Down in the Field - Final Revision - Portfolio by Harley Rowan

Down a long and dusty dirt road was the white rock driveway leading to the hundred acre farm. At the end of the driveway sat a quaint, one-hundred year old two story farm house. The humble home was inviting with a warm light that trickled out of the small windows. Driving down to the farm house, we were often greeted by a German Sheppard named Teddy and at least three cats. Then Grandma and Grandpa would wait on the porch for hugs. As I neared the porch, my stomach rumbled because the aroma of cooking food wafted into the humid evening air surrounding me. The buzzing of mosquitoes and the smell of supper drove me inside in a hurry! Growing up, my grandparents from my father’s side made their home a wonderful farm in a sleepy little rural community, Adrian, Missouri one hour south of Kansas City.

Life on the farm was profoundly enlightening to experience as a child. This Missouri homestead became a special place for my developmental years with food, work, and family playing a big part in my earliest memories. Lessons with Grandpa would play an integral part in shaping my life. As I spent time with Grandpa around the farm, I gained a strong sense of work ethic, family and community pride, and respect of nature. Even though I worked sometimes, I always knew Grandma cooked supper. A feast of plenty ended each day. Some days we had fresh tomatoes and potatoes plucked right out of the field with supper, and if lucky, we savored wild strawberry, watermelon, or honeydew for dessert. No matter what we cooked for supper there were always fresh farm grown vegetables at Grandma and Grandpa’s house. I always loved spending time there because the lessons gained were valuable, and of course, the food was always very delicious.

For over thirty years, Grandpa farmed his Missouri acres with love. Vegetables grown in the duration of his farming days included, but were not limited to melons, corn, tomatoes, potatoes, and green beans. When he harvested, he sold the surplus vegetables at the local Farmer’s Market in nearby Harrisonville. One season yielded over three hundred pounds of tomatoes and he sold them at the market. Another time in Grandpa’s farming career, he had a brief moment of local fame. He was featured in the newspaper for his 92 pound watermelon. It should go without saying, but the family was very proud of this feat and kept the newspaper clippings showing him and the mammoth melon. I don’t remember if we ate it or if he sold it, but that wasn’t important. The watermelon was a winner. If the watermelon was even half as big as his heart, not a scale in the world could measure it.

My grandpa is a kind man and hard worker. On the farm he would plant, weed, and harvest many varieties of vegetables and fruits. Even at a young age, Grandpa taught me to work a little every day. Often when my younger brother and I stayed at the farm, we rode the tractor with Grandpa around the land and worked alongside him in the field. Sometimes for a treat, I drove the old Ford tractor if we weren’t in a hurry. With love, Grandpa was always teaching us great life lessons, like driving. In the same manner, at the age of eight years old, I remember a time my brother and I spent hours pulling potatoes out of the ground and picking green beans off the vines. Toiling in the field felt like slave labor to me then. Little did I know at the time, Grandpa helped me to form the building blocks of my life. Not only was Grandpa teaching me where food came from, but also that it takes hard work to get the food we eat. He actually did all the hard work already. He tilled the earth and sowed the seeds, watered and weeded the garden, and watched over his fields while the crops grew. As one of fourteen grandchildren when we would come to the farm, he taught us how to tend the land. Now when I reflect on what Grandpa told us, I realize that he was teaching us to be the best worker possible. As I helped harvest his home grown vegetables, Grandpa instilled in me proud work ethic. I thank him and my parents for being such a hard worker today. These lessons in morals and ethics are not only present in my career, but in all elements of my life.

Besides learning lessons at the farm we also knew how to have fun as a family. The farm was always a place where family gathered for holidays and reunions. I came from a large caring family, and we gathered to eat and to celebrate not only the holidays, but also our love for each other. During holidays, the entire family gathered together to celebrate. These family gatherings impacted shaping the adult I am today. Farm grown vegetables were always present for holiday meals. Of course, for holidays we cooked traditional meals that would be served for the occasion. At Christmas we often dined on ham and for Thanksgiving we ate turkey. The meat didn’t come from the farm, but rest assured, the mashed potatoes or green beans with bacon were always from the garden’s produce. As a true cornucopian feast, other various veggie dishes like squash, cucumbers, and salad all came from the farm’s garden. I always felt proud to eat the food Grandpa had grown.

Another proud memory of having farmed with Grandpa was a reoccurring tradition throughout the growing seasons. Sometimes we hung out at the pond, where we would feed our private Catfish. After a relaxing stay at the pond, we rode the tractor down in the field to do a little taste testing. He usually came prepared with crates for us to sit on in the field. Then Grandpa would say “pick us a nice juicy ripe tomato.” I would pick the biggest red tomato I saw. Then out of his overalls, with a flash of expertise, he whipped out his sharp pocket knife and salt shaker. We cut open that tomato right there and sampled the goods. To eat Grandpa’s fresh vegetables filled me with a sense of pride because I saw where the food I enjoyed came from. This pride made the food so much more delectable because Grandpa grew it. The tasty tomato was not grown by some faceless person half a continent away.

I found a deep sense of respect not only for his vegetables, but also other aspects of his farm. One important lesson learned at Grandpa’s farm was be aware of your surroundings and to do your work fast and safe. This important lesson came with a visit to the chicken coop to gather eggs. Grandpa showed us where the chickens usually laid their eggs. One morning in the coop gathering eggs, I was given quite a scare. On my way around the coop, a rooster attacked me. That evil cock swooped down on me from his perch, like death from above. I thought I was going to die, but Grandpa was there and knocked him away from me. I wasn’t injured but needless to say, Grandpa took that vicious rooster on a good-bye drive in the pickup. Obviously, he enjoyed seeing his grandchildren’s blue eyes much more than he wanted to keep company for the hens. Still to this day, I am a slightly afraid of roosters. I learned important lessons from that experience; Always be aware of your surroundings and respect nature. Of course, I also remember those eggs with the rich amber ochre yolks were the tastiest eggs to have ever existed. Eating the eggs from Grandpa’s chickens gave me another lasting appreciation and respect for farm raised food.

Experiences on the farm connected me with nature and my community. I wasn’t afraid to get dirt under my nails and play outside. In fact, my soul craved more outdoor time with Grandpa than I had. Being outside with him helped me realize that the world and my community are beautiful. We are here to enjoy life and if we work hard it would be so much more rewarding. It was with love and family pride that lesson was taught. I felt very fortunate to have been graced with a family that knows the importance of the farm and community.

Most importantly, through work and play on the farm, Grandpa taught me how to take pride in my career, family, and community. Grandpa was the hardest working man I knew and he is still very wise. With this wisdom, Grandpa taught his grandchildren how to be stewards of the land. With all of my memories of family gatherings and holidays, food from Grandpa’s farm has always acted as a bond of love that brought us together. Luckily for me, I have learned where my food comes from. I saw it grow. I pulled the carrot out of the ground and gazed with wonder. I have tasted food that has more flavor than its so called equivalents. I know the prideful joy of plucking supper from the ground, washing off the dirt, and asking Grandma to cook it. In my opinion there is nothing better than dining on homegrown vegetables as home-cooked meals. I am thankful that my life was profoundly molded by spending time with my grandfather down in the field. Eating vegetables grown on Grandpa’s farm fills me with a pride that I continue to hold in my heart and I will never forget the lessons that he taught me. Grandpa, thanks for the love, care, and nurture you have given me.

Final: Mush Room

Nathan Phipps
Mush Room
Ever since the age of seven years old I have found myself attracted to the rebellious nature that is so often associated with my generation’s culture. In addition to my innate desire for rebellion, I have held a strong lust to view life from a more spiritual and artistic perspective. I hold these desires to, in part, be the spawn of one significant moment in my life. This event being, the out of body experience in which occurred due to my consumption of a batch of poorly processed spaghetti, specifically the mushrooms cooked into the sauce. Resulting from my experience, I have found that mushrooms have helped to define me both spiritually and artistically, while simultaneously encouraging the rebelliousness of my generation, through the stream of inspiration in which this food has provided and through the controversial side to which mushrooms are associated with.
Before hallucinogens I was a pretty average person. I woke up late on Saturdays. I went to school. I did my homework. I played video games. I never stood out in any aspect…especially creativity. This was a problem because it left my brother and sister to hog up all the glory. It wasn’t till I was about twelve years old when I experienced my first hallucination. I was in Cincinnati, Kentucky visiting my grandma, as I regularly do, when it happened.
A thrilled young lad I was, as I stacked the various knives, plates and silverware on the small oak table, under the command of my grandmother. I remember her asking me if I wanted red spaghetti sauce, or Cincinnati chili spaghetti sauce. Though the Cincinnati chili sauce is a huge part of the diet and culture of Kentucky, I lightly refused the offer with an apology for my preference towards the red sauce. She nodded and urged me to retract my apology, as it was unnecessary because she loved my input. After an hour or so of preparations, the spaghetti sauce was cooked. My grandmother bragged about using natural mushrooms that both her and my mother had picked over the course of the day. Eager and restless, I piled the mound of slippery noodles into my mouth, steam dripping from the sides.
It seems clichea to say that my grandmother’s cooking was the best, but just as all grandmothers seem to have a taste for savory foods, my grandma was no exception. After scarfing down the bowl of noodles, I thanked my grandma and proceeded to watch T.V. Thirty minutes later I felt as though I were a transient butterfly clasping the wind as I floated by. This psychedelic feeling was more than likely the cause of the mushrooms picked by my Grandmother. Though I have little support for this assumption, it still seems like the most feasible guess and thus I believe the mushrooms to have produced the forthcoming hallucinations.
As nausea began to takeover my body, I drifted towards my room to lye down for a bit. It was then that I realized something wasn’t right. The experience I was undergoing was intensifying, and I began to visualize ghosts and specters alike flying in through the walls. It wasn’t until the peak of my hallucination when I finally closed my eyes and shut out the rest of the world. After several hours of cringing and staring, I dozed off into the dream world.
When I awoke everything was back to normal again, and I looked back on the night as if it were a part of me. I felt as though it had made me a stronger person to have suffered such violent hallucinations, and I sorely missed the free falling feeling which had come with my visualizations. The day after my visual experience, I felt more connected to a higher power. I suddenly felt as though there was another part to existence. To me, it seemed as though there was another realm holding the souls which had flown into my room. This led me to the prospect of religion. No one in my family had retained a strict relationship with the Catholic Church, though that was our religion. But after my experience I forced my mother to take me their every Sunday, so I could avoid being the next one to fly in through an unsuspecting child’s room.
Also, since the first time I had unofficially tripped from bad food, I had become an adrenalin junkie. This had resulted in me trying to witlessly scare myself around every threshold of life in which I crossed. I hold my trip responsible for inspiring me to take up extreme sports as a way to reenact the feeling in which I had encountered the night of my trip. My next experience with the food began around the time when illegal hallucinogens and other drugs began to re-popularize.
Three or four years later, I recalled my lust to repeat the traumatic childhood occurrence. My temptation had been contrived from my insatiable thirst to be creative and endure. After learning that the feeling of weightlessness and the hallucinations that occurred could be reproduced, it wasn’t long before I exploited my findings to improve upon my own artistic abilities. The idea that solidified me eating psychedelic mushrooms for the first time was the fact that I knew I was breaking the law, and that I would likely receive the highest thrill from this questionable activity.
My best friends and I were at a Pixies concert when we collectively decided to consume the chemical known as psilocybin. It was nearing the start of the concert when I finally devoured all the mushrooms given to me. I had no idea where my mind was, but it wasn’t on earth, and it wasn’t in space. It was, in a way, the most euphoric and grueling sensation of my entire life. I had found an immensely pleasurable activity with monetary risk (such as bad trips, or legality concerns) to feed my once suppressed appetite for art and chaos.
As I fell deeper into the colorful world beyond ours, I felt a strange connection with the earth. I felt enlightened and soothed by what had been deemed by the media as a dangerous and highly illegal chemical. It was from this that I adopted my own holistic perspective on everything. As I thought deeper about the knowledge I had held my entire life, I came to the conclusion that most of what I knew had just been absorbed, and how very little of the information I had retained was my own original thought.
This enlightenment has since led me to rebel even further against the law, and has helped me to ignore the words I here and take a stand for my own beliefs. Resulting from my experience with mushrooms and psilocybin I have developed spiritually, athletically, and artistically. The adoption of sports, to me, is the most significant effect of my intense out of body experience and because of this I have learned to excel in controlling my brain’s subconscious thought process in producing adrenaline and automated responses. Overall, I feel that psilocybin has had a very vast impact over both my culture and me.

Tastes Like a Memory - Final Draft

Food is always best when it tastes like a memory. When after that first bite goose bumps run up your arms and you seamlessly drift away; lost in the first time you had your best meal yet and waiting for the next delicious bite. I always get that way with food. Sometime when I was growing up I remember seeing a show about tasting food. The tasters would take small bites and move their tongue on and off the roof of their mouth getting a better taste of what the food was made of. I got in the habit of doing what I saw and after time it became just part of the way I ate. Trying to figure out what spices the cook used or how it was prepared to get the certain texture it has. After too long it just made sense to really taste the food and not just eat it. In doing that, certain dishes really tend to stick out and after eating them again you remember what it was like the first time. I have tried many things that rate goose bumps and truly sooth my soul. Its amazing that our minds can create memories that tie themselves to taste, smell, and sound. That eating something can take you back to your childhood or take you to a foreign country, even cure a cold.

The first food that really got goose bumps raised was my moms baked beans. She makes them in a crock pot and uses real bacon and several different beans. I have asked for the recipe before but she says that it is always different and that she got it from my grandma so its been tweaked anyways. Not knowing the recipe might make them taste better then they really are though. Kind of in the way that chicken noodle soup still makes you feels better when you have a cold. Its not the soup, it’s the way that our moms take care of us and do everything to make us feel better. The magic is in the memory and mystery of not knowing how it was made, just knowing how it made you feel. Little did we know at the time but subconsciously our mind was at work making connections that would last a lifetime.

I met my wife when I was in high school and had no idea what impact she would have on my food driven memory. Her mother grew up in Germany and cooked meals as authentic as she had them when she lived there. I would often have dinner at their house five days out of the week so I got very used to the home cooked meals. Everything was large portions and something new was always on the menu. My favorite dish of hers is a mix German-American meal. Schnitzel, which is a thinly cut, breaded and seasoned fried chicken breast with brussel sprouts and shells mac n’ cheese. Its an amazing dish that has everything. A great German chicken dish mixed with a child’s most hated and loved foods. When I would come home on leave, from the Marine Corps, it was the first meal I would request. Just the smell of it cooking would make me feel at home, when I really felt surreally out of place. Making a point to eat that meal as my first when I got home further ingrained the positive memory of it. Any time I eat it now days I get a nostalgic feeling because I was so used to eating when I would only be home for a week or two. The meal has in turn taking a different meaning in my post-military life; serving as a reminder of what home is and how much you can really miss it.

The way I enjoy food today is a direct response to the way I was raised. Partly because of the childhood memories that I already discussed but also because I was forced to try everything once before I could say I didn’t like it. Having an open mind when it comes to food gave me a great experience when I was stationed overseas in Okinawa, Japan. The food in Okinawa was different from anything I had ever had before. It was the first place that I ate sushi and because of that all the sushi I have ate in the U.S. tastes like the Gordon‘s fisherman prepared it. Pickled plums, pig ears, escargot, and goya champuru furthered my hunger for the extremes of taste. The impression that the Okinawan food culture had on me was profound and developed me further in an international sense. It also left me with cravings that can’t be meet. I’m forced into Whole Foods searching for pickled ume (a plum) and fresh sashimi to make my own sushi with since John Holly’s can’t fit the bill. But in all my time in Okinawa I never forgot about my hometown meals. Cookies in the mail would remind me that I had a family at home and that even half a world away you can sometimes still smell your own kitchen.

Now that I am married I don’t eat the same way I used to. My wife is a semi-vegetarian and health food nut. Everything we eat is organic, whole grain, farm raised, gmo free and locally fresh. I like it this way though. Now when I get a sandwich elsewhere, I think about whether it is whole grain bread or if the veggies are organic. And when I think about that, I think about her. She found the easiest way to keep herself on my mind and that’s way is clearly with food. It’s the human mind, wonderfully working its ways in connecting what we love with what loves us. As a population that is only getting bigger and more disconnected from each other with electronic distractions; a good meal together may be the last thing we share. Sitting down with each other at the table and eating food cooked with love builds fondness for one another and sets in motion feelings that connects to the taste, smell, and sound of the food we eat. Our parents stressing family dinner at the table together may have understood the deeper meaning. Subconsciously setting our taste buds to hone in on the home in home cooked meal and making sure that when we come to have dinner with them after leaving the nest that we leave remembering what our favorite first meal was, and why.

Home made Italian Ravioli's (portfolio)

The fresh taste of spinach, italian sausage, garlic, and onions, fulfills my mouth with pleasure as I take the first bite at my Christmas dinner. There are always about 35 to 50 of my family members all gathered in my grandmothers basement enjoying these homemade ravioli's. I soon came to the realization that this is what we eat for all of our big family gatherings, whether it is for Christmas, or simply someone's graduation. I don't remember the last time we have ever changed the pattern of making this food for every gathering, as it has developed into a tradition.

All the women usually meet at my grandma's house a week before a celebration and bake these delicious homemade ravioli's from scratch. We start by making the dough with the machines that are usually supplied by each of my grandma's. The utensils that we use to prepare this delightful meal are way back from when my grandmothers were little girls. Our family believes the best raviolis are made by the old utensils they recieved while living in Italy. After baking the dough the younger kids, like my cousins and myself, would roll it out with the dough roller, until it became thin enough to create one of the layers of the raviolis. While we prepared the dough, usually the older women would begin to mix the italian sausage ricotta cheese and spinach, with a few other ingredients in a big bowl, abling us to stuff the ravioli's. After everything that is needed to be prepared seperately we then get together to help one another. Some of us would roll out the sheets of dough and lay them on the cutters. Others would stuff the trays one by one covering it with another layer of dough. Someone then cuts the raviolis and sets them on trays to place in the freezer, having to anticipate the long week to come before we get to enjoy them.

Making the ravioli's does not only create a connection between the women, but enjoying the wonderful treat also creates a connection with everyone else in the family. This recipe and the preparation of the meal creates a bond within my family that no one could compare to . It not only is just a wonderful recipe, in which everyone should try, but it is a connection that has been passed on through generations. This tradition is a passion of our family, and keeps our connection with one another alive. These simple raviolis are something that brings back memories, and more over, reminds us as a tradition that could be compared to New Years. We believe these raviolis are what hold our Italian name alive, and are what keep our Italian tradition in hand. We use this as a grasp of our culture and this is to us, what being Italian is. As a family, we like to portray love for one another and a type of bond that no one could break. Preparing this meal shows that we take time and effort in our family, and we will never stray apart from one another.

I remember a time when i was little, we gathered to create the raviolis. All the women of the family were anxious and excited as if they were going to an amusement park for the first time. My cousins and I scurried towards my grandmothers kitchen as if it were christmas day at 7 a.m. Before we started preparing the raviolis, the children of the family were already covered from head to toe.We didn't help much when we were younger, we just simply rolled layers and layers of dough. At ten years old we probably had the triceps of twenty five year olds. The older women would cook the sausage and prep it with the right ingredients before stuffing the raviolis. I remember when my aunt's and grandmother and mother proceeded to do this, we fought with them because we wanted to do the "big girl stuff". It never failed that one of us would get punished, being forced to sit and watch everyone else enjoy the fun. On that very day i made my mom promise that she would teach me how to do the "big girl stuff" so that one day i could teach my daughter. I remember enjoying this meal being that it was the first time I understood what I was eating. I was able to appreciate all the wonderful flavors, but most of all the the true definition and bond that this meal had behind it. Sitting with all sixty members of my family, conversating over the small things, and appreciating each others company, I began to realize I would never trade it for the world. It created a clear image that something as simple as a prepared meal for family celebrations could create more then just a satisfied appitite. It creates a connection and bonding method that is irrepaceable. It carries our own tradition on and will throughout many more generations. I remember this day clearly because it was my first time ever experiencing the family bonding and enjoyment in it. It was my first time ever experiencing the true meaning of what this meal had on our family. It not only was delicious to have, but it was a tradition that has been around for ages. This was the meal that united our Italian name, DiMarino, as one.

The DiMarino's are all about tradition, and that is how it will stay forever. We pass down recipes, create new ones, and for our holidays we always have raviolis. This is how our family shows our own individual culture, as we like to stick together. We like to have the bonding that this creates, as we are forced to spend time together in order to make this delicious meal. Our family is all about love, support, and tradition, and by making this simple meal, we fullfill all of our family requirements in one.The raviolis don't just create a delicious meal for our huge family to enjoy, they create the life and tradition of our family. Each day that we get together to create this meal, we reach to one another with in and truly explain what our family is all about. We portray the strong connection of our family as we have passed this simple recipe down from generation to the next. The ravioli's describe our individuality because we like to be unique. Having that one meal that can bring back memories for every family member is what the love for our family is all about. We never will forget our ancestors and those who have passed on by making the ravioli's to celebrate past lives as well as the ones that are still present today. We use this recipe and type of food in order to keep the tradition of our Italian DiMarino family alive. As we pass this on from generation to generation, it will create the passion and love for our family as a whole. This meal is able to reassure us that we will never steer away from each other, as we can use this as a mechanism to stay in touch. This simple meal is like sitting by a fireplace on a cold winter day, pleasing. This tradition will hold our family together. We will continue to keep this tradition on until our family dies out. It is crazy how one simple home made, delicious Italian meal can create something so magical that we can never let go of. That one simple aspect is the connection, love and passion of family.

By a simple ravioli, we can bring our family together as one, and celebrate the love that we have for one another.

Food, Food, Food! (Final)

Perfectly boiled Italian noodles; topped of with a zesty spaghetti sauce. A crunchy crust baked in a brick oven with a great tomato sauce. Melted cheese covers every inch of the perfect Italian pizza. The toppings are endless. Or maybe someone is craving a burrito or taco. Each country has their own culture, traditions, and type of food. Food is what makes everybody different; but it also draws people together at the same time. You are what you eat is perfect statement for describing one’s culture and country.

Imagine eating a greased up, heart stopping burger from McDonalds. That’s what many Americans eat for everyday lunch. The American food culture is a giant melting pot. There is food from every different country here in the United States. There are also people here from the entire world. With different types of cultures and traditions, it brings many different types of food to America. Since the United States is a giant melting pot; there is food from every part of the world. Many of those different types of food start up in the restaurant business. With the fast food industry booming; it is a perfect match for American way of life. The people of the United States are always on the run. The fast food industry is bringing America’s food to different parts of the world. For instances, McDonalds and other corporations are opening stores all over the world. Many Americans forget about traditional foods and start to eat fast food. The entire way of life here in America is changing to a fast food nation.

Italy has their own type of traditions and foods. From fresh baked pizzas, to all different types of noodle dishes. Those certain types of food help to shape the Italians identity. These different types of food dishes separates the Italian traditions from the rest. Italy is one of many countries that stick to their own type of food. To this day many individuals stick the old traditions and customs. With their tradition and customs at large; it’s the perfect ingredient for great food. Along with Italy, Mexico has continued their food traditions as well. The different types of food that Mexicans cook has been in their family for years. The foods that the Mexicans cook shape their identity. Most Mexicans eat their favorite dishes; which includes flour tortillas, burritos, and many other different types of food cuisines. Each of those main food dishes shape their identity and culture from the rest of the world. Different types of food can separate many cultures and identities from other cultures.
One thing that people do not realize is that different types of food can make societies different from one another. For example, if you go to China and shop in the markets, every market has there own spot on the street. The markets are usually family owned and that's their main source of income. The different types of food varies, such as, cows brain, heart, lungs, and many parts of the animal. Their culture teaches the Chinese people to never waste any part of the animal. On the other hand, America's markets are the exact opposite. The grocery stores in America are a giant store owned by big corporations. The food that the markets sells are shipped across the country. American people usually waste many parts of the animal as well. These food markets help shape certain societies and cultures. The food that the people buy help shape us and make us who we are.

Different types of food styles can separate individuals from each other as well. A person on diet is going to eat healthier than someone that is carnivore. Food can also tell a lot of people about how a person is living. From just looking at an individual's grocery recite, you can tell if someone is living a healthy life or a unhealthy life. Many people also say the type of food that someone eats can tell the type of emotion that the person is feeling. If there was an individual that is depressed they would tend to eat sweet foods. Different types of food that someone eats can show their own lifestyle. Food helps to shape someone's personality and how they live.

Many countries take pride in their traditions and different types of food. When a country has a tourist; that country makes sure that the person is fully satisfied. Many cultures keep cooking their traditional food dishes. The traditional food dishes that are prepared comes with different customs. These customs separate societies and countries from one another. Food may be a little part of life, but food makes you who you are.

FINAL ESSAY "My Favorite St. Patrick’s Day" Cody Rex

My Favorite St. Patrick’s Day

by

Cody James Rex

The succulent aroma of fresh corned beef and cabbage sweetly greeted my senses as I walked into my grandmother’s house on that lovely St. Patrick’s Day morning during the spring of 1998. My family had just come from attending a special early-morning Catholic mass service wherein the younger seven year old me was impatiently itching for the moment to arrive when mass would let out. During that seemingly long service, the appetizing picture of grandma’s holiday feast flashed through my mind countless times as the clock sluggishly ticked by and the preacher rambled on and on. I eventually found myself immersed in a mouthwatering daydream, exploring the pleasantries and possibilities of what the highly anticipated holiday feast might taste like seeing as the skilled hands of my full-blooded Irish grandmother were busy preparing it. Today, roughly twelve years later, I can easily say that wonderful St. Patrick’s Day holiday has remained part of my memory and will always be a cherished food experience that helped fuel the discovery of my family’s Irish heritage and cultural identity.

After a good hour daydreaming in church, I was frantically brought back to reality by my mother, who pointed out in a very disgusted tone that I had fallen asleep for 90% of the mass. With the Irish service ending and my parents eager to leave, she decided not to scold me and we quickly bee lined our way to the parking lot avoiding any long-winded churchgoers that would potentially get in our way. We eventually reached our jeep and within a few minutes were zooming down the highway to our destination. I wanted to be as early as possible to grandma Rita’s place, seeing as this was the first St. Patrick’s Day meal she had prepared since my birth and also because the Golden based restaurant formerly known as Kenrows, (a local western eatery where we had enjoyed St. Patrick’s Day meals for as long as I can remember and also a premiere family gathering place) had burned down in a tragic insurance fire a few months earlier and was no longer in operation.

It took only a few minutes to arrive at grandma’s place after leaving the church, but once in her driveway we knew we were safe at last. I billowed out of the Cherokee and a succulent aroma of fresh corned beef and cabbage captured my attention. I was not even inside the house yet, but I could certainly smell the treasure trove of food that waited for me on the other side of her brown colored front door. I couldn’t take the suspense any longer and jolted inside as fast as I could.

Grandmas house was different than any I had seen before. It was furnished with two chartreuse colored couches and many dark green holiday doilies scattered all over the place, not to mention a plethora of small Irish themed trinkets that lined the shelves. I distinctly remember that every time I would visit, grandma would instantly serve me a cup of bland tasting Irish tea as well as present me with the latest piece of memorabilia added to her trinket collection. I would always congratulate her on new finds and then take a moment to sit back, relax and bask in the green colors that surrounded the room while sipping on my tea. On another note, besides the lumpy couches that looked like they were out of the seventies, grandma had two bulky picture-tube TV’s that were covered with various birthday cards she had received throughout the years. The cards always had funny sayings on them like, “We just love your buns grandma!” or “Don’t be talking about yourself here, we’ll surely be doing that after you leave”, which upon reading would make me bust out into laughter. This occasion however, I was not interested in the funny cards and more importantly had my attention fixed on entering the kitchen, the nervous center of the entire house and also the location where my dinner awaited.

It took a few steps from the front door to get to the kitchen where a mountain of food resided. As soon as I turned the corner I couldn’t believe my eyes! There the table was, standing on all four legs looking gloriously dressed with a green tablecloth and all sorts of goodies that could easily make your mouth water. Scattered all over the table was mounds of fresh soda bread, buns, diced carrots, celery, butter, cranberries, baked and boiled potatoes, pot pie, toast, sausage’s, assorted beers and many other appealing dishes that you could just die for. Grandma had made an extra special effort to make the table seem as Irish as possible without going too overboard. For some strange reason when I think back upon the memory of that table, the warm feeling of Clancy’s Irish Pub also comes to mind. It was probably because the house’s white walls and the festive green reminded me of the homely atmosphere that Clancy’s presented.

Looking around the room and seeing that grandma was nowhere in sight, I slyly reached across the table to eat a slice of soda bread. Without knowing, grandma was walking up the stairs next to the kitchen entrance and spotted me just as I was about to put the delicious morsel into my mouth. She opened the stairway door and called my name, which frightened the wits out of me as I thought she was outside the kitchen vicinity. She slowly walked past carrying a large spoon and stated that I couldn’t touch anything until the Corn Beef stew was fully cooked and everyone was ready to eat. Her words were very disappointing to me as I was extremely hungry, but knowing I was in the wrong I decided to head back to the front room to meet my slow parents.

My mom and dad entered the front door and kindly said hello to grandma by kissing her on the cheek as she placed even more food items on the table. My dad then turned on one of the living room TV’s and told me to go get a movie to watch. I knew that the food would take more then an hour to fully cook and so I went on a video search. Thankfully I was prepared for this the TV situation as my family had a tradition of watching Darby O'Gill and the Little People and I knew exactly where to find grandma’s copy. I always liked Darby O'Gill and the Little People as it was about Irish leprechauns and their livelihoods. I still recommend that movie as an oldie but goodie Irish flick for anyone who is interested as it includes one of my favorite actors, Sean Connery.

After the movie was halfway through, grandma called for us to come into the kitchen to grab our dinner plates and begin dishing up our food. I jumped up from my seat on the couch and bolted into the kitchen trying to beat my mom and dad to the yummy spoils. I grabbed an empty plate and headed over to the kitchen stove where a huge tub of corn beef and cabbage was located. Grandma helped me dish up a good-sized chunk of beef, a few red potatoes, as well as lots of carrots, which at the time where to help my eyesight (as I was then, and currently am blind in my right eye). Because it was St. Patrick’s Day, which is one of my family’s lax holidays, we decided not to sit at the table and eat like normal. I thought that was a good idea as the movie was still in progress and I really wanted to eat my supper.

There is nothing like eating luscious corned beef and cabbage while watching an Irish movie as well as being surrounded by the beloved company of family members. As time went by, more relatives started to arrive and every time I would go back to the kitchen table to get more food the stock pile seemed to get smaller and smaller. When the movie was done and the food was almost gone grandma told everyone to gather in the living room. When everyone was together she brought out a tattered covered shoe box overflowing with old pictures. I sat back in my chair trying to lick the juices that still remained on my plate as grandma took a seat in her favorite chair and began talking about our relatives of old. Grandma talked about how my family had emigrated from Ireland more than 100 years ago and about how we helped make America what it is today. I have to admit that I was not paying attention in the beginning of her speech, but by the time that she reached a talk regarding how we were related to the movie star Ann Sheridan, my eyes became large and ears were dead set on listening to anything else she had to say. By the time grandma was done talking, I had learned that I was related many important people including a German king and one of the key builders that worked on Mt. Rushmore.

By the time our family history session was over, I had become very sleepy and my family was eager to leave. I kissed grandma goodnight who in turn returned the kiss and also snuck me a doggy bag filled with the remainder of the evenings holiday feast. I hugged grandma one final time and headed out to the jeep where I fell to sleep. On the ride back to my home I could hear my parents in the background talking about how that St. Patrick’s day was one of the best that they have ever had, and I also agreed.

Looking back, if it wasn’t for the great tasting corn beef and cabbage that my grandma prepared on that St. Patrick’s Day holiday, and even more importantly the family history lesson that randomly occurred, the knowledge of my family’s heritage may have been lost forever. That St. Patties Day really helped to bring out the true Irish in me and even helped to develop my cultural character. And for all who are wondering, I still jump at the chance to eat a good plate of Irish food and I am always willing to share a good tale or two about my family’s roots if an occasion calls for it.

produced on March 10th 2010