One Pretentious Bastard

These are two stories wrapped up in one and they involve bringing my friends from Beloit home the first time.

Beloit had a mid-semester break, and a number of my friends were going to travel through O’Hare, so my family offered to let them stay with us. We got to my house late that afternoon–Me, Kevin, Stephie, and Serena–and the first thing my dad does is cook for us.

We start watching TV together–all of us–when Kevin and I disappear to go do things. I think we were playing a video game or we were calling another friend, Sara.

My brother gets home while I’m not in TV room. I’m with Kevin dorking around. I hear my 17-year-old brother say, “Dad, I got speeding ticket.” This is where all hell breaks loose. My dad is PISSED at Tony because he got a ticket in DuPage County–and he is worried that Tony is going to lose his license or pay more for car insurance.

Serena is trapped with my brother and father in the room as they “discuss” the ticket. After a few minutes of details (Tony had the car switched to Kilometers per hour AND They were shooting rubber bands at another car in their high school caravan), they notice they have a giggling guest. So they put on a show for Serena. She’ll correct me if I’m wrong, but, I remember her telling me that they BOTH started making faces at each other and inane points just to see who could get her to laugh harder.

The next morning, before all of my friends leave for their respective destinations, my dad cooks them breakfast. Five rounds of pancakes, at least a pound of sausage and a pound of bacon and a two dozen eggs. When Kevin says, “Oh my god pat, stop!” He retorts, “Whatever. Your skinny and you live in Beloit. They don’t feed you there. You need to eat.”

When the semester started again, that breakfast was the talk of the dorm.

Technorati Tags: Beloit, Family, Gleason, grief, mourning, Breakfast

lunch

Originally uploaded by officergleason

My earliest memories of my family involve cooking. My parents were fairly equitable about the house-hold chores. My dad would help cook, handle lawn duty (until Tony was old enough to do it) and work. My mom would help cook, do laundry (until high school then I got that duty) and work part-time. Cooking was the overlapping duty. Some nights my dad would grill, other nights my mom would cook something. Usually, they divvied up the tasks.

For all these memories, my parents never directly taught me anything about cooking. I would hover around my mom while she worked on a sauce; sometimes I’d talk to my dad while he grilled–but I can’t remember either of them saying to me, “This is how you cook this.”

This is a shame–as this year, my goal is to cook my father’s Area-Famous ribs. He promised to teach me, but we never got around to it.

Anyway, my dad’s grill skillz were intense. He grilled in thunderstorms, blizzards, windstorms, humid Chicago summers and for dozens of people. He could grill sober, drunk and hungover. Ribs? Steak? Chicken? Pork? Vegetables? Fruit? No problem.

He preferred Charcoal but he could work propane too. Weber was his grill of choice.

I bring this up because I have a grill now–and technically, I have learned more about how to grill from my uncle Dan than my dad. However, wherein my uncle times things, I rely on my sense of touch–yes, reach in and poke the damn stuff–and my nose.

Hell, my nose is a classic Gleason nose. Its big enough, it might as well be useful.

Grilling has come by naturally to me. I think, given twenty years of practice, I can even surpass my dad.

As for a specific grill story… I can’t really think of one. Sorry.