Vermicelli

This summer when Leslie (Holladay Patterson) and Ottis Patterson came to visit us in Minnesota, we got to talking about foods from our youth. Watermelon and mountain oysters were there, of course. Corn on the cob straight out of the field, gooseberry jelly, strawberry rhubarb pie, and cucumbers washed in irrigation ditches made the list. Any West Texas town could (and probably does) boast of these wonders, but others do not have the Givens’ Vermicelli.

I never knew, but I assume that all the other churches had covered dish dinners once a month. We called them Family Night Suppers in the Methodist Church. In Minnesota they call it “hot dish.” Some families had their signature dishes, while others trusted the creative suggestions of sales at the Piggly Wiggly or leftovers hiding in corners of the fridge.

Delmer Givens (though Ottis says he wasn’t the first) would show up every month with a good-sized casserole of his hamburger vermicelli. It was the most delicious food I could imagine. Rich and crunchy and heavy and thick, it brought with it the excitement of a dish my mother never made and the security of a never- varied recipe.

When I married in 1977 I received a recipe for the dish. It came as part of my most treasured wedding gifts—a recipe box stuffed with cards that carry the foods, names, and handwriting of the community of my memory. I tried to make the vermicelli dish once when I was living in Oklahoma and feeling homesick for the community of the Fellowship Hall. It was terrible. Somehow the magic was left out of the recipe, or my adult tastebuds had outgrown the delight. I despaired of ever again experiencing that sight, smell, and taste that marked a truly successful covered dish supper.

Today I stand corrected. During their visit, Ottis made a batch of vermicelli. It was wonderful. We stretched the leftovers out to travel with us to our mini-vacation/family reunion up at the Burntside Lodge. I don’t know whether Ottis brought the magic or the recipe, but his vermicelli carried me back to the fellowship hall. I was even tempted to break into a chorus of Bringing in the Sheaves. I think my sisters and many old friends would have joined in.

Thank You, Mr. Ford

THANK YOU MR. FORD

I have learned—and forgotten—many things in my life. Guess it started with Mother defining words and diagramming sentences on the windshield of the car as we drove to football games. One particular learning moment sticks out for me. It was the first time I realized that science lay at the intersection of mathematics and nature. In many ways, that moment has framed my life’s work. It was a moment of intellectual awakening that still keeps me up at night.

Thank you Mr. Ford!

I have no idea why you decided to show our eighth grade math class the film on the discovery of the speed of sound. What was your inspiration? Maybe you knew I was bored. Maybe you needed the time to grade papers. Maybe they sent you the film by mistake. Maybe no one else remembers it, but it was a defining moment for me.

Part of the thrill was the speed and the math and the mathematization of space and time. Part of the power was that something was unknown then it was known. Part was that I didn’t understand and then I did. That day I learned that nature was knowable, and even I could come to know it.

I didn’t become an aeronautical engineer or applied mathematician or jet pilot, but I did learn to challenge my own assumptions, to explore different ways of knowing, and to engage in inquiry of nature in the company of others.

Thanks!

Is it Olton or Is It Youth?

I always think of Olton on a summer evening when the smell of a thunderstorm threatens. It starts with the hazy lights over the dusty diamond, then many adolescent adventures come back to me. “Watching” the baseball game while showing off my new shorts set, trying to catch the attention of some and avoid the attention of others. We drank pickle juice over ice and nursed fresh sunburns. These leisurely evenings always followed days of working or playing in unrelenting sun.
Making the drag, we drove in endless circles when gas, gossip, and time seemed unlimited. Who brought that traveling carnival to town? Who chose the music at the roller rink? Why did they both smell the same—cotton candy, stale cigar smoke, bad perfume, and sweat?

Then there were the stars. I never have gotten accustomed to living where the sky isn’t the most interesting feature of the landscape. The stars were so close and clear; they stretched from horizon to horizon. Fabulous. A friend in college asked me what the Milky Way looked like because his childhood skies were full of smog and city lights. Even now I am aware that the Big Dipper of the Minnesota sky is not where it is supposed to be.

The smell of the coming storm carries me away, then I come back to the land of 10,000lakes where mosquitoes, road work, traffic jams, and humidity are the signs of summer. I used to think it was youth I missed. Maybe it was Olton.