Clark Griswold: Hey, hey, easy kids. Everybody in the car. Boat leaves in two minutes... or perhaps you don’t want to see the second largest ball of twine on the face of the earth, which is only four short hours away? - National Lampoon’s Family Vacation
When I was 13 my dad was driving us, one early August day, through the desert. This was the same trip where I had heard him scream the F-word for the first time, somewhere in Hollywood I think it was. We were on our way to the resort city of Palm Springs, where the average summer temp is 108. They will tell you it’s a dry heat so it won’t bother you as much, but the sweat is just as wet.
Dad had heard that you could actually fry an egg on the sidewalks of Palm Springs, and decided that he wanted to see this phenomenon for himself. And of course the rest of the males in the car were all for the idea. Poor mom. She’s the one who probably should have been screaming the F-word.
We stopped at a local grocery store and purchased a half-dozen farm fresh large eggs, and went looking for a good hot spot. We soon found a place he liked and were out of the Vista Cruiser, watching the old man crack open his egg before gently pouring it onto the concrete. He looked the same as he did when he cooked for us back home.
We surrounded the defenseless little yoke and waited - Dad, Mom, my two little brothers, and me. After five minutes or less, and no action from our sidewalk skillet below, mom moved quietly away from the group in the direction of a nearby Saks. My brothers also chose to bail on the experiment, and followed her. So it was only I who remained there with my father. I heard him sigh and looked up at his face, waiting to hear that word again that had stayed with me since L.A. Instead what I got from him was a grin. Then he put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Well at least we tried.”
That was my father. He was never afraid to try anything. Even like frying an egg on a sidewalk in one of the richest cities in the world. It is a good memory for me – more like a Griswold moment than a Hallmark moment. All we needed was a beer to share.
If any of you have ever had success with cooking on concrete please let me know. It would serve as a little vindication in my mind to my dearly departed dad. It doesn’t have to be an egg – a grilled cheese, can of soup, or even a Pop Tart would probably make him smile.
Mayan muff. I’m writing this on the 21st, so unless they had it happening in the PM, I guess we’re safe, or alive anyway. All this end times talk made me hungry, and since I was so close to extinction I ate whatever I wanted the last few days, finishing the last hurrah with a T-bone and fries the evening of the 20th.
It reminded me of my lunch buddies, Amber and Rebecca, (Rebecky calls it the JAR luncheons) and the discussion we had once about a last meal. Rebecca chose big bowl of vanilla ice cream and a bag of salt and vinegar chips. She said she wanted to go out with a bellyache and a smile. I obviously concur.
Happy New Year.