Ham Makes Me Hungry

Dear loyal readers,

I sincerely apologize for the lag in writing.  It's been quite an April. And as our journey back to Alabama (and, yea, even Indianapolis, the place of my nativity) looms closer, I've been thinking about what "home" means. Not just the place, or even the family, but the specific set of rituals and entanglements that make up familiarity.  Of course I will not be able to touch on all of the meanings in a single post, but I'll try getting to the root. But before this, I must write a special note:

Dear Paternal Grandmother--I know you are reading this.  I know that well-meaning family members have brought you my posts, and being the sensitive woman you are, you are worried about us and our remote status.  Let me assure you that we are not living in poverty, nor do we wish to eat a bowl of anti-depressants for breakfast (at least not every day.) Just to prove we're not in as unfamiliar territory as you believe, I'll give you five reasons that being in Rockingham, Western Australia is like living in Waterloo, Alabama.

1.)  People here also have "homes on the water."  Here, however, when they say "homes" they mean structures with walls, rooves, and indoor plumbing, and by "water" they mean the pristine beaches surrounding the turquoise waves of the Indian Ocean; unlike Waterloo where they mean a tent in the woods next to a drainage ditch.

2.) Like Waterloo, the mullet hairstyle has caught on with the fire of a first love (to quote the illustrious E.E.) and men walk around in sleeveless t-shirts.

3) The ratio of feet to shoes in public places is remarkably high.

4.) I live in a home on wheels, and my front porch is made of tarps, just like much of Waterloo. But here, there are no tornadoes--a definite plus.

5.)  While the land mass is larger, people here still love lounging on porches in the afternoon sun, stopping by and catching up with neighbors, and the local grocery store clerks still stare at strangers with an air of superiority (and don't even pretend that doesn't happen at "The Pig." I've seen that little manager in his elevated office-box.). Just like in Waterloo, a "stranger" is anyone who moved to the area fewer than ten years ago. And in those grocery stores you can ALSO find all manner of internal organs of farm animals meant for the creation of "comfort food." I can't get a squirrel gravy and biscuit, but I sure can pick up some lamb brains, wrap 'em in a nice flaky crust and make a pie--just like you-know-where.

So, dear Grandmother, sleep well.  Rest assured that Superhusband and I spend plenty of time with normal people who like us. We drink clean water. We wear clean clothes made of natural fabrics.  We sacrifice chickens and smoke tobacco through their hollow bones. Just kidding! Seeing if you were reading closely. We're okay.  And we can't wait to get back to Alabama and eat "green stuff" and fried squash and onions and complain about the humidity with you. 

All our love,
Blunderwoman and Superhusband

Now that we've got that straight, let's talk about home. For me, the geographical location is Florence, Alabama--a little, old-fashioned, slightly uppity college town on the edge of the Tennessee River. We're fifteen minutes from the Tennessee border, twenty minutes from Mississippi, and always two tourist attractions away from economic collapse. My aesthetic vantage point lies here: magnolia, honeysuckle, rusted cars, red barns, sleepy cattle, buttercups, grey winters, catfish, cotton in fields and clothing, rocking chairs, quickbreads, hunting dogs, victorian houses, hay fever and a "Hey y'all."  You get the gist.  From this scenery and sensory sorcery I have learned to feel at home in antiques. I love musty books, and have learned to match colors in off-shades of coral and chartreuse. I am not accustomed to the beach lifestyle of sandy browns and turquoise walls; or the Southwestern look of adobe and hieroglyphics--those are from other homes and speak to other lives.

The most deep, gut-level connection to "home" is with my family. From my mother's side I have learned that "home" means no one is left out. No one is uninvited, no matter how tenuous the connection nor how many years since the last visit. Even if we have to rent a convention center to fit us all in.  Everyone's offering is cherished. And from my father's side I learned that no matter how far you fall, family is there to catch you.  From them I have a deep sense of never ever being completely unknown or unprovided for. I will never be homeless, physically nor emotionally, as long as any of them have breath. This, I suppose, is what gives me the gumption to move all over the world to find things like husbands. And I am gratefull.

But the lesson I seem to have taken most to heart, from both geography and family, is not an entirely positive one. It is the lesson of excess.  All things must be in abundance. Two stories, one present one past, illustrate this law of superfluity.

This weekend Superhusband and I were lounging about in the caravan. (Don't worry, this is a family show--not too much detail.) He was gently stroking my arm, and as we often get into impromtu tickle-wars, and I was feeling a bit dingy, I said "Hey, don't go near my armpits. They're....." and I trailed off.  I was thinking words of euphamistic beauty like "unladylike" or "not at their best."  I was pausing to piece together my string of excess verbage to delight both speaker and spoken to. But this is how it went:

Me: "Hey, don't go near my armpits. They're..."
SH: "Farel?"

If it's one thing the English know, it's efficiency of language.  I could not have predicted that exact word coming out of his handsome mouth, nor could I stop laughing for a full ten minutes.  I mean, there was snorting and tears. Sometimes, unlike my Southern-charming way of spinning a tale about the least thing, a well-placed word is refreshing.  I aim to emulate.

And the second story of my past has to do with food and excess. (By the way, the friendship in the South of "food and excess" has precipitated at least a third of our cultural awareness and all of the health problems.) It begins with the Peking Chinese Buffet.

Mom and Dad and I were planning to go to our personal mecca--the Peking Chinese Buffet accross from Big Lots. We have patronized that particular restaurant building through about four incarnations--it was a Shoney's that boasted a female waitress with bulging biceps and ocean-liner tattoo on her right arm. It was a couple of things in between, but has stuck with the Peking for about a decade; the buffet is set up where the Breakfast Bar used to be. (I know you--at this point you're thinking 'This story should be about WORDS and excess....you're right.  But I'm getting there.) So, one fine summer evening the folks and I were planning our pilgrimage to cream cheese wantons.  We just had to run a couple of errands first--to my Grandparents' farm.

Dad and I decided to go, and leave Mom to get ready in Florence.  It was about 4pm, and we had eaten lightly that day knowing the avalanche of calories that would engulf us at dinner.  Dad and I tried to explain this concept to my Grandmother (hope you're still reading, and still laughing Grandmother!) but it didn't get through.  When we said "we've not eaten much today because......" all she could hear in her DNA was "My babies are starving!  Feed, feed, FEED!" After much protestation, she brought out the ham.  A whole, 15 pound ham. She hacked off chunks of the irresistably salty red meat and nestled them in white bread with generous mayonnaise.  She couldn't help it. It's in our genetic makeup.

What happened next, I think we could have helped, but we didn't.  We caved.  We ate the sandwiches. We loved them, and promised to take one home to Mom. We had it packed for us in a
re-used ziploc and dangled in a plastic shopping bag from our retreating arms. And at this point, errand completed, heading home (for the life of me I can't even remember why we went there) most sensible people would say "Well, that was nice.  How sweet of her! We just saved some money tonight and we'll eat out another day." But we're not sensible people. On the way back into town, Dad and I discussed how this predicament could only happen in rural Alabama, and how never before had ham been an appetizer to Asian cuisine.  In fact, we giggled, "That ham made me hungry." And for a long time we've been holding on to that title as the one for my second memoir.  My first shall be called "Zena, Reba, and Me."  And of course, I'll tell you why sometime.

But that's how it went.  We ate ham AND coconut shrimp that night.  We harrangued my mother with tales of our crushing defeat in the face of preserved meat and maternal instinct. And we lapped up the excess--words, laughter, food. Of course indigestion followed, but we have antacids to keep us from facing the consequences of our actions.

Excess.  Abundance. Cornucopia of delight, grief, togetherness, meringue. For good or bad, that is my "home."