Better

Better

For decades, the best part of having a Dad who was a member (and often President) of the local Civitan's Club in North Carolina was the Brunswick stew. The group, mainly consisting of older guys, made themselves useful by performing acts of civic awareness. They built ramps for the wheelchair-bound in the community, they delivered food to homeless shelters, and did all sorts of cool things for people with developmental disabilities. And they raised money two ways; a hot dog stand at the city's 4th of July street fair, and an annual Brunswick Stew sale.

This was some heady stuff, this stew. Prepared in huge cauldrons, stirred for hours and hours and hours until the meat was a mass of stringy protein goodness, punctuated by the occasional corn kernel, tomato chunk, or lima bean. It was savory and sweet, and the best stuff ever. The Civitan's brunswick stew was, in my estimation, the food of... and for.... the Gods.

Whenever I returned for the holidays, Dad would make sure I had a quart or two in my name reserved and in the freezer. Sometimes I would take it back to Atlanta with me. Often, I would heat it up and eat it while at home. It was so amazingly good.

When Dad died, the supply of stew dwindled. As the wife of a beloved Civitan member, Mom was still invited to the functions. She rarely attended, because they made her sad. But each year, they gave her three quarts of stew. This year was no exception, and since I drove to see her this Thanksgiving, rather than fly, I took two quarts home with me. Well, technically, my friend Richard drove, and I kept him awake by constant yammering.

For years, I had touted this stew, this mythical meaty bowl of hard work and fatherly love. And on many occasions, I had tried to duplicate the recipe from memory. Using rotisserie chicken, lima beans (which I normally hate), corn and diced tomatoes, I would cook huge stew pots of the stuff all day, adding spices in moderation, and even a little sugar. The result was, in my estimation, awfully close. But I longed for the real thing, and for the first time in years, I was going to not only have the stuff, but be able to share it.

So Richard and I drove back from Thanksgiving, with two quarts of this stuff frozen in a cooler packed with bags of that artificial ice stuff. It was leftover from when I used to get IV drugs delivered to me that nasty month of the brain infection. Once again, Medicare came to my rescue by helping me transport these fragile, frozen canisters of childhood memories.

Took it home, and the next weekend, unfroze and reheated it. Richard and I sat down on the futon, with our rented movie all set to go. Not playing, though. I wanted to see his reaction to this stuff, talk about it, initiate someone else into the glory of this brunswick stew.

We ate.

He thought. And looked at me. Smiled a little, and said, “It's really really good. But you know something, Jonathan? I think I like yours better.”

I was floored. And I also agreed with him. This was really good stuff, don't get me wrong. But a little watery, where it should have been thick. And not so many vegetables, and just a little shy on the tomato. It just seemed.... I dunno.... faded.

Not entirely convinced, I fed it to my other friend Adam the next night. And he made essentially the same comment. Pretty good, but mine was better.

It was a weird moment for me. I had managed not only to recreate this dish form my childhood, but I had surpassed the original. Mine really was better. Was this an insult to the past? Was this somehow a slight to my dad, and the other sweet old men who, every year, slaved over this concoction? I felt guilty, at the same time I felt proud.

Maybe everyone has this moment, this adult rite of passage. Where something, be it a recipe, a skill or craft, something they take from their idyllic past, and improve on it. And suddenly the notion of things lost, things perfect in a perfect past, is no longer true. Suddenly we are struck with the idea that perfection, along with being impossible, is also subjective. A child's memory is not the same as an adult's reality. It was a funny moment for me.

I love to cook, and think I usually do a pretty good job of it. But it never occurred to me that I would be able to take something so treasured and sacred, and improve it. I did that with the brunswick stew.

And maybe with some other things too. The realization that I have real things to contribute, that I can honor my past and move it ahead into my future, is a sobering one. Because with that knowledge comes the duty to do it. My dad was a good man. I can be a good man too. I can take the mantle of family stewmaker and make it my own. And there might even be other things I have to offer, other gifts that, once aknowledged, become my responsibility to see to fruition. Like writing. Like embracing the idea of living, instead of cringing at the notion of dying. Like surpassing the person I was last year, last month, last week even.

Knowing that things are possible is a wonderful thing. It is also scary, because suddenly there are no excuses not to try. With this sudden burst of newfound health, I find myself beginning to think in terms far longer than ever before. And while this brings me joy beyond the telling of it, it is also forcing me to confront old demons, dreams laid aside, and limitations imposed on me by a depleted body. I am forced to re-examine old relationships of all sorts, and decide what, exactly, I expect. What I feel I deserve, and move forward with a bravery I had not felt for years. I am Kirk, staring at the Genesis planet, watching life form all around me, within me. And I feel young.

For the first time in forever, I really feel young.