Sunday dinners were usually a
feast, prepared by my Dad’s mother or my mom.
We’d return from church to find a meal that was always a surprise. How they were able to prepare this all at
once and have it all deliciously warm and ready to eat at the same time was a
mystery. Laid out on the kitchen counter
was a buffet to drool over. The aromas
of home-cooking tickled our nostrils and shiny, empty plates summoned us to
eat.
Homemade bread, ham and
turkey or chicken fought the corn on the cob, mashed potatoes, and sweet
potatoes for space on the counter like tourists crowding into a hotel
elevator. Pitchers of lemonade and sweet
tea stood guard, while we lined up, kids first, then lucky guests, followed by
parents and grandparents, each eagerly nudging the preordained person ahead to
move along. Green beans, lima beans, and
field peas preserved fresh from our backyard garden smiled up at us, while
fresh tomatoes and cucumbers grinned a happy hello, and we returned their
welcome with a grateful serving spoon dipped hungrily into their bowls. Homemade potato salad. Yeast rolls.
And for dessert, a German chocolate cake, prepared impossibly from
scratch, sat surveying the Branner banquet, patiently waiting to join in.
The menu varied slightly,
Sunday to Sunday, and on Thanksgiving and Christmas Days, it was enhanced by a
turkey, some cranberry sauce and stuffing, and more family. It was as if Mom was trying to prepare
everything she knew how to cook, all at once.
There was always a group prayer before the meal, led by my Dad, either
at the table or in a circle created by holding the warm hand standing
supportively beside you.
My father enjoyed this
moment, this quiet minute of attention, as much as he enjoyed grilling steaks
every Saturday night for his immediate family.
For some a symbol of success is a fancy car, a vacation, or being able
to provide a bicycle for each of your children; for my dad, I think, it was
steaks. Grilled to perfection and
coupled with a baked potato, garlic bread, and some oysters or shrimp, we
gathered around the Saturday evening dinner table to enjoy the fruits of his
success. Proudly he would take his place
at the head of the table and one of us would humbly pray, “God is great, God is good, thank you Lord
for all this food. Amen”.
Medical training changed all
that. Gone were the all-you-can-eat meal plans of my college days and the time
to steal a trip home to enjoy the Saturday steaks and the Sunday family
buffets. Now there were trips to an
unfamiliar grocery store where I would purchase generic sliced sandwich meat, bargain
bread, hard pretzels and some cheap TV dinners.
On Sundays I would take a
break from my studies to make my lunches for the week. Ten pieces of bread, some mustard, and five
slices of meat combined and stacked into five sandwich bags and tossed in the
freezer for me to grab on my way to the bus every morning. On Saturdays to celebrate the weekend, I
would substitute some peanut butter and jelly
And gulp down a TV dinner that night.
I tried cooking. I hopelessly
deciphered recipes my mom had written on index cards for me, but even the
simple ones, like “Get a pot. Fill it
with water. Boil it. Put in some pasta.” only depressed me.
But, for some feel-good food,
I always had a box of Little Debbie Ho Hos, those magnificent chocolate-rolled,
cream-filled pieces of manna from heaven.
My old friend, Don, watched
me trying to live on a student loan budget and losing weight, a penny-pinching
hermit studying my life away. His friend,
a sophomore Carolina Cheerleader at UNC, needed a date to a cheerleader party
after a football game and although she had an out–of-town boyfriend, Don talked her in to giving me a call. A pity date. And one great thing came out of my
starvation. After our first date, Toni
and I eventually married. And we starved
together.
On clinical days, a couple of
my medical school buddies and I discovered that cans of Ensure, a high calorie,
complete nutrition drink, were stored on the Cancer Ward in the Nurse’s Supply
Room and through acute scientific observation we found that if a patient died,
his allocation of Ensure would not be used.
Every third night when it was my turn to stay on the hospital wards, I
would detour to the Cancer Ward, duck into the Nurse’s Supply room and if a
patient had died, grab a couple of cans of Ensure. They had three flavors, Vanilla, Strawberry
and my favorite, Chocolate. And they were
better on ice.
Welcome were the visits from
family, parents, Toni’s aunt and uncle, anyone, who would, God willing, take us
out to eat. On those special occasions
we could ignore the prices and just order from the left side of the menu. And several times we were moved to tears when
we discovered that after our visitors had gone, our refrigerator was filled
with leftovers and our freezer stocked with steaks.
One especially beautiful
Chapel Hill spring day, our money depleted and our cabinets dark and barren, we
collected our loose change to buy some bread and peanut butter for sandwiches
to last us until our next student loan check. Walking to the hospital, already tired that day and not knowing what medical misadventure
would challenge me, wearing my hospital scrubs and white coat and my stomach
gurgling, my mind wandered to images of more secure and satiated times
past. Our family, hands clasped,
gathered around a tantalizing Sunday turkey.
Homemade potato salad. Yeast
rolls. Dad’s proud face chewing on a
Saturday steak. My mom’s homemade German
chocolate cake.
I stopped at the familiar
crosswalk, alone, my stomach growling, and waited hungrily for the “DON’T WALK”
sign to change.
“God, what am I doing? Please send me a sign.“ I silently prayed while an unyielding campus
bus, then several cars whizzed coldly by me.
And then to the left waiting
to turn across my crosswalk, I saw it. A
Little Debbie delivery truck.
The Little Debbie delivery
truck turned across my path, its rear door swinging wildly, left open by its
distracted driver. A large tray, full of
Little Debbie Ho Hos ejected from the truck cargo hold, landed sweetly on the
crosswalk before me, its contents spilling onto the road, its unaware driver
continuing on. The sun’s rays reflected
off the packages strewn before me, a surreal glow emanating from them as the
traffic sounds muffled and movement around me blurred and slowed.
The crosswalk sign changed to
“WALK”. God had sent me a sign. Ho Hos! Ho Hos! Manna from Blue Heaven! If
I had a tail, I’d have wagged it.
Passersby likely still talk
of a strange Chapel Hill morning when they watched a doctor standing in the
middle of a busy road, shamelessly stuffing packages of Ho Hos into the deep
pockets of his white coat, then into his mouth, grinning a creamy chocolate-coated
smile at the audience around him as he scurried toward the hospital, feeling full,
renewed and restored.
