50 ... And Beyond

I turned 50. 

Saying it out loud brings a simultaneous sense of triumphant arrival and inward reflection. 

On one level I feel young and invincible like I was in my college years.  On another I feel the weight of tiny complaints of the back, kidney, eyesight, ashen hair, forgetfulness and hypertension my doctor warned me about so many years ago. 

 

Funny thing is, it doesn’t seem like so many years ago, but rather yesterday 

… fishing with Papap at Lake Irene … 

... walking to Emily’s store all by myself … 

... sledding down Mill Hill (waking up in the hospital) … 

... getting a haircut at “Honest Frank’s” barber shop … 

... riding my bike to Uncle Harold’s house (Aunt Fern always had cookies) ... 

... skateboarding down the hill to my grandmother’s house ... 

... joining boy scouts … 

... attending the first day of junior high (felt so grown up) … 

... taking a date to the “Queen of Hearts” dance … 

... becoming a mime … 

... getting my driver’s license …

... feeling a broken heart up close … 

... going to college … 

... auditioning for my first real show ...

... graduating ...

... working with Dad … 

... working with Mom … 

... meeting the love of my life … 

... proposing on Christmas Eve … 

... becoming a husband … 

... becoming a father … 

... losing a house … 

... losing a father … 

... losing a mother … 

... becoming 50.

I’ve been thinking about what is next. What do I want the rest of my life to look like? What do I want to do as I grow up? The reality is that I have lived far more years than I have yet to live on this earth.  What is my vision for the remainder? 

I’ll have to get back to you on that.  Right now I have a life to live.

What Could Possibly Be Better Than A Baked Bean Sandwich?

They think it's more than a little weird that I enjoy it so much.

"Ewwwww!" is the general reaction around the table as my children watch me construct the delicacy that brings back such childhood memories that I actually weep inside with every soft, dripping bite. Even my own wife shouts a resounding "NO" when offered a bite. (Et tu, Suzy?)

What could possibly bring such gastronomic bliss to one person and such repulsion to others?

None other than the Baked Bean Sandwich.

Just to justify my right to enjoy this wonder of culinary delight, I did a bit of research and was delighted (and somewhat appalled) to find so many variations on a simple theme.  If there is any way to ruin a perfectly good sandwich, some recipe guru has discovered the finer points to turning a piece of depression-era history into some hoity-toity, fancy-shmancy gourmet thingy that no self respecting lover of the basic sammy would expend the time and energy to prepare. 

Don't get me wrong; most of these recipes were quite ordinary and, although they certainly wouldn't taste like the flavor memory I have in my mind, they were worthy of consideration on an occasion some time in the future (yes, I might be willing to put ketchup or mustard or even a slice of onion on the bread). However, there also were a plethora of recipes that called for more work than Beef Wellington complete with homemade puff pastry.

Really folks, it doesn't have to be complicated to be delicious.

Here's all you need:

- Canned baked beans (warm, but not hot) - homemade beans simply do not work for this sandwich.    
- White sandwich bread, toasted or plain (you may substitute a leftover hot dog roll if you happen to have one)
- Butter

It really is as simple as that.  Spread butter on a slice of bread, spoon some beans on half the slice, fold over and eat.  Repeat as necessary.

No need for homemade bread or organic butter lettuce, remoulade, imported cheese, etc. 
No extras on this one.  Just plain goodness.  And fond memories.

Memories of Dad

I visited your insurance office many, many times when I was a kid.  you always put me to work sorting papers or copying letters.  Sometimes you gave me a rubber address stamp and an ink pad and I would stamp over and over and over on a piece of typing paper.  I was so proud of myself for helping Dad "make insurance."

Every few weeks or so you sent me next door to "Honest Frank" for a haircut.  After I came back we would go next door in the other direction and get a sandwich and pickle from the Spic and Span Deli. We ate and talked.

We went to Stevens' Bakery on Sunday mornings and bring home those huge cinnamon things that were so big you could stick your thumb right through them and it wouldn't come out the other side. We called them "thumb buns." I'm not sure what the real name was.

When I had my first accident with your car, you dropped everything to be on scene within five minutes.  Even though the mishap was my fault you didn't yell or blame.  You just put me in Mom's car and took me out for lunch.

All those times you came downstairs and caught me getting a snack in the middle of the night ... you never ever ratted me out.

When I graduated from college you gave me a file box filled with every concert program, every newspaper photo, every picture you wer able to save from my whole life up to that point.

You helped me build things ... a rabbit coop, a bike, a styrofoam igloo.  You never said anything was too hard.

You helped me through night after night of math homework and all the temper tantrums associated with it.

You encouraged me to follow my dream, even though it destroyed your dream for me.

Dad, I miss you every day. I hope I eventually become half the father you were. This song is dedicated to you.  Happy Father's Day!