Food was a strong undercurrent in the "Bill and Tim adventure south to check in with Dad on Father's Day" road trip to South Carolina. Nutritionally it could have been billed as a classic good against evil, and why not? Bill arrived THU night with a cooler filled with really good s***: blueberries and apples and strawberries and brown pears some commercial yogurt and organic celery and carrots and two ripe avocados. There was even some spinach salad and cider. I was stoked! Our first stop was less than a mile away at my supermarket for a big tub of hummus, a couple of Grapefruit, eight fantastic oatmeal flax cookies, a half gallon of almond milk and some super gooey organic peanut butter. It was all dumped into his excellent cooler in the back seat of our little Toyota rental and off we drove, fully stocked for the nearly 2000 mile round trip mission into the deep South.
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We stopped for gas around 2 am in West Virginia somewhere, under the harsh neon lights of a convenience store attached to the pumps. Big sign for $4 lunch, Day and Night, with a picture of a deli sandwich piled high with meat and a sparkling icy soda. Bill and I had the munchies, and marched in to pee and look at all the read-to-consume items. The color and light and various P.O.P. displays all triggered purchase impulses, but the stuff was really all s*** with a capital S, so we cleared out. A poor soul, single mom puffing a butt and drinking a coffee was outside by the pumps, and we shmoozed her like the fellow humans we are, sharing some quick life stories about where we are in our respective journeys for a few meaningful minutes. I offered her an apple (or was it a pear?) but she declined gratefully, telling us she had just bought some cookies from the convenience store. We went south toward our dad, she went east away from a hurtful relationship.
Driving all night, hands wet on the Wheel
13 hours later we connected with Dad in the deep south, Aiken, South Carolina, the home of Piggly Wiggly stores and hard core BBQ road stops. After our happy greetings and introductions to dog pal Rupert we went off for a late lunch to a well-known BBQ spot just out of town, 10 miles from Augusta, five from Aiken. Bother Bill had requested at least one authentic BBQ episode south of the Mason Dixon line, and this would be it. My dad doesn't eat out often, so he was eager. As you know, I'm no vegan, but I listen and read and interact with several, and this was their worst nightmare. There was a lot of crazy soupy stuff in the buffet meat-n-sides bar, and we paid the $2 extra for specially delivered ribs. "Ribs" I said, "hmmm, little sweet pork baby backs? St. Louis style dry ribs? Big dark texas style beef ribs?" No times three. They were these sickly long gray pork ribs, as much jello-style fat as there was meat on the slick bones. I cruised the "bar" for beans and slaw and nibbled on the leanest portion of one rib. I watched the two Bills (father and brother) attack the deadly gray pork bones and drip grease and wet corn down their faces. I detached and observed without getting completely grossed out, but it really was an extreme movie. We three characters were defining our food positions here at Bobby's BBQ: Pops thrived on unhealthy chow--he likes Chili out of the can and pretty much stays away from anything that grows; Bill the younger eats everything, good and bad, sometimes to extremes; and while I preach the "food as medicine" do-gooder mantra, I frequently find myself sinking into the "happy hypocrite" role. A true food saint would have bolted from the BBQ death load, I teethed on pig and filled my plate with sweet beens and runny slaw. The imagery from our booth with sauce, corn and animal fat running down faces was truly an x-rated vegan horror show.
2 Bills after Porking Out
No one died. We moved on to our 3 pm visit with Dad's lawyer to take care of some family property business. Then it was back to the apartment. We loaded dad's fridge with all that foreign healthy stuff. He was not the least bit interested. The guy does manage to drink OJ in the morning, along with danish rolls and instant coffee in heavily stained mugs. He uses a spoon to measure sugar for his coffee: when his spoon can stand straight up in the the sweet viscosity, it's just right.
The guy is an 89 year old glycemic time bomb, and that's the rub. He is nine years past the 80 year old finish line of what many generations think of as a "long and happy life," he's a year from the 90 mark which is a grand finish line for anyone who measures life in a linear fashion. So, a mantra of irony was born: "Pops, you'll never make it to 40 eating like that!" The guy has broken all the nutrition "rules" for the better part of 9 decades, yet he hasn't blown up and we're all a just a little envious or at least impressed that he has reached his ripe old age. 89 years and still lucid enough to challenge us on all grammar and usage and reporting acumen. I offered him an apple as I snacked before dinner. No sale.
I'll abbreviate the remainder of this post for fear of becoming windy...that night we ate dinner at a sports bar so we could see the Red Sox. Sports bar fare is a lousy choice for those doing food penance. The salads consisted of limp lettuce, 3 grape tomatoes and carrot shavings. I saw a briscuit sandwich on the menu and fantasized about jewish delis in midtown Manhattan. Instead I got an Arby's reject. Oh the ignorance. I started wallowing in food self-hate while dad enjoyed his meal thoroughly. Dissolve to breakfast the next morning at a local diner, I'm eating fried green tomatoes, brother Bill is wolfing down his fried bologna and egg sandwich, father Bill loads syrup onto his pancakes. I stopped judging, but doubled up on the lemons in my hot water. Patty the Filipino waitress did her best to provide me a side of red onions and tomatoes. We all got along wonderfully. Patty's life story made for marvelous theater; she emerged as our favorite non-canine character of the trip.
Diner Love
Off to the supermarket where Bill and I facilitated Dad's bi-weekly grocery shopping. We violate the healthy shopper's code by working the middle aisles: Entenmann's coffee cake rings, two boxes of sweet cereal, more insta-coffee and Ritz n cheddar fill the cart. Livin the American processed food dream.
After getting home and putting his stuff away, I took a trip to an overpriced fresh food grocer. I collected another avocado, a ripe tomato, a juicy lemon and some blue tortilla chips. I whipped up some quacamole in Dad's kitchen, loudly regretting the absence of garlic and onion. Big bro said not to sweat it, the last tableside quac he enjoyed only had the 'cado/lemon/tomato holy trinity. So I really laid on the lemon over the mashed up 'cados and perfectly ripe tomato chunks, and the super fresh appetizer was served to dear old dad in front of the TV. He loved it.
Guac-a-mania
Dad had a Vodka gimlet to accompany his snack as he watched the US Open golf. I sat like his caretaker
at the end, taking the burden off his shaky fingers to scoop all the loving remains of the green goodness onto his last half dozen chips. He agreed it was great, but wouldn't trade it for the coffee cake rings. He DID, however, enjoy a flax cookie with his sugared up instant coffee that morning while brother bill and I sweated out some tennis nearby. With the Entenman's temporarily out, Dad ate flax!
at the end, taking the burden off his shaky fingers to scoop all the loving remains of the green goodness onto his last half dozen chips. He agreed it was great, but wouldn't trade it for the coffee cake rings. He DID, however, enjoy a flax cookie with his sugared up instant coffee that morning while brother bill and I sweated out some tennis nearby. With the Entenman's temporarily out, Dad ate flax!
Our farewell Saturday night dinner was at the grand steakhouse in town, in which Bill and I enjoyed an appetizer orgy of lightly cooked Tuna chunks dripping in ginger and Wasabi. The two Bills carved up their respective cows for their entree, while I enjoyed a medley of appetizers including asparagus, creamed spinach, tomato/vidalia onion salad and a searing hot dish of grilled Mexican peppers. Although I treasured the meatless fare, my most delectable moment was a generous forkful of charred filet from my bro, washed down with a sip of dad's macho Cabernet. Yes, the happy hypocrite, indeed. Pops couldn't help but notice the passion for food being exercised across the table from him, plant-based food that was seasoned to delight. When he exited, however, he clutched his doggybag full of leftover steak as if it were gold dust from the Sierra Mountains.
So we leave Pops in his recently scrubbed apartment, with his larder full of processed food. In 10 days the memories of his sons' food passion will fade, and his coffee cups will return to their norm: charred with sugar and instant Maxwell House. At the end of the month he will enter his 90th year on this planet, 90 years of spiking his insulin every morning, of eating processed meats and worshiping the killer white sucrose. "He'll never see 40 I tell ya.
