Perfection

My mother was a good cook. I don’t use the word excellent because good better describes her cooking. Good implies solidness, a steady state of reliability that brought comfort to the table as much as nutritional substance combined with deliciousness. And she did it on a budget for a family of seven. I am just a cook.

I thought about my Mom this morning as I made turkey soup. My sister hates it. That is why every Thanksgiving I get to drag the turkey carcass home from Worcester. Because I had to work these past three days I didn’t have time to make it. So the boiled bones sat in the garage in same large pot my mother use to use. The joy of living in the North Country is turning the great outdoors into a semi-convenient refrigerator. Or freezer.

When Mom made soup she would bring the pot in from the garage and chunk off the semi-solid turkey fat that formed on the surface. Then regardless of the temperature of the stock she would begin to fish the bones out of the pot and remove the remaining meat. Sometimes the stock was nearly frozen. The job was bone chillin' and finger numbin'. But every piece of whatever that wasn’t a bone got removed and placed back into the pot. That is why my sister hates the soup. My mother, a product of the Great Depression, wasted not a scrap of the turkey.

There are some things that should not be found in soup. Grizzly opaque cartilage is one thing along with other stuff that doesn’t chew like meat. It doesn’t work well on the palate. I personally don’t care for weird feelings in my mouth. It is why I despise nuts in chocolate pudding. Still there is no reason not to enjoy the taste of home made turkey soup.

I am a Boomer, spoiled rotten of my own higher education and presumptions of easy living made possible by my parents' sacrifices. Making food should not be painful or full of toil. Yet I know all good soup doesn’t flow from a can of Campbell’s  After the fat has been skimmed off, I don’t go fishing for bones in a pot of liquid that would frost bite fingers. I put it back on the stove to warm. Why Mom didn't do this is beyond my speculation. 

I pick through the bones to remove identifiable meat tossing aside those things that are suspect - slimy, really dark brown, flimsy, gelatinous. My mother would be appalled at my wastefulness, but I must confess that when I eat my soup I’m not wary about tactile textures on my tongue. Maybe Mom’s soup was better, but I never wonder what I just swallowed when I eat mine. Did I mention that you ate whatever was on your plate or in your bowl… no questions, ifs, ands or buts?

Two things go with turkey soup. Snow storms and hard poppy seed Kaiser rolls with melted butter. Deep snow with tall drifts and real butter, not that Twinkie-style oleo.  There is comfort in watching the steam rise from both broth and roll when the snow is piling up in the driveway. So on this chilly night for dinner it is turkey soup and Kaiser rolls. No, it is not snowing.  Everything doesn't have to be perfect. 

Shopping

The last time I shot a weapon I was in the Army. Don’t misunderstand. Back in the day women didn’t qualify. I never got any training from Uncle Sam.  A couple of soldiers –  they worked in a photo lab with me -  Terry and Will, took me out to a place along the highway south of Anchorage, Alaska.   There the road slithers between the Chugach Mountain Range and The Cook Inlet and shares the narrow piece of land with a set of railroad tracks. Everyone went there to shoot because you could fire any weapon and if you didn’t hit the beer can the bullets went careening off into the inlet. If you got lucky you could shoot a whale.

This was the era when the world met Dirty Harry. On this particular day we experimented with a monster 357. I say experiment because I really don’t think Terry and Will knew much more than I did. I managed to pull the trigger once during the mayhem of attacking beer cans. When I heard a pinging zip fly over my head I quickly realized that rocks and stray bullets don’t mix very well.

Fast forward a gazillion years.  I ventured into a gun shop for the first time in my life. It was about as intimidating as my ventures into pawn shops. No, I have never hocked anything, but repressed my inhibitions to dive into the fascinating troves of turquoise jewelry, 8 tracks and other obsolete electronics hulled in from the reservations surrounding Gallup, New Mexico.Ah, my vacations.

I entered Zack’s Sports in Round Lake behind a young man with a rifle slung over his shoulder. The parking lot was full of pickups.  Inside, the cave-like shop was packed with guns and people. That is men who were buying, selling, repairing and talking guns, ammo and knives.  I slipped in, shoved my hands into my pockets and began cruising along the walls where rifles and shot guns hung like trophies.

Finally, the man behind the counter of hand guns asked how he could help me.

I pulled out my shopping list. “It was suggested that I take a look at a Walther PK380 and a Sig P239.” I thought I sounded rather intelligent. Less desperate than, "I want to buy a gun." to which the only response can be, "for what?"  None of your business.

"We don’t have any of those right now. I might have one in the back to show you." He disappeared. Was this the time he zoomed the security camera in on me? Checked my mug against the FBI’s Most Wanted.  How do you buy a gun in New York? I stood before a twenty foot long glass case with double shelves of hand guns. Pistolas. Weapons. Firearms. Guns.  I tried not to look guilty, stupid, or nervous. Did I have the same detached look I had earlier when I stood before the deli case in Price Chopper to buy roast beef?  

I grew up in a house without guns. Somehow a small 22 rifle without a firing pin came into the house from her father to my oldest brother.  That seemed appropriate enough, but too much for my mother who strongly believed giving guns to children at Christmas was a major offense against the Baby Jesus. Second Amendment rights never concerned my mother.

Now I ventured into waters I never imagined I would. The idea of shooting a gun has no appeal to me. In the fall, I hate hearing gun shots in the woods around the house.  There's even a shooting range near my father’s church. It’s plain weird to hear an array of fire when walking into service on Sunday.

But things have changed.

He returned to let me know he didn’t have either gun I wanted to see.  I asked to see a shot gun. Remington 870.

“Twelve or twenty?”

Ha, I can pass this test.  “Twenty.” Didn’t I read something about the bigger the gun the smaller the kick? Or was I confusing that with The bigger the Government, the smaller the citizen?  

“Is this for home defense or hunting?”

“I would like it to be versatile. Both.” You know when the time comes and we are living off the land. Killing zombies and such.

So I got an explanation for barrel lengths and a quick demo of switching out the barrel. Yes, this totally amazed me.

Now was the time for true confession.  “I haven’t fired one of these before. Do you guys give lessons?

They didn’t but I got the name of two guys who do. Neither one is named Terry or Will.

Onward

My father fought in WWII,  was wounded twice and later was captured and spent the last months of the war in a POW camp. I refuse to believe that his sacrifice was made so that 70 years later I would roll over and quit because America re-elected an idiot, dolt, and commie who buffaloed 50% of the nation into thinking he is going to transform this country into Heaven on Earth. There are 50% of us left who believe otherwise and I will not concede this nation just as my father did not. Yes, there is a time to cry. There is a time to be angry. But never is there a time to despair.

To despair is to sin. God gave us a gift, as a nation and as individuals. As long as I am able and I have the talent God gave me, I will fight for what he gave me...my liberty, my freedom and my happiness.

Join me.