Editor’s note: This commentary is by Walt Amses, a writer who lives in North Calais.
The Class 4 road is long, straight and mostly flat after an initial, fairly short incline that’s just enough to jump start our circulation. Although less than a mile from home we’ve not been on this empty stretch for years, since at least one of the kids — now adults — was portable enough to ride my back like a rodeo cowboy. It’s a typical late autumn afternoon, cloudy and chilly with intermittent snow pellets rattling through the skeletal trees, onto the deep brown leaves that litter the woods around us, prompting a rush of memories that weirdly (at first) include meat loaf.
Seriously. Forget that I haven’t eaten anything with legs or wings for 35 years, I just can’t seem to help myself. It could be my mother — whose sense of personal betrayed at my going meatless decision was palpable — haunting me from the great beyond, where all good sons eat what’s put in front of them. Or it might be the ghost of Al’s Diner in Jersey City, where meat loaf in the wee small hours was the perfect culmination of many a late night college expedition.
As the bars were closing and parties winding down, Al’s was just cranking up, its greasy aroma wafting through the adjacent neighborhood, an intoxicating siren song to a wandering horde of stoners who would soon hypnotically occupy the leatherette counter stools, marveling at the ambidextrous grill dude, whose double-spatula magic show slathered on another layer of buzz.
Simultaneously dealing with every conceivable variation of eggs, their myriad sidekicks — ham, bacon, sausage and home fries, as well as burgers, fries and even T-bone steaks sizzling in the broiler, he never faltered, never seemed to rush but never stopped moving. He was a one man assembly line: fluidly plating and slapping down one meal, ripping the next slip from the receipts strung across the tiled wall like miniature Buddhist prayer flags, and shouting “order up” at regular intervals. It was the only time I remember hearing his voice.
I chuckle as the snow begins falling a little more earnestly, realizing that however much I loved meat loaf and no matter how long it’s been since I ate it, it’s really more of a metaphor for the sense of well-being food provides to us all, particularly this time of year, especially on a day like this. Our tendencies are similar to the bears who, prior to seeking out a secluded winter den, first look to packing on a few extra pounds to tide them over. We humans have yet to evolve sufficiently to completely abandon dancing our circadian rhythm two-step when the light fades and the temperature drops.
Just as every culture has its own specific bread — naan or roti from India, tortillas from Mexico, matzo from Israel, and even cornbread from the southern United States — as well as unique comfort foods ranging from mac and cheese to pierogi to moussaka to Irish stew, there are numerous variations on meat loaf from around the world. Although mentioned in Roman cookery as early as the fifth century, meat loaf was first brought to America by Germans who settled in colonial Pennsylvania, but not appearing in cookbooks until the 19th century.
Though I’m not certain of what combination of meats went into Mom’s or Al’s meatloaf, I know that onions, fried in advance, were generously folded into both. In other countries the ingredients often included other vegetables, garlic, ham and cheese, but what shows up most frequently in foreign recipes is hard-boiled eggs. From Puerto Rico to Italy, Hungary to Greece, Germany to the Czech Republic, and depending on who you believe, the eggs are included either as a strictly decorative addition, to help the loaf cook more evenly, or to add a measure of protein to what in many cases began with less expensive cuts of meat.
There has even emerged a “loaf,” courtesy of the American prison system, that many inmates suggest might be illegal, since it arguably meets the criteria for cruel and unusual punishment. Called variously nutraloaf, lockup loaf, seg loaf and grue — along with a number of unprintable epithets — this aberration was considered so odious that it was ordered discontinued in Arkansas by the 8th Circuit Court in 1978, an order upheld by the United States Supreme Court. “Discomfort food”anyone?
As we head for home, I realize Mom passed more than 30 years ago but still manages to show up in spirit at various moments, the impending holidays’ nostalgia bringing us back to those long ago times where every celebratory thing I remember seemed to center on delicious meals. Al’s Diner is gone too, closed in 2010, the mostly harmless, middle-of-the-night altercations I remember, having escalated from arguments to fists and eventually to firearms, creating an increasingly risky and untenable business proposition.
The first measurable snow of the year is quickly obliterating the forest floor, which we may not see again for six months. Other than our footsteps, all sounds are muffled, the ethereal silence adding to the solitude we’re grateful to experience, especially in a world feeling more wildly out of control with every passing day.
I’m happy to have stopped thinking about food … for a few minutes anyway … but that fallen log, with a dusting of powdered snow coating the top sure looks beautiful … kind of like a cannoli.
