Sir, There's Something In My Drink

Remember Church Lady on SNL? Well, just switch the word Satan to Soda. That’s how I felt the other night.

I had the worst dining experience Tuesday night when I met my sister, Alicia, and her daughter, Trisha, at a halfway point on Beltway 8 to pass over the sewing machine my daughter was giving to Trisha. We met at the Chili’s grill & bar at the junction of the Beltway and the Fort Bend Toll Road. I am giving you specific directional details because I want to help anyone I know and/or don’t know avoid this place. If you do not heed my warning you will be dining at your own risk. Or, maybe it will give you something to write a snarky blog about.

Now, I am not going to disparage the place because it was a lame mid week night. I am going to blast it because they seem to only stock items that are the most common customer choices, which I understand because food costs need to be kept below 30% of your expenses in order to make money. But where the industry really makes money is the combination of good food, good service and alcohol.

I ordered a gin and tonic. The waitress brought me gin and soda. I sent it back. The second drink was brought exactly as the first was mixed - with soda. I sent it back. The bartender came over and tried to tell me that it WAS tonic. It is the tonic they get from their vendor and that is the brand they buy. I asked for the floor manager to accompany me to the bar. I asked the bartender to make it in front of me. He didn't pour the tonic from a bottle. He dispensed it from the gun unit that has water, the common colas and soda. I pointed out the fact that he dispensed it from the gun. THE MANAGER also tried to argue that it was tonic, not soda. He said they have both hooked up. So then I dropped the devil in the details: Since I patronize a bar, uh, every now and then, I have learned a little something about bar set up. The individual hoses in those guns with the push buttons are connected to lines that run through the walls and connect to huge boxes with bladders (like the boxed wine you can buy) way back in a room near the kitchen. This is not a walk-in cooler. Then I noted that tonic is water with Quinine in it. It has a different carbonation process and IT REQUIRES REFRIGERATION. Those boxes with the bladders of coke, diet coke and soda are stacked on shelves in a room that is kept at room temp, because there are other items being stored in that same room. 

At this point the manager shuffles and asks if I want something else since I didn't like their brand of tonic. (Was that a ding?) I repeated IT IS NOT TONIC. I glanced at the bar and observed that the elevated shelf system has an array of lovely bottles promising all manner of blends and flavors. What choice to make? There were so many. I asked if he could make a Rusty Nail. The bartender said yes and that he'd bring it right over. I cautiously waited to see what Mr. splish-splash-makin-trash came up with. As I waited, the usual hamster in the wheel in my head starts to turn. I could visualize him making a new acquaintance at a party and the conversation going something like:

So what do you do for a living?

I am a Cocktail Chemist, Sultan of Shake, Cocktologist, Liquid Savant, Maitre de Bar, Master Mixologist, Bar Chef, Drink Consultant, Spiritual Advisor, Cocktail Specialist, Mixmaster, Barartist, Cocktail Chef, Liquid Architect, Alchemist, Barmaster, Consultant Bartender, Liquidologist, Mixology Master, Consultant of Bar, Liquid Libationist. Yeah. . . . . that’s the ticket. . . .

Wow, where did you study and work?

The Savoy in London, and I was the sommelier for Butter in New York.

Butter?

Yeah….where Alex Guarnaschelli is the Executive Chef. Yeah, you kind of have to run in my circle to know these things.

I could see this dude making up all kinds of stuff. Good grief! He’s working for Chili’s between Pearland and Missouri City. And he certainly didn’t study anywhere. If he was trained, even at Chili's, someone did a terrible job. His only claim to experience was when he probably got drunk at the Hooter’s across from the BFE Junior College.

My drink arrived - wrong. Wrong color, wrong taste and he added SODA to it. Sigh, I was doomed to be haunted by soda for the evening. I asked him if he knew what the recipe was..........uh, uh, uh......I said "equal parts Drambuie and Scotch, and Chevis is the best Scotch to mix with, and there IS NO SODA in it.  Just bring me a Jack and Coke." As he walked away I mumbled loud enough for Alicia and Trisha to hear, "Can't screw that up too much. A jigger of Jack Daniels and some ice cubes and fill the rest of the glass with Coke from the gun.....oh, wait......there is soda lurking in the gun. He'll probably hit the wrong button." My Jack and Coke arrived very pale in color.  Jack is dark. Cola is dark. Why was it so pale?  After the third sip the gasoline started to burn. I think he put equal parts Jack and Coke and topped it off with Everclear just to get back at me. I nearly gagged on it. Now I am thinking that they only stock the average stuff their clientele wants to drink and not bother to spend the money on other liquors. I bet those gorgeous bottles were filled with colored water. At the rate my drinks were going I would have been just as well off by ordering a water and Red Dye No. 40!

On top of that, food delivery was over 45 minutes and it was awful. They screwed up Trisha's order and her drink. Alicia went tame and got a burger. Our appetizer of skillet queso gave me the willies. We were expecting what was cited on the menu as a warm queso dip with taco seasoned ground beef served in a hot, miniature skillet. Give me a break! It was Hormel chili out of a can......... The kind of chili that will give Boy Scouts the runs on a camping trip, and if there was cheese in it, this cheese hound couldn't sniff it out. 

However, I did leave my waiter and waitress a decent tip. I could not fault them for bad management or an untrained bartender. On top of that, it was the waiter’s first day and the waitress’s second day. I did note that Manager-Dude was tending to the waitress he was training, fluttering around her like a butterfly drawn to a flower, but First-Day-Waiter-Boy was left on his own. Things that make you go hmmmmmm.

Not A Good Fit

It was a time of reverence. It was a time or mourning. It was the passing of one season to another in the seamless grace of time. It was – wait a minute. . . . What’s that sound made while dragging the needle across a vinyl record on the turn table? This is me talking about my family. Nothing is ever seamless or graceful and, with me in the picture, reverence barely comes in to play.

I have been writing for years about life with my mother. Writing was one of the few things that helped me set aside my angst over dealing with her. What made me very frustrated with her when she wouldn’t cooperate quite often became very funny many moons later. Go back and read the piece from 2009 about the ugly sweat shirt she wanted to wear to church. I was fighting her about changing into something in better condition. She was being obstinate. I was going to be late for my own church across town, and I didn’t want her church friends calling Adult Protective Services on me after I dropped her off wearing that dreadful, tacky, ragged shirt. I ended the argument in an instant by cutting it up the middle while she flailed her arms trying to argue. Just the visual that comes to mind is still funny now. But it wasn't funny at the time.

The time had come for that final walk on the path of Alzheimer’s. Mother passed away on the night of October 5^th. We did the usual family discussions about what to do next and gave ourselves time to get everything done since she had a prepaid funeral package complete with cremation and disposal instructions. We made the appointment with the funeral director. We began with items we knew she would have chosen. Then he asked us about other details, such as a viewing/visitation evening, did we want her in an urn on someone’s mantle, were we scattering the ashes or were we going straight from cremation to internment. We decided on no viewing, just straight to internment. When it came time to inter the ashes we decided not to waste money on an urn but go with a container that could be bolted shut and buried. We were given transport documents to allow her travel in one of our cars across the state line of Texas/Oklahoma. I spoke up and told them a friend informed me that closing and opening a grave, even a small one, was cheaper on a weekday opposed to a weekend due to manpower costs. Then we were presented with our options: did we want the cemetery crew to open and close the grave for us, or did we want to do it ourselves?

Now here is where you get to understand my family better. I will just do this sentence style, but with some of the conversation condensed, and the “I” is not always referring to myself:

I have a brand new folding army shovel.

Isn’t Oklahoma full of boulders and rocks? That could take a while.

Well, I could rent a backhoe from Home Depot.

The nearest Home Depot is probably about 2 hours away.

I don’t think a back hoe could dig a nice, square hole. It will take you forever,

We would need a truck to transport it.

And what if it rains?

Let’s just let them do it.

How big is the container?

Two by Two, and a little deeper than two and it has to be at least two feet down.

Heck, that is not very big. We can dig it.

No, we are not.

We decide on paying for the opening and closing by the cemetery employees in Oklahoma. The funeral director sent the dimensions of the box, along with instructions that are per the State of Texas requirements.

On Saturday, October 18^th we had a touching memorial service for mother with a collage of pictures of her throughout her life recorded on a DVD with the images fading in an out while lovely music played. On a prerecorded DVD my daughter created a moving tribute of my mother’s love of being a grandparent with pictures of all the grandchildren over the course of their life with mother. I did the eulogy that consisted of two humorous stories, one of which was from the blog post titled “Baby Magic.” The other set up the fact that your grandparent is the first person to teach you how to not reveal all the truth to you parents. I am sure that phrase “your mother does not need to know about this” has been said to every one of mother’s grandchildren. Then I read my poetic work that was inspired by her watercolor of a pink rose. That work is also posted on the blog and is simply titled The Watercolor. There were a few tears, but there was more peace and understanding that this was the end of a long journey with her. We truly lost her many years earlier. This was the seamless change of one season to another.

Sunday, we traveled to Oklahoma City to our hotel and had a nice meal with our cousin, Greg. We asked Greg to do a graveside reading and something comforting from the Bible. The next day we drove far out into the countryside east of the city to Wetumka. (Please note that we passed about 65 casinos, but no Home Depot.)

We gathered at the headstone with my father’s name already carved on the surface. Greg read the 23^rd Psalm and said some comforting words about our passing from this life and what we, as Christians, believe. His words were lovely. It was a gorgeous, sunny day with a cool breeze blowing. Two of the men in our party opened the container for a couple of granddaughters to drop sweet notes inside. They closed the container, handing my brother the instrument used to seal the lid so he could place the tool inside the elegant wood and glass case that houses the flag that was draped over our father’s casket. Then the men slowly lifted the container and walked it to the hole to lower it down. Clunk. The hole was not big enough. Even though the box was a square 2x2, they rotated it once and tried again. Clunk. They jiggled it. They worked it back and forth in hopes it would dislodge whatever might have been preventing it from sliding into its resting place. Clunk.

Again, in sentence fashion and condensed, this is what transpired:

A stifled “OOPS” was uttered.

My brother said, “Dang it! I knew I should have brought my shovel.

I start the “trying not to laugh” coughing spell.

(We could not look at each other for fear we would burst out laughing.)

Did anyone see the grave diggers on the grounds on their way in?

Yup, passed them in a beat up red truck near the entrance.

My brother in law jumped into their rented passenger van and headed up front, only to return with no one behind him.

Maybe we should go look for a shovel to make the opening wider?

Should we go ahead and tell our tender stories. In my mind I added: “while we listen to the soothing sounds of a shovel slicing into the dirt, hitting rock, a possible Dang It uttered, followed by the sound of dirt being dumped on the other pile with a sound slightly similar to a cow dropping a patty in the barn yard.”

Another giggle was heard, but it was not I.

We spotted the grave diggers waiting for us to get moving so they can eat their sandwich for lunch.

It was determined to ask them to come over and help us.

Discussion about timing ensued A. keep going with stories (again my mind goes there: “while soothing dirt sounds fill our memories, plop, plop, plop”) B. wait for them to dig while we stand idle? C. ask them to wait and go ahead with stories ?

The family member standing next to me lost it when I muttered the line “while we listen to the soothing sounds of a shovel slicing into the dirt, followed by the sound of dirt being dumped on the other pile with a sound slightly similar to a cow dropping a patty in the barn yard.”

They lost it, and, in typical childhood fashion, punched me and said “Shut up!” while they lost total control of their laughter.

Mom probably looked down and said, “Yes, that’s my bunch of knuckleheads, alright.”

Butterscoth Thins

Found a new cookie recipe. Folks, these are rich and buttery.

Butterscotch Thins
Melt over hot (not boiling) water.
6 oz. pkg. (1 cup) butterscotch morsels
(Be advised – the morsels now come in 11 oz. pkgs. – need to measure)
1/2 cup butter
Remove from heat.

Beat in:
2/3 cup firmly packed brown sugar
1 egg

Sift together and stir into mixture:
1 1/3 cups flour
3/4 tsp. baking soda

 Add 1/3 cup chopped nuts & 3/4 tsp vanilla.
Chill. Shape into 12” rolls. Wrap in waxed paper; Chill thoroughly (4-6 hours)
Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Unwrap dough and slice very thin. Bake at 375 for 5-6 min. Cool slightly and remove from baking sheet.

I am sure people were wondering why several of us were ooing and aahhing at a funeral reception. Just saying - these cookies are that good.

Maria Schiessel Connor

As many of my friends and readers have learned, I grew up fairly poor. I have learned a lot of lessons on the path I had to travel in life. I have pitied myself, patted myself on the back, admitted to stumbling over harsh realities, and I have acknowledged a number of people who helped mold me into the woman I am today. But there is one woman I now wish I had the opportunity to know better. I am sure I would be so much richer in - let's call it depth - if I had the chance to sit at her feet and hear from her lips her experiences. Sadly, I did not know this fabulous woman's story until she passed away.

The woman I am referring to was the mother of my friend Chris. Chris and I came to know each other when I worked for League City United Methodist Church. For over seven years Chris and I had casual conversations, did lunch every now and then, and I had fun doing the occasional alteration or addition to her daughter's prom gowns. We did not really get to be close friends back then, but there was something about our relationship that gave me the knowledge she was a trusted confidant and someone I would like to be much closer to someday. However, life with my mother stepped in the way, but not before I had a chance to meet Chris' mother.

A few years ago, Chris and her family were due for a vacation just about the time her mother, Maria, was having problems with her eyes. I volunteered to step in and help. It was a simple task.......just go over during my lunch hour and put drops in her eyes. I went with Chris to meet her so Maria would feel more comfortable about having a stranger come in her home. We spoke a bit. I learned a little of her history. She was a WWII bride from Germany. She had this lyric tone to her voice. I learned she read magazines in German and still spoke her native language to her friends in the home country. She was fascinating to meet. I spent a few extra minutes when I dropped in, selfishly enjoying the sound and the vibe of this woman. I now know I was barely scratching the surface of her life, while her daughter never uttered a word of the past that shaped this interesting person.

I recently attended a retreat for women sponsored by the church where I am employed. I played the piano, met new people and learned about things that can make us strong. One of the speaker's presentations involved a bunch of cards of artwork. She instructed us to choose a card that made us feel poor and one that made us feel rich. For my poor card I chose a print of a painting by the French artist Paul Cezanne. It is a rough painting of a viaduct in the French hills. The landscape is harsh with rocky outcrops and dirt streets. It was a grim reminder of growing up in an unfinished house with hardly any amenities. For my rich card I chose a 19th Century artwork titled A Stolen Rose. I grew up with visions of being a girl in a castle wearing elegant gowns, and boy, would I have loved to have been wooed by a handsome gentleman on an elegant steed ready to whisk me away to fairyland heaven! Yeah, that didn't happen.

On Valentine's Day of 2014, Maria Schiessel Connor left this earth. She had lived at home, with some assistance at the end, spending the last couple of years blind, but capable and determined to stay in her own home. I voiced my concern to Chris about her being alone, but Chris assured me she was okay and managing. Chris took her lunch every day and checked on her and spent time with her in the evenings and weekends. I had no clue why Chris was so sure of her mother's ability to be strong enough to be left at home. I say that because I was clueless until I attended Maria's visitation service at the funeral home. This was no helpless little old lady who had been some cosseted stay at home mother. This was an amazingly resourceful woman. Let me just cut to the chase and type her obituary. If you don't go WOW at the end of it when you realize what she risked, what she did and what transpired, then you are just dumber than a box of rocks.

Her story read: "Maria Schiessel Connor passed away peacefully after a brief illness, surrounded by her loving family and caregivers. Maria is survived by her daughter Christel (and then it lists all the other family members, all of whom I have not contacted to gain permission to print names, but I think Chris will forgive me for putting her name out on the internet)......

Maria was born in Hassfurt, Germany, the second of eight siblings. She met her first husband, Erich Esche, in a bomb shelter in Berlin during the height of World War II. They married shortly thereafter. Unfortunately, Erich died six months later in the war. After escaping from a Russian prison camp Maria made her way to the American military base in Frankfurt where she worked as a seamstress in the tailor shop, and because they offered a free daily meal. There she learned to speak English by reading American comic books. She met many soldiers and officers but only Elmer Connor caught her eye. She married her tall Texan in 1953 and they moved to the States. She became Aunt Maria in the Connor family and during their 28 years together reared two children. After her children were grown she would babysit for Clear Lake United Methodist Church. She found much joy in the young children, and kept in touch with them over the years."

Hello?!? Meet your husband in a bomb shelter, then lose him in the worst war ever? Escape from a Russian prison camp while not knowing what happened to those left behind? Leave the world you know and learn a new language and take a chance on life after your heart was just broken? How dare I bemoan my lot in life! How do I compare the life-lessons I've learned compared to this powerful story of a young woman who faced things I could not dream of being strong enough to face. Standing in that chapel as I read those words in that program - I literally stopped breathing.

And, oh, to have known her better. What I could have learned from her life. The world had someone to look up to and only a handful of people knew. . .  Those postcards of the paintings I posted above, chosen to symbolize my life and my dreams, cannot compare to the larger than life mural that would have illustrated Maria Schiessel Connor.