Corned Beef Epiphany

For some of us, it was the peas.

For me, it was corned beef, rice and liver.

I figured out early on how to eat my liver at the family dinner table.

Grab a bite of liver, bury it in a forkful of mashed potatoes, stick it in my mouth and swallow.

To this day, I still don't know why I never choked to death, swallowing that liver whole.

The method got me through many a meal when everyone else at the table raved about the liver.

As for rice, we were generally a potato-eating family.  Still, Lincoln School cooks served rice and raisins at least once a week.  I did not eat hot lunch very often, but it seemed like whenever I did, the menu for the day was that dreaded bowl of rice and raisins.

Raisins, they were okay by themselves, but when mixed with what I perceived as white maggots, I wouldn't even pick out the raisins.

The staff monitored our trays to see if we'd eaten most of our lunch, so more than likely one time I gagged down half a bowl of that gross entree.

I learned early on, however, from another student that those milk cartons could multi-task during a lunch period.  They could hold milk.  Kids could slurp down a whole carton at once and then spend the rest of lunchtime, spooning the maggots and raisins into the empty carton.  

I wonder if the nutrition nazis ever figured that one out.

Well, it worked during my whole tenure as a student at Lincoln School.  After that, I enjoyed liberation from time-honored grade school rules---like getting to write backhand AND avoiding rice all together. 

Now, my corned beef experiences left lifelong, deep-seeded opinions.

The one time I remember having corned beef at the North Boyer dinner table is etched in my mind as if it were yesterday.

A glob of corned beef sat on my plate, left on its own after the potatoes, peas, salad helpings had long since disappeared.

I sat in a chair, staring at that hideous red glob of meat, refusing to pick up my fork, stab it and insert it into my mouth.  I can remember Mother hovering over me and, at times, going about her duties of after-dinner clean-up.  Everyone else had left the table.

I could leave when I ate my corned beef.

I don't remember too many encouraging words uttered in my behalf, but I can remember some threats.  

The clock ticked on.  The corned beef glob on the plate got colder and even more repulsive.

In my child's mind, I'm sure I must have sat there two hours before finally picking up the fork, stabbing the glob, stuffing it in my mouth and not passing GO or collecting $200 before choking it down.

For some reason our menu at home never again included corned beef.  Maybe, just maybe that incident was as hard on Mother as it was on me.  

After all, having to stay in the kitchen for all that time to see that Marianne did eat her corned beef rather than stuffing it in her pocket took time away from relaxing in the living room.

I never had any more corned beef encounters until college---at least up close and personal corned beef encounters.

We could smell it clear across campus. I'd step out of a classroom on my way back to Carter Hall, detect the nauseating aroma of corned beef and cabbage and announce to whoever would listen, "I'm NOT going to dinner tonight." 

Seemed like they had corned beef and cabbage at least once a week, and on those weeks, before dinner was served, the University of Idaho campus air rivaled that of Lewiston's, where the distinctive paper mill smell alerts travelers that they're close to the city on the river.

On corned beef and cabbage night at Wallace Complex, I probably just smoked more cigarettes (to drown out the smell) and nibbled on treats from the vending machines.

Remarkably, I've not had a corned beef and cabbage encounter since those days in the 1960s. 

The dish has never been on our family menu, and I've not gone to any St. Paddy's Day events-----until last night.

It was the monthly Friends and Family Dinner at The Bridge.  When I walked in the door, my nose told me what was on the menu.

Now, ya can't stuff things in milk cartons or sit and stare at your food for two hours when you've come to enjoy dinner with your 90-year-old mother.  When Willie showed up, I whispered in his ear, "If you don't like the corned beef and cabbage, I'll buy you a pizza after dinner." 

Well, I'm here to announce on this March 21, 2012, just three months short of my 65th birthday that I've been short-changing my palate for most of my life.

Having to act civilized and mature, I put some corned beef on my plate, along with carrots, cabbage and potatoes, figuring on eating the potatoes, cabbage and carrots while making it look like I'd at least sampled the corned beef.

There's always a first in life, and last night, in front of my mother, my son and Joyce Boeck, who told me this was the fourth corned beef and cabbage meal she'd had in a week, I cut off a bite, put it in my mouth AND LIKED IT!

I cleaned my plate.  So did Willie.  So did my mother.

No threats, no hiding the food.  Instead, enthusiastic raves about how good everything tasted.

Now, I don't know if I'm gonna go to town and buy up all the corned beef left from St. Paddy's day specials, but I do know that there are moments in life we remember about facing certain foods.

I shall not forget March 20, 2012.  From this day forth, it will stand on my life's timeline as a very good day, the day of my corned beef epiphany. 

As far as personal paradigm shifts on rice and liver----I don't think that's gonna happen.