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Collective Culinary Memoirs
- Thread starter novella
- Start date
novella
Active Member
Backyard Barbeque, age 6
All the parents were standing around the grill eating softshell clams, which have a really disgusting looking black neck sticking out. They use that as a handle and dip the belly part in a little dish of melted butter and then eat it and throw the neck away. So they’re all drinking beer and wine and stuff, telling loud stories and eating those clams.
Us kids were around a little hibachi grill toasting chocolate marshmallows. There were 8 or 10 kids jostling for the best spot over the hottest coal. It was getting dark and the parents had forgotten to look at the kids to see if everything was safe. The coals were glowing orange hot, and we were using metal skewers for the marshmallows, standing around the little grill in a circle. Fireflies were flashing all around the garden.
Just when my marshmallow looked perfect, puffy and brown and toasty, I moved my skewer to take it off the fire. The hot marshmallow dripped onto my other hand, searing the skin and sticking right there, melting into place. I hollered and ran to the parents. One of the moms, not my own, carried me into the bright kitchen. Even when they got the marshmallow off and put lotion and ice on it, that part of my hand looked like a toasted marshmallow for the whole summer.
All the parents were standing around the grill eating softshell clams, which have a really disgusting looking black neck sticking out. They use that as a handle and dip the belly part in a little dish of melted butter and then eat it and throw the neck away. So they’re all drinking beer and wine and stuff, telling loud stories and eating those clams.
Us kids were around a little hibachi grill toasting chocolate marshmallows. There were 8 or 10 kids jostling for the best spot over the hottest coal. It was getting dark and the parents had forgotten to look at the kids to see if everything was safe. The coals were glowing orange hot, and we were using metal skewers for the marshmallows, standing around the little grill in a circle. Fireflies were flashing all around the garden.
Just when my marshmallow looked perfect, puffy and brown and toasty, I moved my skewer to take it off the fire. The hot marshmallow dripped onto my other hand, searing the skin and sticking right there, melting into place. I hollered and ran to the parents. One of the moms, not my own, carried me into the bright kitchen. Even when they got the marshmallow off and put lotion and ice on it, that part of my hand looked like a toasted marshmallow for the whole summer.
novella
Active Member
Lunch at Uncle E’s, 1976
We would sit by the pool in our bathing suits, wetting the whistle with hot gingerale. A canned ham in its canned-ham jelly would glisten, untouched except by flies, on the cedar picnic table, surrounded by paper napkins and sliced rye bread staling in the sun.
Uncle E. would call, “Brutus!” A short-legged black dog would waddle over, almost scampering, it’s loose middle shaking side to side. Uncle E. would pull the red can of Redi-Whip out of his bag and start shaking it. “You kids pay attention,” he’d say. “Watch this.”
Brutus would drool a bit, eyes not leaving the can, following the can up and down, up and down. Uncle E. would lean over and take him by the muzzle, position the nozzle under the nose and squirt the fake whipped cream in, filling the dog with foam, sending him into paroxysms of sugar-shock fat-induced joy, rolling on the concrete pool surround with white lather escaping from his mouth, rabid with happiness. Roll and roll on his back. Pant for bit. Struggle to his feet and pad over to the pool. Step gingerly down the three pool steps and float like a fat furry turd in the Caribbean blue water, buoyant on his raft of blub.
We would sit by the pool in our bathing suits, wetting the whistle with hot gingerale. A canned ham in its canned-ham jelly would glisten, untouched except by flies, on the cedar picnic table, surrounded by paper napkins and sliced rye bread staling in the sun.
Uncle E. would call, “Brutus!” A short-legged black dog would waddle over, almost scampering, it’s loose middle shaking side to side. Uncle E. would pull the red can of Redi-Whip out of his bag and start shaking it. “You kids pay attention,” he’d say. “Watch this.”
Brutus would drool a bit, eyes not leaving the can, following the can up and down, up and down. Uncle E. would lean over and take him by the muzzle, position the nozzle under the nose and squirt the fake whipped cream in, filling the dog with foam, sending him into paroxysms of sugar-shock fat-induced joy, rolling on the concrete pool surround with white lather escaping from his mouth, rabid with happiness. Roll and roll on his back. Pant for bit. Struggle to his feet and pad over to the pool. Step gingerly down the three pool steps and float like a fat furry turd in the Caribbean blue water, buoyant on his raft of blub.
novella
Active Member
When I got married, we flew in from London for a week, had a private wedding ceremony in NYC and two days later a reception at the Players Club on Gramercy Park. We ate out a lot for several days. I wanted to have all the things I missed in London.
The day between the wedding and the reception I collapsed on my apt. floor with major food poisoning. It was something terrible. As I lay on the bathroom tiles thinking I might die, my husband of one day telephoned my long-time doctor. Hub called me from the phone, “Doc wants to know what you ate yesterday.”
“Um. Pizza, sushi, Greek lamb, eggs over easy, homefries, a bagel, a hot dog, Bloody Mary, egg cream, Korean barbeque . . . Um. That restaurant last night, what did I have? Steak, cassoulet with duck, champagne, oysters, red wine. Oh yeah, hamburger, fries, a gyro, gelato. . .remember that Indian buffet? . . . Um, smoked salmon, poppyseed cake. .”
I hear my husband repeating it all to the doctor. Then he says, “No, I’m not kidding.”
Turns to me and goes, “He says you deserve it.”
(Out of all that, the doc blamed the street-vendor hot dog.)
The day between the wedding and the reception I collapsed on my apt. floor with major food poisoning. It was something terrible. As I lay on the bathroom tiles thinking I might die, my husband of one day telephoned my long-time doctor. Hub called me from the phone, “Doc wants to know what you ate yesterday.”
“Um. Pizza, sushi, Greek lamb, eggs over easy, homefries, a bagel, a hot dog, Bloody Mary, egg cream, Korean barbeque . . . Um. That restaurant last night, what did I have? Steak, cassoulet with duck, champagne, oysters, red wine. Oh yeah, hamburger, fries, a gyro, gelato. . .remember that Indian buffet? . . . Um, smoked salmon, poppyseed cake. .”
I hear my husband repeating it all to the doctor. Then he says, “No, I’m not kidding.”
Turns to me and goes, “He says you deserve it.”
(Out of all that, the doc blamed the street-vendor hot dog.)
Motokid
New Member
Here ya go novella, hope you like
A few years back I was vacationing on in the Outer Banks, North Carolina (beach on East Coast of North America) with my family of four, my mother, my sister and her two sons. This was sort of a family tradition every August. We would all get together and spend a week together. We would cook all our meals except for dinner one night when we would all go out to a restaurant. We usually went to this little seafood/steak house. They had great food, good prices and a nice little atmosphere that worked well for 3 adults and 4 kids.
My kids love seafood. They both usually get a broiled seafood platter, and this place had this great bottled rootbeer soda all the kids loved. Came in a dark bottle that really looked like a European dark beer. Premium stuff, and kinda expensive, but hey, we are on vacation so have at it kids. I had Alaskan king crab legs. Tasted like lobster. Fabulous. Any way, after everybody stuffing themselves with all kinds of great food we paid the bill and were getting ready to leave. I noticed that my youngest daughter had well over half a bottle of rootbeer left. My parents were pretty strict about not wasting things, especially food as I was growing up and I guess that kicked into gear when I noticed this bottle of pretty expensive soda about to get thrown away. I asked he if she wanted to take it with her, but she said no, that she was full and had had enough. Well I was not about to let that soda go to complete waste. I grabbed it and started chugging it down. Still cold enough to have beads of sweat on the bottle. Yummy stuff.
Suddenly, without warning, there was something kinda solid/squishy in my mouth. I was able to keep this unknown intrusion from making it to far back into my throat, and part of the natural instinct I guess is to bite down, which I did. Onto something kinda slimy and gross. Which caused a bit of a gag reflex thing to kick in. Now I’ve got rootbeer, and something unknown in my mouth, in a public place with many people all around, and my family all looking at me because I’ve now got this weird look on my face and they’re all waiting on me to finish so we can go. So I have to at least swallow the rootbeer before I can get the mystery thing out of my mouth, which is kinda breaking apart and particulating little pieces of unknown stuff. Remember, I had to bite down to keep from swallowing the whole thing. So I swallow the particulate-laced liquid…
My daughter (maybe about 4-5 years old at the time) had been given a steamed clam by one of my nephews. She had partially chewed it, decided she did not like it, and instead of spitting it out into a napkin or something she decided to “pituey” it into the bottle of rootbeer. She knew it was in there, but had not told me because she was afraid to tell anybody what she had done. I guess she thought the boys would tease her or something. I don’t know.
Once I realized this, the gag reflex thing kicked up a notch and it took some concentration and willpower not to ruin everybody’s dinner. I kept my composure, and my dinner, but now the running family joke is to ask me if I checked for clams before I drink from anything that my daughter has started. And every time my kids get rootbeer in a bottle my oldest always asks me if I remember the clam?
I would highly recommend that you don’t try partially chewed (by someone else) clam mixed with rootbeer. Not a good combination.
Aren’t kids great?
A few years back I was vacationing on in the Outer Banks, North Carolina (beach on East Coast of North America) with my family of four, my mother, my sister and her two sons. This was sort of a family tradition every August. We would all get together and spend a week together. We would cook all our meals except for dinner one night when we would all go out to a restaurant. We usually went to this little seafood/steak house. They had great food, good prices and a nice little atmosphere that worked well for 3 adults and 4 kids.
My kids love seafood. They both usually get a broiled seafood platter, and this place had this great bottled rootbeer soda all the kids loved. Came in a dark bottle that really looked like a European dark beer. Premium stuff, and kinda expensive, but hey, we are on vacation so have at it kids. I had Alaskan king crab legs. Tasted like lobster. Fabulous. Any way, after everybody stuffing themselves with all kinds of great food we paid the bill and were getting ready to leave. I noticed that my youngest daughter had well over half a bottle of rootbeer left. My parents were pretty strict about not wasting things, especially food as I was growing up and I guess that kicked into gear when I noticed this bottle of pretty expensive soda about to get thrown away. I asked he if she wanted to take it with her, but she said no, that she was full and had had enough. Well I was not about to let that soda go to complete waste. I grabbed it and started chugging it down. Still cold enough to have beads of sweat on the bottle. Yummy stuff.
Suddenly, without warning, there was something kinda solid/squishy in my mouth. I was able to keep this unknown intrusion from making it to far back into my throat, and part of the natural instinct I guess is to bite down, which I did. Onto something kinda slimy and gross. Which caused a bit of a gag reflex thing to kick in. Now I’ve got rootbeer, and something unknown in my mouth, in a public place with many people all around, and my family all looking at me because I’ve now got this weird look on my face and they’re all waiting on me to finish so we can go. So I have to at least swallow the rootbeer before I can get the mystery thing out of my mouth, which is kinda breaking apart and particulating little pieces of unknown stuff. Remember, I had to bite down to keep from swallowing the whole thing. So I swallow the particulate-laced liquid…
My daughter (maybe about 4-5 years old at the time) had been given a steamed clam by one of my nephews. She had partially chewed it, decided she did not like it, and instead of spitting it out into a napkin or something she decided to “pituey” it into the bottle of rootbeer. She knew it was in there, but had not told me because she was afraid to tell anybody what she had done. I guess she thought the boys would tease her or something. I don’t know.
Once I realized this, the gag reflex thing kicked up a notch and it took some concentration and willpower not to ruin everybody’s dinner. I kept my composure, and my dinner, but now the running family joke is to ask me if I checked for clams before I drink from anything that my daughter has started. And every time my kids get rootbeer in a bottle my oldest always asks me if I remember the clam?
I would highly recommend that you don’t try partially chewed (by someone else) clam mixed with rootbeer. Not a good combination.
Aren’t kids great?
