No It Ain’t Twinkies But It Ain’t half Bad

It’s tough trying to find something really good to eat when you are doing your best to stay alive. For the last almost three months now I’ve been doing what has been referred to as “healthy keto.” I don’t get to entertain myself with food any longer. No more celebrating with a special meal or drown my sorrows with piles of hot steaming comfort. Nope, I simply eat to stay alive. I know, boring right? I am still alive though, so I guess my diet is working. But I’m not having much fun, until today.

This has been the most productive garden I’ve grown since we moved here eighteen years ago. And I have proof. We have tomatoes the size of eastern Idaho watermelons. At least the size of the ones I’ve managed to grow. Anyhow they’re huge and there are tons of them. And they have been great. But eating bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwiches without bread is just not the same. For one thing it’s really messy. I did, however, find a way to use up a bunch of them. I made soup.

The wife and I have been stopping at the Perkins restaurant in Idaho Falls for lunch, here of late and I discovered their cream of tomato and basil soup. It’s outstanding. So I thought I’d give it a try. Why not? Old man Perkins ain’t got nothin’ on me. At least that is what I was thinking when I started quartering up a couple of gallons of red ripe tomatoes. Of course we had to locate the wife’s giant stock pot before I really got rolling. You would think that something four times bigger than most normal people’s largest pot, would be easy enough to find but somehow we misplaced it. Anyhow after an extensive search through the entire house including garage and basement we finally found it in the kitchen. Imagine that, the pot was in the kitchen.

So once I got the pot on top of our largest burner I dumped a quart of turkey broth, that we had previously canned, and the leftover drippings from a couple of outstanding lemon roasted chickens, I cooked up the other day, into the gargantuan stock pot. I quartered one large onion and chunked up one large clove of garlic throwing it all into the pot along with about a heaping teaspoon of basil. I brought the stock to a boil and then slowly added the approximately one and half to two gallons of quartered and mashed tomatoes. I have tried bringing the whole mess to a boil all at once but sometimes the bottom will burn. So go slow.

Once all the tomatoes are in the pot and boiling turn the heat down and simmer for about three to four hours without covering.  It should reduce to about half or even less than what you started with. Run tomato muck through blender and then back into the pot. Add one can of evaporated milk and one pint of cream. You can adjust the cream and milk anyway you want for desired creaminess. Add salt and sugar to taste. That’s it. You now have something delicious to add to your healthy, life, prolonging diet.

The Incident

Not again, I said to myself as my heart sank, and then immediately began racing as I realized the implications. I was still reeling from the last time. I don’t think I can go through this again.

It was a typical Southern California morning. The sun was out and the temperature was comfortable. I however was not.

For what seemed like an eternity I had been failing to live up to the standards placed on me. Others had come and gone and seemingly mastered that which I was still struggling to do. I felt like a complete failure. How was I ever going to take my place in society as a productive member?

My life to this point was good. I had managed to learn and grow as expected of one in my position. In fact, if I might be so bold, I was showing at least above average potential. I was lead to believe that anything was possible, that if I applied myself the sky was the limit, I could do anything I put my mind to, along with other annoying clichés made popular by the overachieving, positive, can do crowd.

I wanted to believe I could do anything. With the proper training and support and the right attitude I would go far. I did believe this. I did.

Its funny how little things can be so big. However, there really was nothing little about it. For me it was huge. My whole life hung in the balance that fateful morning. I was at a crossroads. I had been here several times before and failed. All the rest of my life hinged on what I did next. If I fail again there would be no tomorrow, not really, not in my mind, not for me. Oh sure the world would keep turning and people would continue to evolve. Children would be born and families would go on, but not me.

I stood there shaking. I had been approaching the door that would lead me to the confrontation I was dreading. I stopped about thirty feet short, unable to take another step. A very stern and intimidating woman of about fifty who seemed to live for these moments was waiting for me. I froze. There had to be another way. The thought of facing her again was more than I could bear.

I never felt so utterly worthless, as I turned and walked back the way I came. Maybe I should have faced my fears. Maybe I might have been successful this time. No, there’s no fooling myself. I had been trying to get it right, over and over, with the same results. I’m just a failure. I am forever destined to be a loser.

I’m Back

My first full length novel!

It’s been several years now since I stopped writing for the Standard Journal. I told you folks, at the time, that I was going to step aside to write my first novel. Well I have. In fact I have one full length work of fiction called Makin’ My Way up on Amazon right now. We are taking orders for the paperback version of Makin’ My Way. See, Buy Now, above.

I also have two shorter type novels that are for younger readers, or adults that like easy fun reads. Actually I classify all my books as, “Kid books for adults,” since that seems to be where I am stuck, intellectually, and emotionally. At least that is what the wife tells me. They are currently going through the editing process and are the first, of what I hope to be, an ongoing, long term series. Of course that depends on whether anybody actually reads them or not.

I’m also really excited about the novel I am currently writing called “Mr. Henry’s Expendables.” Originally I called it “The Expendables” but some Hollywood outfit beat me to it. There is an excerpt and a little description on the back of Makin’ My Way. I hope to have it ready sometime this winter.

In case you were wondering I still like to cook but my culinary creations are not nearly as fun as the old days. They are healthier though. So if you are interested in Bok Choy soup or spinach omelets let me know.

John

Top photo from the Portland archives and is part of the public works collection. City of Portland (OR) Archives, aerial of downtown waterfront looking northwest. A2012-005, 1974. Portland, Oregon, 1974, from the Portland archives and is part of the public works collection.     City of Portland (OR) Archives, aerial of downtown waterfront looking northwest. A2012-005, 1974. 

Corn Chowder for the Worthy

Whenever I’m feeling extra generous, and if there are no distractions, like a football game or fish that are begging to be caught or bullets that need to be used up over at our favorite little outdoor range by Bear Gulch, I might make one of my family’s favorite dishes, if they are currently worthy. Of course judging their level of worthiness is entirely up to me. I have gone up to an entire year without making this dish.

The other day I must have been feeling extra generous because I gathered all the necessary ingredients and pots and pans and began the tedious labor of love which I hope my family appreciates.

Actually this wonderful, tasty, rich and hearty dish takes two days to do it right. It really isn’t complicated it’s just that you will need a couple or three cups of chicken broth that has been reduced significantly.  I’ll grab a family pack of thighs and throw them in a large pot with plenty of water, add a whole onion quartered, and a couple of whole cloves of garlic. I don’t bother chopping garlic cloves anymore. Actually I don’t even take off the skins. I just throw them in the pot as they come off the bulb. I’ll strain it all later anyway. I add salt, pepper, and a generous amount of onion powder. Next I boil the daylights out of it. After an hour and a half or so I pull the thighs out, separate the meat from the bones and skin, throw the bones and debris back into the pot and continue boiling for a couple of more hours or so with the lid off. While this is going on I wash up a bunch of really nice red or golden yellow potatoes and cook them very slowly, skins on, in almost, but not quite, simmering water for at least two hours. Then I drain them. Once they are cool and dry I place in the fridge. I strain the chicken broth and cook it down to approximately three or four cups of nice rich chicken goodness. Then I strain the broth cool some, and place in the fridge as well.

The next day if I’m still feeling generous and my family hasn’t done anything to disqualify them from being found “worthy,” I break out all of the ingredients. One pound of sweet corn frozen from our garden, one pound of bacon, half to one pound or so cheddar cheese to taste, one can evaporated milk or half and half, one cube of butter, one cup flour or so as needed, boiled potatoes, a couple of large carrots, red bell pepper for a little color, salt, pepper and paprika.

I know the measurements are a bit vague but I don’t measure. I just let it rip. Whatever looks or feels good is what I do. We are not making rocket fuel so there is plenty of room for personal preferences, etc.

Anyhow once I line everything up I cut my cooked potatoes into small chunks leaving the skins on. You’ll see by cooking the potatoes the day before that the texture will be outstanding. Then I cut the carrots and put them on to simmer until just tender. While the carrots are cooking I’ll get the one pound of bacon going. Cook it slow until it is very crisp but not burnt. We have had a problem with that here in our house; of course I won’t mention anyone’s name so you can relax Vickie. Put the crisp bacon to one side to cool. Now make a roux by melting a cube of butter on medium heat adding enough of the flour to soak up all the butter. You want an almost dry consistency. Next slowly add 1 can of evaporated milk or 12 oz half and half to the roux stirring constantly. Then stir in chicken broth until desired thickness. Add cheese and stir until melted and blended. Be careful here. Too much cheese will make it really rich. Once everything is blended add cooked and drained carrots, sautéed red peppers, cubed and precooked potatoes, thawed sweet corn, and bacon that has been browned and finely chopped in blender. Finally, season with salt, pepper and paprika to taste. Add milk, if needed, to thin it. Since I don’t measure it does turn out a little different every time but it is always the best corn chowder I have ever had and my family whole heartedly agrees. My sweet wife usually whips up a batch of her world class homemade corn bread and boy howdy are we ever in pig heaven.

  • Ingredients:
  • I can evaporated milk or 12 ounces half and half or so
  • 1 cup flour (apx.)
  • 1 cube butter melted
  • 3 cups reduced chicken broth
  • 1 pound cheddar cheese or less, easy there this will determine richness
  • Milk as needed
  • 3 cups cooked and cubed potatoes, there abouts
  • 1 ½ cups cooked and cubed (small chunks) carrots, drained
  • 1 pound or so sweet corn, from garden if possible
  • Half cup chopped red bell pepper or less
  • 1 pound bacon crisp and finely chopped
  • Salt, pepper and paprika to taste

This recipe will make a nice large pot full but it will not go nearly as far as you might think.

John

To Hide a Multitude of Sins

I made milkshakes for dinner the other night. It wasn’t easy convincing my sweet wife that milkshakes were a good idea as a supplemental item for dinner. However, when I explained that I needed to have something to write about in our blog she relented.

It’s just like the old days when I wrote for the Standard Journal. If I got a hankering for something I would just tell the wife It was the subject of my next article and there you go. We ate really well for those eight years.

It’s been a little rough here of late without an ulterior reason to feast. We have had a lot sandwiches and soup from cans. I can’t justify expensive cuts of meat or rich entrees loaded down with cheeses and fatty sauces without someone to share the experience with, of course in the name of literary art. I’m sure most of you saw right through me. I had myself convinced that I was cooking to enlighten and entertain. I was feasting on rich foods so as to have something to share with my 28 faithful Standard Journal readers. I was selflessly giving up my waistline for others. Right?

Ok, my name is John and I’m a foodaholic. Yes it’s true, I admit it. I’m hooked on food. Why I can’t go a single day without having to eat something. In fact sometimes in as few as six hours after a meal I start to get cravings for more. I can’t get enough. If I wait too long between meals I get grouchy and lose energy. I got it bad.

For eight long and glorious years, I planned every week around what I was going to make for my readers. Sometimes it would take several attempts to get it right and then there would be all those delicious leftovers to warm up or take to work for my lunch. Not anymore. Now the only excuse I have to cook a meal is to stay alive. It’s not the same. But hey, I have a blog. I get to write about anything I want. I can write about how to save the planet, or how we all need to get involved with the world around us and unite for greater good through enlightened government and selfless involvement and stuff like that. Or I can write about food, maybe food and football. All of a sudden I’m feeling really inspired.

You know football season is going full bore right now and one of my favorite things to do while watching the game is to eat. But you can’t eat just anything while watching football, it has to be something really good like some nice grilled brats with sautéed onions and peppers on a luscious homemade bun, or a glorious Philly cheese steak sandwich. That’s one of the great things about football. It demands that you pull out all the stops. You have to try and match the excitement of the game with the intense goodness of the food. If the food can’t hold its own when your team goes through a tough stretch then you are heading for an emotional sinkhole of possible biblical proportions.

Of course, to hit a home run, or better yet to score a touchdown, with your food selection, for game day, it doesn’t hurt to have a trick play up your sleeve in case your entrée of choice lets you down. It happens. You can’t expect to always be on you’re A game. The planets don’t always line up properly; maybe the butcher didn’t slice your Philly Cheesesteak meat to the correct dimensions. There is often something that throws things out of whack. That’s where a nice homemade milkshake comes in.

If you serve a homemade chocolate milkshake with any meal, and I mean any meal, including my wife’s infamous sausage and rice casserole, it will be a success. A homemade chocolate milkshake can cover a multitude of sins.

If the game is going your way the milkshake will enhance the experience making it all that much better. If by chance your team is struggling, the delectable milkshake will help to distract you until they get it together. If your team should lose, heaven forbid, then the milkshake followed by many others will help keep you away from the gun closet.

For those of you in need of a way to appease the hungry masses that congregate around your dining room table here is the simple recipe for the key to happy and contented hordes. You can serve homemade milkshakes to your family with chicken weenies on stale bread and be a hero. Also, a wonderful thing about homemade milkshakes is you don’t have to do anything.

I used to get out the big bowl and place all the ice cream along with everything else in it and stir and mash and stir until my arm about fell off but no more. Just plop the unopened ice cream container onto the table with chocolate milk, or regular will do, and chocolate syrup along with a glass and spoon for each worthy member of your family and or company and let them go crazy. They can all make their own darn shakes.

Of course, if you are making strawberry milkshakes or any other flavor besides chocolate, there is a little more to it than chocolate syrup, ice cream, and milk. When making a milkshake other than chocolate you will need to either get some milkshake mix or you can add sugar and maybe a pinch of vanilla flavoring to the milk. If you just add strawberries, for instance, and then milk, it will taste watered down. Of course, if the berries are already sugared up sufficiently you should be ok as well. Just remember that anything you add to the ice cream that isn’t at least as sweet will dilute the flavor and richness.

So there you have it. Whether its football time or you just can’t get moving to feed your angry horde, remember, that milkshakes are an easy way to pass off a pile of chicken weenies and stale bread as a meal.

The Gas Station

In 1969, I was 16 and working at the Shell gas station on the corner of 28th and Sandy Blvd., Portland Oregon. The station, soon after my hiring, became a place where a select bunch of us guys from the neighborhood would hang out. Arnold, my boss, didn’t seem to mind. He was an old guy that kept the station for something to do. I don’t think he needed the money. His wallet sure looked to be in good shape. He loved to pull out his bulging pocket book and rifle through the bills looking for the smaller denominations to put in the till to replace the twenties, of course right in front of me and my buddies. We were impressed.

My boss also had a great little Chevy that he bought brand spanking new in 1962. It was a red 2 door Impala with a 325 horse 327 cubic inch motor. I don’t remember ever seeing a 325 horse 327 except maybe in a Corvette but not in an Impala. He used to wash it every Saturday and wax it regularly as well. It was in great shape when he traded it in for a “gasp,” 1969 Ford Galaxy station wagon. He was getting old, I guess, but then he partially redeemed himself when one day he showed up with an Olds Toronado with a big 455 cubic inch monster under the hood.

I loved working at that station. There was always something going on. My buddies would come and use the hoist and the lube bay to work on their cars while we all drank sodas from the pop machine and smoked cigarettes, like the cool guys we thought we were.

The muscle car craze was peaking and 1969 had some of the greatest cars ever coming out of Detroit. The guys and I didn’t have the money for one of those babies but we sure liked watching them come and go. Sandy Boulevard was a very popular street for drag races. The stop lights were spaced about a quarter mile or so giving a guy a chance to get his car up to a nice death-defying speed before slamming on the brakes and sliding, hopefully, to a stop at the next light.

There were tons of Chevelles and Roadrunners and quite a few GTOs and 442s and of course Mustangs ripping up and down the street. We were strictly a Chevy gang with not much use for Fords but in 1969 I have to admit that I did have a bit of a crush on those little Boss 302s. I never said anything to the guys at the time but boy they were a sweet little ride. Actually I really liked the Torino’s too and of course the Cobras but they didn’t count. The Cobras were an entirely different breed of car.

The Roadrunners seemed to own the streets as near as I could discern. There was always an L78 396 around or a 440 six pack or Hemi Cuda or big bad 427 Corvette but you didn’t see the owners of those prize possessions tearing up the streets like you did the more entry-level rigs like the Roadrunners and such. Most of us guys had old cars pieced together with whatever go fast modification type parts we could find cheap. Usually, our rides were loud and smoky. No match for a brand new 383/335 horsepower Roadrunner with tons of torque and low gears.

I remember watching many a race from the confines of the shell gas station. The cars would come screeching to a stop at the light, the roadrunners usually in front by three car lengths. As near as I could tell those Roadrunners seemed to have a really good pull in third gear which would usually do the trick.

We would have our races too. I would occasionally get the guys to line their clunkers against the side wall of the station’s large lot about 5 abreast. Then I would stand at the pumps, drop my hand and off they would go burning their tires and racing through the two islands. Good thing we weren’t a real busy station.

My buddy Rick had a hopped up 55 four-door Chevy that was jacked up a bit with a noisy little 283 and three on the floor. It was the fastest of our cars at the time and boy did he ever drive it hard. He loved to fly into the station, racing for the lube bay, slamming on his breaks at the last instant, stopping right over the hoist with his left front tire perfectly placed on the metal tire liner upper thing on the concrete floor. He was really good at it, except for the time when his breaks failed and he ran right into the workbench and sent all the radiator hoses and tires and everything that was on the wall flying. The boss happened to be there that day and he didn’t think it was all that funny, but we sure did.

We goofed around a lot but I actually got a little work done as well. I used to pride myself on my salesmanship. All the oil and windshield washer and accessories had little Shell stickers on them. The white ones were worth a dime and the yellow ones a nickel. Every time you sold one of the accessory items you would take the sticker off and place it on the chart next to your name and eventually you would get paid. I was way out in front of everyone else. Every now and then if the guys were watching I’d show them how it was done. Whenever someone in a brand new Cadillac or fancy Chrysler would come in I would grab a can of valve cleaner, tell the guys, “watch this,” and proceed to sell it to the customer. It was only thirty-five cents for a small can of “prevention and peace of mind.” If you put the valve cleaner in the gas tank it would help prevent sludge from forming on the valves but if you dumped it in the carburetor while it was running it would give them a “quick thorough cleaning.” At least that is what I would tell them and for only thirty-five cents it was like a “ton of prevention for way less than an ounce of cure.” So, of course, the customers in their big caddies were concerned for their cars welfare and would say, “Sure.” Then I would go about filling up their car, washing their windshield and checking their oil. Once under the hood, I would dump the contents of the can of valve cleaner into the carburetor while the engine was not running, clamp the air cleaner back together, close the hood, get my money from the customer, thank him or her very politely and then watch the fun. They would start up their beautiful huge luxury yacht and head for the street. Usually, about the time they pulled onto the boulevard, the valve cleaner would start to do its business. Then a gorgeously thick and super white dense cloud of smoke would come roaring out of the exhaust pipes leaving a very thick smoke screen behind. The guys would start rolling around the place laughing their butts off. Man, that was fun. Needless to say, we didn’t get a lot of repeat business.

1969 was also the year I bought my first car. This guy pulls into the station one night with a beautiful huge white 2 door 1957 Chrysler Imperial with giant wings and the fake spare tire thing-a-ma-jig on the trunk. He was looking to sell it and when I saw that huge Chrysler Fire Power Hemi under the hood I was more than a little intrigued. He got a couple of bucks worth of ethyl which in those days was good for about six gallons and told me he wanted three hundred bucks for it and then proceeded to smoke the tires up as he left the station. I wanted that car. The next time he came in we struck up a deal and that Imperial was mine.

Most kids back then had a thing for 55-57 Chevys. I was no exception. It’s just that I was a sucker for a Hemi. That Imperial was a real cruiser. It had power windows, power steering, power brakes, Push button automatic transmission, which got me into trouble a couple of times when I tried to speed shift, a 6 way power seat, a great radio with front and back speakers, comfy plush seats with lots of room, lots of chrome and the biggest V8 engine I had ever seen.

When I got the Imperial I had never driven on the streets before. In fact, I had only driven a car once in a parking area at the beach with no cars around. I didn’t have anyone at home to teach me so I just bought the Imperial and after a few brushes with telephone poles and a couple of parked cars, I was on my way.

My Imperial wasn’t real quick off the line. As near as I could tell from the manuals laying around the station it had 325 horsepower. That old boat was a tad bit heavy but once I got it going look out. I beat a 67 high performance 289 Fairlane with no problem. I was tooling along about forty when this guy in a nice little Fairlane started to get frisky so I hit the gas and he had no chance. That Hemi had some soup.

The Imperial came and went and we had several pass around cars amongst us, including a 51 four-door Lincoln that I wish we would have hung on to. It was huge with suicide doors, tons of chrome and a big flathead V8 that had some issues, and an automatic transmission. My buddy got it for a hundred bucks. It had vinyl covering the seats so we took it off and exposed the original perfectly preserved plush cloth interior. It was beautiful. The paint was a bit faded but we polished up that classic and cruised the gut getting lots of looks. That was quite a car. There was a 53 Chevy pickup that was parked at the station that I learned to drive a stick shift with and an old 59 Hillman with a four speed column shifter that my buddy left with me when he got his 58 thunderbird. Then somewhere in there, I bought my 59 Borgward 2 door station wagon for fifteen bucks. We painted it six different colors and drove it without a clutch. It was a death trap but a lot of fun.

Those were the days. I turned 17 and my mom signed for me and I joined the Marine Corps. When I got out 3 years later everything had changed. The so-called muscle cars coming out of Detroit were disgusting lightweight imitations. You couldn’t get a new car that came close to a 14-second quarter mile anymore. All my buddies had scattered. My boss Arnold had retired and the Shell gas station was now a used car lot. Eventually, I bought a 67 Chevelle SS 396 with a four speed and positraction that helped to take the sting out of the times.

I’m now a father of ten kids with six grandkids and I still yearn for those long lost days of muscle on the streets of Portland. Not to fear. I’m working on a plan that will get me an old beater to stick in my shed that I can turn into something loud, probably smoky, and will fry the tires off. Wish me luck.

The Borgward

In 1969 I was sixteen and working in a Shell Station on the corner of 28th and SE Sandy Blvd., Portland Oregon.
One day this guy pushes this little funny looking, yellow, 2 door station wagon, into the station. Apparently, it had quit on him out on the busy four lane street in front of the station. I helped get it into a parking spot and he asked if he could leave it there for a couple of days. He also said he was willing to part with it for twenty-five dollars. It turned out the little yellow 2 door station wagon was a 59 Borgward, from Germany. It wasn’t a whole lot bigger than a stretched out Volkswagen. It looked a lot like a Hillman if that helps you any.

Twenty-five dollars proved to be too much for a funny looking car that did not run and consequently, it did not sell. My boss wanted it gone. So me and my crazy buddy Mick started messing around with it, hoping to figure out what was wrong. I had Mick get in and try and start it while I looked under the hood. Back then we hadn’t had all that much experience with cars as yet so the chances of us actually getting the thing going were slim. But Mick turned the engine over anyway and I see gas pouring out of a threaded spout coming from the fuel pump. Well, that didn’t seem right. I got to looking at it and saw that the fuel pump had two spouts. One spout had a hose clamped to it and went up to the carburetor and the second, which must have been for a second carburetor, which this little car did not have, was simply spewing gas all over the place. So I took a pencil from my pocket, broke it in half and shoved it into the spout. That little Borgward fired right up. Now we had something. So when the owner came back around I offered him fifteen dollars for it, and it was mine.

Upon ownership of the little Borg Ward 2 door station wagon I sent one of the guys down to the hardware store for six cans of paint, of a variety of colors. Those of you who lived in SE Portland in 69 may remember it. I know if you ever saw my little customized Borgward you wouldn’t soon forget it. The car was already yellow, which was acceptable, so we set about doing the trim work. We painted the wheels silver to make them look like chrome and we painted around the wheel wells red to highlight the yellow and the top silver as well to match the wheels. I taped a shoe box to the hood to simulate a hood scoop and Mick painted AAA Fueler Hemi in forest green on each side in large print. I hooked a rubber radiator hose to the tailpipe where the muffler was supposed to be and wired it up and pointed it out the side so we wouldn’t die from carbon monoxide poisoning, which really wasn’t likely to happen because our eyes would burn so bad from the smoke inside the car that we had to drive with our heads out the window. A cool benefit of the radiator hose sticking out the side like that, besides keeping us alive, was whenever that little smelly and noisy car, and it was noisy with no muffler, came to a stop, it would blow large, well defined, smoke rings.

To add to its charm my crazy buddy Mick hooked the horn up to the brake. So whenever you attempted to stop the horn would honk. You could hear us coming a mile away, from the roar of that little unmuffled 4 cylinder and the constant honking of the horn. Also, if you were hard of hearing you could track us by the smoke that wafted into the air as we drove around town. I remember one of my buddy’s mom lamenting the fact that we were often roaring and honking around the neighborhood at all hours of the night and early morning.

That little Borgward had a few other questionable character traits. I had to clean the spark plugs every day just to keep it running. I also had to keep the idle turned up about as high as it would go so it wouldn’t stall. The brakes didn’t work very well either but it couldn’t go very fast anyhow. Then I discovered that the master cylinder for the hydraulic clutch didn’t work right so I began looking for a parts car. Yeah like there is going to be another 1959 Borgward in town just sitting around to use for spare parts. Well, guess what? There was. There in the automotive section of the want ads was a 1959 Borg Ward for parts in NE Portland. I went right over with some tools gave the guy $2.50. I took the master cylinder off his little ugly Borgward sedan and promptly took it back to the station and slapped her onto my little custom Borgward 2dr wagon.

In those days, like I said earlier, I didn’t know all that much about cars. I was just faking it, trying to be cool for the guys. However, I did manage to swap out the old master cylinder for the new used one and got it all hooked up right but I didn’t know that I had to bleed the air out of it. I just filled it up with fluid and took off for a test drive. Boy howdy was that car ever exciting to drive after that. You could get it going just fine but when you came to a stop light, where you would have to wait for a moment or two, the clutch would begin to give way causing the transmission to engage causing my little car to begin to move forward. Since the brakes weren’t very good and since the idle was turned up really high that little bugger of a car really wanted to go and would not wait for the light to turn and standing on the worn out brakes did not do much good. I got really good at avoiding stop lights by cutting U-eys and driving over peoples lawns and going through parking lots and such. After a while, we decided that using the clutch was much too dangerous and discovered that you really didn’t need the it after all. You could start it in first gear by turning the engine over and letting it hobble along for a second and then it would fire right up and off you would go. When you wanted to shift you just took your foot off the gas and at the same time pull it out of gear and when the RPMs would settle just pop it into the next year. It worked really slick. After all the bugs were worked out and the custom work was complete it was quite a car.

All my buddies and I took turns driving the daylights out of it. It wasn’t long though and it gave up the ghost. We took a sledgehammer to it and then rammed it into the retaining wall. We chained up what was left and hauled it to the junkyard where I got my original investment of fifteen dollars back. The junkyard guy said if we hadn’t of broken out all of the windows he would have given us twenty.
John

copyright 2018 Ark Essentials

Welfare Christmas

December of 1963, the fire department showed up at our door. This time instead of wielding axes and water hoses, as they had previously, on account of a fire my big brother inadvertently started in the basement, which I believe may have had something to do with us having to move again, they had boxes. A couple of big sturdy looking men placed several boxes of food and presents on our kitchen table.

Our first Christmas without my dad, having moved from our nice new home in the suburbs into an old neighborhood in town away from our school and friends was tough. We didn’t have much. Mom married dad when she was eighteen and did not have any skills other than homemaking and no schooling other than high school. The six of us kids and mom went on Welfare. There was no money for any extras like Christmas.

My memories of that first humble Christmas however, are filled with warmth and a feeling of security. Mom made everything alright. The fire department left us with some nice gifts that I don’t really remember. What I do remember is the smells coming from the kitchen. My mom would make her special Christmas treats every year and this Christmas was no different. There wasn’t money for fancy chocolate goodies or anything like that but mom managed to acquire a couple of overripe bananas to make her delicious banana bread. She also splurged and purchased a bag of whole cranberries to make another of our favorite holiday treats, cranberry bread.

Every year in the Smith household, and before that my grandma Whitlock, (Nana), and even before that, my family and extended family would make little chewy and buttery cookies called Toscas. We believe this special little cookie recipe came from the old country, brought here by one of our ancestors. There is, however, a little controversy concerning which country it actually came from. I’ve been telling everyone it was from Sweden but I’ve been hearing from some relatives of late that may not be true. Regardless of which European country it actually originated it is a wonderfully delicious little cookie and we still to this day make it every year during the holidays.

During that first Welfare Christmas, it was the presence of the Tosca cookie that especially seemed to communicate the peace and the love that my mother provided for us kids. With all the changes that took place in a very short amount of time, it was very reassuring to find the kitchen filled with all these familiar traditional Christmas treats. The Tosca cookie has been, ever since, embedded in me to mean family. Our family as dysfunctional as it was in those early welfare years was still our family and we were still together.

The Tosca cookie means more to me than I am able to express. We make them every year at Christmas and my children have carried on this tradition in their homes. It is a delicious little cookie. Here is the recipe:

Swedish Toscas
Grandma Smith always made these for her family. John has carried on her tradition and makes them every year even winning a ribbon at the Oregon State Fair.

Crust:
6 tablespoons butter
¼ cup sugar
1 cup flour
Place all ingredients for crust in a bowl and cream together with an electric mixer. Divide into muffin tins as equally as possible- should make 12. Press firmly with a spoon and leave a small indentation in the middle of each crust to hold the filling. Bake at 350 degrees for 8 minutes.

Filling:
While crusts are baking, prepare this filling in a small saucepan.
1/3 cup chopped nuts, walnuts or almonds
¼ cup sugar
2 teaspoons flour
2 tablespoons butter
1½ tablespoons cream or canned milk
Mix filling together over medium heat until just melted and bubbly. Carefully spoon filling evenly into the 12 mini crusts. Bake at 350 degrees for an additional 8 minutes.
( Excerpt from Ark Essentials copyright 1991-2018)