On the way, we had a discussion about the expression “Sound as a dollar.” This was a very common saying when we were children, as in:
“Hank, how you feelin’?”
“Oh, I’m as sound as a dollar.”
Sadly, we can’t use that expression anymore, with the dollar being anything but sound. And the folks in beautiful Iceland are learning a lesson right now that we will likely be learning ourselves before very long.
Speaking of the North Countries, I found a gem today. (Turn on your speakers before you read further.) As some of you know, I enjoy reading about the Vikings (since my bloodline runs back to them), I enjoy cats (because they are fascinating creatures) and I enjoy Led Zeppelin’s music (because it was the soundtrack to my teenage years). Did I ever expect to find these three favorite things coalescing in one medium? No! But I did…oh, I did!
Ah, art.
The restaurant wasn’t busy at all, so we got a great booth and settled in to feast. MeeMaw ordered something new: a Thai-style lettuce wrap. She also got a California roll and some won-ton soup. I had an order of tekka maki (tuna sushi) and chicken lo mein.
The lettuce wrap turned out to be something quite different from what MeeMaw expected. Instead of chicken wrapped up in lettuce, it was a bowl of chicken in a cloying, heavy peanut sauce (salmonella, anyone?) and a lettuce wedge. Apparently, one is supposed to peel leaves of lettuce and put the chicken mixture inside each leaf and eat the thing burrito-style.
What was really disappointing was the waitress’s reaction. When she came to clear the dishes, she noticed that MeeMaw’s was almost untouched. “Do you need a to-go box for that?” she asked.
“No, I actually didn’t like it. It wasn’t what I expected at all.”
The waitress, in her expressionless deadpan, replied, “Too much peanut taste?”
“Yes, that’s right,” said MeeMaw.
Now, a good, attentive waitress would have brought a dessert on the house, or something to try and incline the customer to (a) return and (b) leave a decent tip. But she was clearly of the current crop of wait staff, the ones who (a) hate their job, (b) make sure everyone knows they hate their job, and (c) believe the world owes them a living with minimal effort on their part.
I’m confident that she wasn’t expressionless when she saw the tip I left her.
Anyway, it was a disappointment, but we’ll likely return to Stir-Fry, since they have good food and (usually) good staff and superb, fresh sushi. We just won’t try any dishes that we haven’t yet sussed out.
Speaking of food, one of my frequent complaints about postmodern culture is the tendency of people who have read or heard just a little on a given subject to suddenly think of themselves as “experts.” If you doubt this, wait until the next time someone in your presence is asked to taste a particular dish of food. The taster will probably close his eyes, contort his face in faux concentration, chew the food in a ridiculously gymnastics & seizures manner, and then blurt out something dreadful like, “I can detect just a hint of the wart hog which urinated on the beets as they were being harvested. It adds a delicate arrogance to the overall putridity of the presentation.” You will almost never see someone simply taste a bite of food, smile, and say, “That’s really good.”
We are become a nation of dilettantes, masters of the second-hand affectation.
Oh, and before I forget…no one serves food anymore. They “plate it up.” A pox on all their houses.
So after we ate, on the way home we listened to an Alan Jackson CD, one of our perennial favorites. One of the best tracks is titled Home. We like it because it reminds us of the sorts of places and people we grew up around. The lyrics are:
Home
In a small town down in Georgia, over forty years ago
Her maiden name was Musick, ‘til she met that Jackson boy
They married young like folks did then, not a penny to their name
But they believe the one you vow to love
Should always stay the same
And on the land his daddy gave him, a foundation under way
For a love to last forever or until their dying day
They built a bond that’s strong enough to stand the test of time
And a place for us to turn to when our lives were in a bind
And they made their house from a toolshed
Grandaddy rolled down on two logs
And they built walls all around it
And they made that house a home
And they taught us ‘bout good living
They taught us right from wrong
Lord, there’ll never be another place
In this world that I’ll call home
My momma raised five children - four girls, then there was me
She found her strength with faith in God and love of family
She never had a social life, home was all she knew
Except the time she took a job, to pay a bill or two
My daddy skinned his knuckles on the cars that he repaired
He never earned much money but he gave us all he had
He never made the front page but he did the best he could
And folks drove their cars from miles around
To let him look underneath the hood
And they made their house from a toolshed
Grandaddy rolled down on two logs
And they built walls all around it
And they made that house a home
And they taught us ‘bout good living
They taught us right from wrong
Lord, there’ll never be another place
In this world that I’ll call home
[Copyright 1995 by Alan Jackson]
About six months ago, MeeMaw and I went to the Appalachian Music Fest in downtown Gate City. It was quite a bit of fun. At one point, we stopped and browsed through some books by a local author, who was on hand to sign them. MeeMaw looked through a couple of the novels, found them intriguing, and decided to buy them. While waiting in line, we noticed that the author had a large portrait of Alan Jackson perched on an easel by her chair. A gentleman in front of us asked her about it, and she said, “Alan Jackson’s daddy married some of my kin. So we’re related by marriage.”
If you re-read the lyrics above, you’ll note the reference to his mother’s maiden name being Musick. The author of MeeMaw’s books is Doris Musick.
Small world, n'est-ce pas ?
Also on the way home, we were looking at all the faded and unattended barns in the area, made of gorgeous gray faded wood. I wouldn’t complain at all if a local gent were to come up to me and announce, “I’ve got this old barn that I don’t want. If you’ll knock ‘er down, you can have the wood.” Oh, the projects I could use such wood for. My friend Dave Black’s son, Nathan, is a master scrounger. He is forever finding people who will give him valuable lumber, bricks, and sheet metal if he’ll haul it away for free. Some of his “finds” are 200 years old. He is refurbishing his antebellum home with such antique “gimmes,” and I’m sure his bride Jessie is pleased. He is forever showing up with trailer loads of all sorts of treasure.
As we neared home, we noticed the distinct purple tinge of the Clinch Mountains to the east of Highway 72. This photo really didn’t capture it very well; the light was fading rapidly. But there is a strong truth in the old lyric about “purple mountains’ majesty.” You’ll note both the beehives and the beeves in the foreground.
I’ll close tonight’s musings with something beautiful. My friend Doug sent this to me some time ago. MeeMaw and I were listening to it earlier, and we both had tears in our eyes. The power of good music is undeniable.
Rest well, loved ones.
