Why I’d be a lousy Line Cook.

Several months ago, I joined a group of my fellow men’s group members from the Church to prepare breakfast for local high school students. It was my maiden voyage in the project; I cautioned this new effort since my only previous skills came from obtaining the Cooking Merit Badge when I was 11.

The kitchen in our Church would be perfect for a medium-sized restaurant; it has a huge gas stove with industrial-sized burners. I soon found myself assigned to frying about 100 sausage patties using two large cast-iron frying pans. Hardly the equipment for a timid, inexperienced chef.

I live in the South, so sausage is crucial for any breakfast project. I had to get these patties cooked perfectly; no overcooking allowed. At the mid-point of my effort, one of the more experienced team members leaned over and asked me if I’d used the meat thermometer to check the proper cooking temperature for each patty.

I looked from the pile of cooked patties to my colleague and confessed, No, I hadn’t. Just as I wondered what I’d do to correct this fatal mistake, he laughed and said he was kidding. Whew, crisis averted. Everything went well, and 35 high school seniors soon lined up for the meal. They didn’t seem to mind that we were serving sausage patties, pancakes (another team member is the pancake king), and eggs for lunch. I’d not seen the damage 35 teenagers can do to a food line in quite a while; it was a marvel to behold (one healthy young man ate 12 pancakes).

For me, this was fun, and I’m now a permanent volunteer; however, I did realize that I’d be a lousy line cook in any diner, especially Waffle House.

An average of 150 WW2 vets die every day.

My friend, Fred, was one of them.

I stood alongside members of Fred’s family and friends to honor my friend for the last time. He was a neighbor, church companion, daredevil driver, an enthusiastic gardener, and a wonderful dad and husband.

He lived right up the street from me; he and his lovely wife, Ruth, drove by endless times each week. If they could see my car in the driveway, they’d invariably stop by to “visit,” as they say in the South. In Church, Ruth would often sit behind me, and Fred, in his self-appointed role of photographer-in-chief, would busy himself snapping photos of anyone who came into his view. They were loved and respected by everyone.

While Fred had so much to be proud of, he spoke most enthusiastically about an “Honor Flight” that he and other veterans were able to take to Washington, DC. The flight and all expenses are paid by a local merchant. The group flies round-trip to DC on a chartered plane and is met by volunteers who take them on extended guided tours of the military monuments and sites in Washington.

He simply could not stop talking about the trip and what it meant to the group, as well as to him personally. I happened to be at the airport here when one of the flights was boarding for a trip (not Fred’s). Before boarding, the veterans were like children on their first outing; they were so excited they couldn’t sit still. When the plane taxied out for take-off, two airport fire trucks came alongside, giving them a gigantic 2-barrel water cannon send-off. It was a beautiful sight; everyone around me cheered as loudly as possible for them.

Fred, I miss you; I am so proud to have been a part of your final ceremony.

You must see The Pieta in Rome.

In a city like Rome, art, history, and the Spiritual World are all intertwined. or most visitors to Rome, Ground Zero is St. Peter’s. This is a Church that soars and surprises. While the dome is legendary, in a quiet alcove, you’ll see Michelangelo’s most famous sculpture, carved from a block of Carrara marble, The Pieta.

This sculpture radiates an incredible sense of peace, even from behind the protective glass. After a horrible incident in 1977 where an individual damaged the Pieta with a hammer, it was encased in bulletproof glass. 

It wasn’t always protected like that, and when I first visited to see it, I could stand right next to it, feeling the smooth marble and touching the small marble band where Michelangelo had chiseled his own signature for all to see.  This is the only sculpture he signed. I took this photo during my last visit to Rome. While I couldn’t touch it again, I could certainly feel its power.

 

 

We heard the sound of honor.

Photos are essential to me.

For seafood in San Francisco, head to Swan Oyster Depot. Say hello to Steve.

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My family and I have been going to Swan since I was a little boy. Over time, I’ve visited many, many times, and each time I walk away thinking of my next visit. I live on the East Coast now; however, as soon as possible after arrival in San Francisco, I head for my first meal there, and even if there’s a front line (which there nearly always is), it’s worth it.

Now this is incredible.

Dolly, you said it!

Dolly, you are fantastic; you have described the perfect way to live your life. Long before her superstardom, a local Knoxville grocer named Cas Walker sponsored a radio show; at the age of 10, in 1956, Dolly began her remarkable career in singing and songwriting.

People everywhere suffer from economic, social, and medical issues, yet they, like you, find ways to help others. I’d like to be more like you, for sure. I live about 25 miles from where Dolly was born and raised; she is our local heroine. She’s a part of the fabric of Eastern Tennessee, having started her career on a local radio show and gone on to achieve global fame and recognition for doing the right thing.

She’ll surely never, ever rust out.

A vital business tool has disappeared.

How to feed 700,000 people at one event.