PZdan

Bridge to Somewhere

My mother had seven children to care for. It didn’t leave her much time for herself.

I do remember her saving time for herself in one fashion. She was in a bridge club. Bridge club was 8 ladies that met about once a month to play cards. The hosting of the event rotated, so every once in a while it became my mother’s turn to host the bridge club at our house.

I don’t know how she did it. Our house was always chaotic with seven kids. There was homework to be done after school. TV to be watched, dinner to be eaten, baths to be taken, more homework to be done by older kids, and the list went on and on.

Most bridge clubs that I know of take place in the afternoon. That might have made it a bit easier; to hold it while kids were at school. This bridge club met at night, after dinner.

I remember my mother preparing for bridge club. Half of our house was completely transformed. It was cleaned to the point of sparkling. The living room glowed. There was an ante-room that was used and so was the dining room. The living room and ante-room both had tables set up with 4 chairs each for the playing of cards.

There were pretty decks of cards, little pads and pencils, and dainty napkins. All things for little, curious hands to get in trouble. We’d poke our fingers and marvel at the designs but never more than that.

The dining room held little, pretty antique plates, spoons, cups and saucers, and more dainty napkins. There was great anticipation for snacks and dessert. My mother had two very special nut cups that were part of the event each time. She’d put what would now be classified as “fancy mixed” nuts in the cups.

My brother and I would stand transfixed, staring at those bowls of nuts. Our faces were just tall enough to be eye-level with the exotic nut mixture. It was all we could do to keep our “paws off”. Once in a while, my mom would let us eat a nut. That was heaven.

When the doorbell started to ring we had strict instructions to march up to bed. We already had our footy pajamas on. We were ready. I thought it was so funny that the front doorbell rang. I thought all people came to the back door unless they were selling something. These ladies must have been pretty extraordinary to come to the front door.

They’d waltz in with their hats, handbags, and their pretty coats. Some of them even had those “animal things” tied around their collars. (I inherited my mother’s “animal thing” and I keep it in a very precious box. The stone martins.) The ladies could chat and twitter. Kisses on cheeks were exchanged everywhere. My brother and I didn’t want to be involved in any kissing so we’d rush up the stairs.

We were supposed to be going to bed. However, the temptation was too much to resist. Lest we be caught by our mother, we’d crouch down above the stairway landing. We’d try to hear what the ladies were talking about. I don’t recall anything they ever said, and what did I care what they were discussing anyway? Would a five-year-old understand? No matter. I thought it was worth my effort.

Inevitably, we’d giggle about something. We’d be caught. And we’d be admonished and sent up to our beds. No matter. We were tired anyway. And these ladies weren’t nearly as interesting as we thought they’d be. But next time they came, the nuts would still be of great focus and we’d still hide on the stairs and eavesdrop. That’s for sure. Bridge club was special.

Cheers!

by PZdan

My Father the Engineer

My father was a mechanical engineer. On weekends he spent his time working on projects around the house. One day he might be fixing a bicycle. Another he might be re-wiring a lamp. One morning I found him in the bathroom with his head behind the toilet.

I was bored, so I sat down on the edge of the bathtub and commenced whining. I was going on about how the weather was yucky and there was nothing to do. My father cut me off in his usual fashion.

“Come closer,” he said. "I’ll teach you how to pull a toilet. That’ll give you something to do.”

Not to be one to question my father’s requests, I pulled up where I could see what he was doing. That was the day I learned that the toilet was not permanently hooked to the floor. I was amazed.

My father knew so much. If it had to do with anything mechanical, he knew about it. I even heard that when my family moved into the house I was born in, that my dad and a few of his buddies completely re-wired the house for the "modern" electricity of the time. One of the guys was an electrician, so I guess it was alright to do. The thought of messing with anything electrical gave me the hee-bee gee-bees; and still does to this day.

There are other things I’m not so afraid of. I can read directions and put together most things. I spent one full Saturday, decades ago, putting together a barbecue grill. I never did that again. I decided it was much more efficient to pay someone else to do it. There are guys who work at those big box places who can put together 20 grills in a day. Not me. I barely got one done.

One time I saved the day by putting together the new bike rack that attached to the back of our car. My husband was grinding his teeth when he tried it so I volunteered to do it. We were supposed to be leaving for vacation that morning, so we didn’t have time to fight over who was going to do it or take all morning getting it done.

To this day, when I face a project like that I tell people, “I’m putting on my mechanical engineer hat,” and I go at the project.

Works pretty well most times.

Thanks for the genetics, Dad.

Cheers,

by PZdan

Street Eating

I attended the first Taste of Chicago. It took place in 1980.  I was young and enthusiastic.

The city and organizers blocked off a couple of blocks on Michigan Avenue in front of Water Tower Place and set up some of the most amazing food. It was a grand affair. Classical music. The whole bit. They really tried to do it up right. I can recall lots of white table cloths. I don’t remember much about the food except that it was small portions. They were exotic things I had never eaten and you paid very small amounts of money just for these little “tastes.” There weren’t a ton of people there. It was a really nice occasion. It was a great way for a young woman like me to “test” out really nice restaurants so I could save my money and know where I wanted to go; or tell my date where I wanted him to take me.

The Taste of Chicago is returning this year for the first time since COVID. It will be in early September, when it’s likely going to be blazing hot. There will be millions of bodies crammed into the area. Every grill restaurant in Chicago will have some kind of rib cooking and I wouldn’t get caught dead there. The food is rumored to be expensive, but I suppose you get more than you used to. When I see people interviewed on the news they seem to be having a really good time but they are covered in sweat and barbecue sauce. One year the featured grilled item was alligator. For several years since it’s been turkey legs. Not my kind of scene.

I also attended the first Taste of Madison in Madison, Wisconsin. It was set up around the beautiful capital building with the streets around it blocked off so everyone had plenty of room to walk. They had bands set up around the capital so on each intersection you could listen to a different kind of music. The restaurants set up their booths and made their food. It took place over Labor Day weekend. I remember the food well. Not as exciting as Chicago and not as much variety but we had good friends with us, so we had a good time.

One thing sort of “set my husband off” though. There weren’t white table cloths and places to sit like the first Taste of Chicago. There was nowhere to sit at all. At one point we bought a piece of pizza and decided we had to sit somewhere to eat it; mostly because our feet were tired but also because the slices were those huge triangles, so it was impossible to maneuver the pizza and a drink. Something had to be put down while you ate. We found curb space to sit.

My husband made the killer observation. He looked down and realized he was eating spread-eagle over a sewer.

He said, “Something is wrong with this picture. I’m eating pizza over a sewer.”

We all laughed but we’ve never attended a “food fest” since.

Cheers,

by PZdan