BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

It doesn’t take Rowan Gant’s clairvoyant abilities to know that a good parcel of you are now thinking, “Eeeewwwwwwwww!” And, a whole raft of you who are thinking such are also involuntarily saying it aloud as well. Just like you would be if the title had been Chitterlings (that’s properly pronounced Chit’lins, mind you), brain sandwiches, or a whole host of other organ meat based delicacies.

Not much I can do about that except to say, don’t knock it until you try it. If you’ve tried it (any of the above, PROPERLY prepared) and you still didn’t care for it, well, at least you tried so I respect your opinion. (Even though it’s wrong.)

You see, I’m sure my love of such foods has something to do with my farm upbringing. Where I come from you don’t cut the prime rib and tenderloins out of a bull/cow, and then leave the rest for the turkey vultures. We used everything. Meaning, everything… Whether it was Chitlin’s, Brains, or an entire head boiled down to make Head Cheese. Didn’t matter. We used it.

We even rendered out all the fat to cook with and also to make lye soap.

Now, on the note of Head Cheese, I’ll admit to not being a big fan. I’ve had it on several occasions. It’s not bad, but also not my favorite thing in the world– probably because I still have memories of my grandmother boiling a hog’s head to make it. Not a pretty- nor particularly wonderful smelling – process, trust me.

But, back to Liver and Onions… This happens to be one of my favorite all-time meals. I’ve always loved it. Even as a child. I suppose part of that could be the fact that until I was an adult and ordered it in a big city restaurant I had always been served PROPERLY prepared Liver and Onions. Since that horrible incident I’ve been careful not to order it in the big city. Diners in small southern towns, well that’s a different story. But mostly I make it at home, preparing it exactly the way I learned to do it from my mother, grandmother, and grandfather…

Speaking of my grandfather, his name was Elvis. Yes Elvis, although his last name was Babb, not Presley. He wasn’t much of a singer, but he could play the harmonica like nobody’s business. I actually have a recording of him that I made a few months before he died. At that point he had emphysema, but he could still make that harp talk. (On that note, I also have the harmonica and it is displayed in our curio cabinet, but that was a different blog I wrote a year or so back)… But, let’s move on… Elvis Babb owned a diner in the small Kentucky town where I was born. While the diner was gone before I was really old enough to know better I do have memories of toddling around in it. But, more importantly I still watched my grandfather cook at home. I may have only been in my high single digits and low double digits – he crossed over when I was 11 or so – but I still learned a whole raft of things from him about cooking, probably because where I come from food is love. Food is comfort.

And, we all want love and comfort.

Now, one of the interesting things about preparing something properly is that sometimes – not always, but sometimes – a person who had the dish and hated it will try it again, done correctly, and love it. Such is the case with my wife. She hated Liver and Onions. I can remember the first time I fixed it (I do all the cooking in our house) back when we were first married some twent-cough-cough years ago. She had this horribly crestfallen look on her face and I could see that she was gearing herself up for choking it down so as to not hurt my feelings. After the first bite, however, her expression changed. Now, it is one of her favorites as well.

At any rate, prior to my father crossing over in 2003, I used to try timing my Liver and Onion dinners with his trips through Saint Louis. (He had a house here, but more or less lived in Kentucky and since he was retired, traveled extensively). I would time it that way because Dad loved Liver and Onions too. Even if he couldn’t make it to the house for the actual dinner, I made sure there was a “take out” container for him.

I just made Liver and Onions for supper Monday. As is customary – nay, IMPERATIVE – it was served with a big ass bowl of mashed potatoes and buttered green peas. Life was good.

Since Dad is no longer around, there were some leftovers. I just killed those off a few minutes ago… (Yeah, Liver and Onions for breakfast. I’m sure Edain would be appalled LOL! – note: Ask Edain McCoy about her impression of my morning eating habits and that joke will make sense.)

Honestly, I’d just as soon have Dad back and give the leftovers to him, but since that isn’t going to happen, I figured I should at least enjoy them in his place.

And I did.

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