounded far too real for words. I should note that at that point in time, Elvis was suffering from Emphysema, having been a heavy smoker since his youth, and was having trouble catching his wind, but for several minutes that afternoon, his lungs worked fine, and he made that harmonica speak.

Fast forward a few months. The frantic call came for all of the family to return to Fulton once again, but this time, not for holiday celebration. Elvis was ill and in the hospital. It was only shortly after everyone arrived that he crossed over. I was too young to be allowed into the hospital for a visit at the time, whether that was their rule or my parents I am still unclear, but I never got to say goodbye. It took me years to realize that the fireside fishing trip was our goodbye, and how he wanted me to remember him. How clear hindsight can be…would that our foresight was as crystal.

In any event, I have that harmonica. I found it back in 2003 while charged with the task of going through my father’s things at his home after his death. Though my parents had divorced around the time I graduated high school, Dad had kept some things stored away for Mom. After her death, I suppose he simply forgot about them as they were cloistered away in boxes, residing in a dark corner of the basement. Even so, I remembered that my mother had been given the harmonica, and upon finding it in the box it was like a Holy Grail of sorts. An artifact that may mean nothing to most anyone else, but meant the world to me. Now, it has been handed down to me, and will one day be passed on to my daughter. For the moment, it sits atop its box, displayed like a jewel in our curio cabinet.

But, this doesn’t really explain why I am suddenly pouring this memory out onto the page does it? Well, there was this tape. The tape I made of my Granfather pushing that harmonica to its limits and beyond. Copies were made of it and sent out to all of the family, but unfortunately, though my parents had retained the original, I was never able to find it after either of their deaths. I simply assumed that it was a piece of my history that would be lost forever. And, without that tape, and considering the fact that my daughter wasn’t even an inkling of a thought when her great-grandfather Babb crossed over, it is doubtful that the harmonica will mean much to her–other than perhaps her knowing how much in meant to me.

Fast forward yet again…

This past summer there was a Babb family reunion. We gathered from all corners of the country. Of course, both my parents are gone, but I can see my mother in my relatives. And, time, as always, has done what it will inevitably do…my aunts and uncles have now become the Grandparents, all of us neices/nephews/cousins have become our parents, and our children have become us. That bejeweled double helix that guarantees our immortality, passed along through the generations.

Elvis Babb can been easily seen in his son, my uncle, Steve Babb. He is a dead ringer for him. And, there is no doubt where a portion of my DNA came from as my uncle and I could pass for brothers…I just happen to have hair.

But again, there I go down another branch of the tree…back to the recording. During that reunion I discovered that my aunt in Nevada still had a copy…and, that my uncle had ported it in to his computer and put it onto CD.

And that my dear and patient readers is the trigger for this memory. Amidst the holiday cards, catalogs, and mail order gifts I collected from the box this morning was a simple package, addressed to me, and hailing from Nevada. Within, the packaged contained a CD, simply labeled “Grandaddy Babb”.

I’ve listened to it several times now, and my eyes still aren’t dry…

MR