Wednesday, July 20, 2011

Fat Jack


This is me in high school. As you can see I was a chub. In fact, my nickname in high school was Fat Jack.

But when I went back to my 35th high school reunion recently , I looked as I do now. I was proud of my change/transformation. That's because I told myself Karma insured everyone else who was skinny in school was fat and I was skinny.

I really wasn't interested in going up to people who made fun of me in school. I was more interested in hanging with old friends who I had seen many times over the years who treated me like Jack without the fat.

And yet, I had to talk to just ONE person, someone who made fun of me just as a way to show off, just like in some bad TV movie about the ugly duckling turned into a swan. Big mistake Former Fat Jack. Karma's a bitch and works its magic both ways.

After a few minutes of scanning the room, I found the perfect person. It was Cas Munoz,who was my gym teacher. He was the one who always taunted me for being last when we had to run laps around the track. He was old, he looked like a bulldog, and he liked to bark out orders. "Jason, run! Jason go to the showers."

Or sometimes just "Jason!"

Cas Munoz also happened to be the teacher who taught me how to drive. For that one summer in 1972 while a classmate whose name I can't remember sat in the back seat snapping her gum as a means to open and close the cold sores she had in the corners of her mouth and while Randy Cashion, the big bully who kept eyeing me in the rear view mirror, waiting for the right moment for Munoz to turn his head so Cashion could womp on me (just another word for beating the s@#^ out of someone), I was happy to sit behind the wheel humming to "Daniel" or "Song Sung Blue." For that one summer while Munoz maneuvered me around the white lines in the car with two sets of brakes, I was finally driving and I was happy. In the end when I got that little driving certificate, I was so proud that I could finally get behind the wheel of my inherited 1961 Ford Falcon that was peeling grey paint, that I didn't care I had to do it while sitting on a telephone book. Yea, I was fat AND short and my arm still hurt from Randy Cashion womping on me but I was now a licensed driver. It was boss.

So, now, 37 years later, as I walked up to him, I suddenly realized I didn't hold any grudges. Not against Randy, not against the other kids who called me Fat Jack. Not even against Cas MunozI was more interested in thanking Cas Munoz. And maybe I didn't need to show off. Maybe all I needed to do was to just thank him; let bygones be bygones.Thank him for teaching me how to drive.

That's because looking back, I realized that i've loved the times I've spent driving down the open road. Lots of times, I took road trips not because I wanted to go someplace but simply because I wanted to find a big stretch of open highway with a big black thunderstorm at the end or a blazing setting sun and just DRIVE. One summer I even drove 13,000 miles, through deserts, cornfields and big cites, eventually touching 38 states with the wheels of my Datsun B-210 with only an AM-FM radio to entertain me because it was there. When I got home, my car festooned with stickers from every tacky tourist attraction and Civil War memorabilia shop, I proudly proclaimed that if all else failed, I could be a truck driver; that's how much I loved the open road and the feel of a steering wheel in my hands.

Now, here I was once again with the guy who taught me how to drive. I considered Cas Munoz as he drank his cocktail. He looked the same, as if he hadn't aged a year. Same face that looked like a fist with eyes, same thinning hair. Then I overheard someone say he was 80. Only 80? Wasn't he 80 back then? And then I remembered how we perceive people older than us when we're young. If you don't believe me, just look at your high school yearbook. Then try and tell me students and teachers don't look older than teenagers and teachers look today.

Now I was in front of him, both of us adults. We could talk as equals, And now I would be doing something good because mom taught me it was always good to talk old people; you might learn something.

With an air of former-fatty-turned-skinny confidence, I cleared my throat, shot out my right hand.

"Hey Mr. Munoz, I'm Jack Jason and I just wanted to thank you for teaching me how to drive. Every time I get into a car, I think of you. I just wanted to tell you what a gift you gave me.

Then I added, "thanks for being my teacher."

Munoz cocked his head, considered my words for a moment and then looked over his glasses and got within three inches of my face. I could smell his aftershave and see the hairs in his nose (I'm still short).

Then he cleared his throat, and barked, quietly but just as if we were back on the field at San Leandro High School 35 years ago,

"Hey, you were fat..."

***********************************************

Today, I struggle to stay away from Fat Jack and vow daily never to be fat again. Former fatties know the next part. Sometimes the fat voice in your head gets too loud and you overdo it and get too skinny. In fact, all you have to do is watch my stint as interpreter for Marlee Matlin on Celebrity Apprentice. Someone commented that I looked like a Holocaust victim by week 12.

Though I professed to haveI an excuse - we never had TIME to eat because the producers kept everyone so busy making pizzas or running around finding camping equipment. In the end, sometimes I listened too much to the voice of Cas Munoz or the other kids who taunted me way back when that made me obsessed and kept me away from the carbs and sweets that made me fat when I was a kid.

But I eventually realized that all I needed to do was just chill. And make sure that as I get older, I STAY ACTIVE - some Spinnng, P90X, lots of hiking - and watch the dessets and sweets and definitely, no Cracker Barrel. It's pretty simple, really. Eat sensibly and definitely don't starve. Most of all, enjoy food but don't revolve your life around it. And go figure, my Grandmother lived to be 97 and pretty much ate whatever she wanted. It's all about moderation.

I still have that fat kid in my brain and I guess that's okay. It keeps me balanced. It keeps me on the edge. It keeps me sharp.

Mostly, it just keeps bullies from womping on me.


Friday, April 22, 2011

Evil Eggs, A Holiday Treat



Ah, the Deviled Egg. Everyone's favorite hoiday treat once you've realized that you've bought too many eggs for your Easter Egg hunt. Yes, the Deviled Egg. You'll find them on movie sets and family picnics; church socials and PTA meetings. The treat that's sure to please. And why not? Who could ever resist those little salmonella boats, just waiting to be eaten? Why even Fluffy, the cat, enjoys them too as she walks about unoticed on the dining room table.

And don't forget to let them sit out for at least a couple of hours to get nice and ripe. Nothing says Happy Easter better than four hours on the john after enjoying a warm and aromatic Deviled Egg!

Happy Easter..err, Eating, err..Passover!
655Jack

Sunday, March 20, 2011




It is a joyful day. Yes, today I found out where the delicious additives in Cracker Barrel's "healthy" string beans come from. They probably come from Hormel. The video above just reaffirms it.

You see the one and only time I ever ATE at Cracker Barrel was in Grand Rapids, Michigan. (I admit I've been to Cracker Barrel many times since as I've traveled the country because though I'm no fan of the restaurants, I can't get enough of the gift shops where tea cozy's made to look like barnyard animals and Coca Cola decks of cards with extra large print sit beside jars of foot long licorice whips and refrigerator magnets). There has never been anything on the Cracker Barrel menu for this finicky former fat boy with an acid reflux issue could eat; it was all pork, Pork, PORK with some red meat, brown/white/yellow sauces thrown in and lots of potato products. As we walked into the Cracker Barrel Restaurant with my family and cousins in Grand Rapids, I whined "I can't eat anything here. It's gross."

After employing a delaying tactic looking at the travel sized Sorry game in the gift shop, I finally decided I would be a team player and at least go into the dining room and SIT at the table. No sooner than I had sat down then my cousin said she had made a discovery.

"I found something YOU can eat."

My eyes scanned the giant tri-fold menu but all I could see was more variations of Arnold the Pig (name that vintage 60's TV show).

"They have string beans!" she pointed proudly. And there, under "sides" of corn succotash and creamed spinach were string beans. Simply string beans.

Great, string beans I thought. Give me a couple of buttermilk biscuits (without the pork gravy) and I guess I can call it a meal. What more could I expect from Cracker Barrel. The waitress didn't seem to mind that the little fussy guy from the Left Coast of the USA who, just a few moments earlier sat there with a disdainful look and who shook his head "no" when she asked if there was something he wanted to order, now was ready to order. "Coming right up," she said cheerfully.

For some reason the string beans took longer than everyone else's meal. While my family and cousins dug into their Country Fried Steaks and Gravy and Over Easy Runny Eggs on Hash, I waited patiently for my string beans. Well at least I had my glass of water in the mason jar with a handle to sip from.

Finally the beans arrived.

I have to admit the first bite was pure heaven; salty, creamy texture and just the right temperature, I didn't mind that they were covered with slivered almonds. They just tasted good. Now everyone was happy that I was happy (or they were just happy that I stopped whining). Oh frabjous day.

After a few minutes of "hmmm, these are good" and "wanna take a bite?" I decided to engage our waitress. I was just so happy there was something for me to eat. I motioned to her (I can't recall her name but she Somebody "Lou" like Betty or Joan) because I had to tell her how much I enjoyed the beans.

"Scuze me," I piped up as she poured some tap water into my mason jar with a handle, "but I had to tell you how much I LOVE these string beans with slivered almonds."

"Why, thank yew!" She was as proud of them as if she cooked them herself.

Ever eager to find a way to continue the conversation with Somebody Lou, because, face it, everyone else was too into their gravy, ham hocks and potato skins, I asked her if she could tell me how they made the string beans. Were they steamed with a little butter? Parboiled and then tossed with some oil like canola or olive? Or were they flash fried, then tossed in a baking dish and lightly seasoned with herbs and sprayed with Pam?

"They're made with bacon fat.."

The whole room fell silent while everyone looked to see what my reaction would be.

"B-b-b-b-acon FAT?"

"Yep! Good isn't it?"

I realized then that no amount of sticking my finger down my throat (forget that I have a fear of vomiting that I will elaborate in another blog posting) or greasy buttermilk biscuits would erase the damage to my esophagus/stomach lining/duodenum/small and large intestine that I imagined, let alone the image of my long passed Grandmother who now loomed it front of me because she was the one who made me throw out the little Christmas tree I brought home from school or who taught us that bacon and all pork products were evil just because we were Jewish.

BACON. FAT.

I had eaten nearly half of plate of string beans and the other half sat on there in a pool of slivered almonds and slightly yellow and cream colored liquid that was basically liquified lard. It was then I realized I would have to make a choice. Push away from the table and never set foot in Cracker Barrel ever again; or suck it up.

I sucked it up.

In fact, I ate it up and used my biscuit to finish off the sauce. For me, it was pretty disgusting but damn they tasted good! While I ate the rest of the beans, everyone else at the table sat in disbelief. I had crossed the pork barrier and there was no turning back; acid indigestion, the runs, and eternal Jewish hell (aka eternal guilt) be damned.

655Jack was eating pork meat trimmings and pig lard. And I liked it.

Guess I can check Cracker Barrel String Beans made with bacon fatt off of my pork bucket list.