Happy Birthday, Myrtle
By S.E. Schaible
My mother Myrtle was born on July 4th, 1937, in a fieldstone farmhouse on the outskirts of Allentown, Pennsylvania. She told my brothers and me that growing up on a farm during lean times and World War II wasn’t a picnic, but in the same breath she said that they were never hungry, and the foods they prepared and stored were always simple and nutritious. Her mother – my Nana Florence – had a particular way of slicing fresh corn off the cob and drying it, where it would last forever in glass jars. This was one of many ways they could make it through from October through May when something was ready to harvest again. I remember Nana warming up that dried corn in a small pan with just enough milk to reconstitute it, my grandfather always nagging. “Not too much milk, Mother. It’s better when it’s a little thicker.” Until I was in my late 20s and moved away, this was a Thanksgiving staple, and I believe it tasted sweeter and better than eating white corn fresh from the stalk in August. The simplicity of preserved and dehydrated fruits and vegetables, combined with a freshly butchered chicken, duck or occasional deer that Uncle Ally might see cutting across a field, these are the influences and the flavors that chefs study a lifetime and circle back to once they realize food doesn’t need to be fancy to be delectable.
Myrtle put herself through nursing school at St. Luke’s in nearby Bethlehem, stretching her tight-as-a-drum budget eating tomato or beet sandwiches while some of her fellow students were splurging on hot dogs from Yocco’s – the phonetic name the Iacocca family put on the sign because the Lehigh Valley locals couldn’t pronounce it (yes, that Iacocca family). She was frugal about money; her friends teased her about always using a tea bag at least twice, saving it on the spoon rest and steeping it again later. She met my father when he was a junior at Lafayette College and they were married in Colton Chapel soon after their graduations – May of 1960. I didn’t know of many mothers who worked when I was a kid, but I am sure it helped make ends meet working overnight shifts a few nights and she saw no reason why she couldn’t park my older brother and me in front of the television in the community room at Inglemoor Nursing Home on occasions when my father was out of town at a conference or had a late Rotary Club function. We loved it – all the oldsters were already asleep, and Mom would make her rounds and pop in to see us now and again. We had free access to pudding cups, Linden’s chocolate chip cookies, Jell-O, and the same Clinton Milk cartons we drank at school. We watched reruns of Gomer Pyle, F Troop, and Hogan’s Heroes and sometimes awakened at the end of her shift to a test pattern and her gentle voice, then lay down on the seats of her car to head home.
When I was a junior in high school, after my father had spent a decade working himself ragged to grow the family business, we got the news that we were moving out of Livingston in five or six weeks. Dad had purchased a new house on some acreage in a place called Far Hills, on the other side of Morristown (translation: out in the sticks). Aside from having deer and wild turkeys in our yard every morning and having more spacious bedrooms, the one notable thing heralded by the move was that we started going out to dinner more often. Any high school or college ex-girlfriend of mine would tell you that these dinners were full of laughs and cheer. We would rotate around to a handful of restaurants near the new house – The Black Horse Inn in Mendham, The Giraffe in Bernardsville, and until my mother felt like the staff was trying too hard to mansplain the way wine was supposed to be consumed, The Black Swan in Morristown.
We were not a bunch of rubes, like the Beverly Hillbillies. My father built a pool the summer after we moved in, but he just called it the pool – not the “cement pond” like Jethro Bodine. Before the move we frequented several Italian restaurants in West Orange and Belleville, places with no signage, where New Jersey mobsters relaxed with their families and what you ate was what the matriarch made that day – braciole, baked ziti, chicken parm, whatever. Some of the sanitation companies purchased lubricants from my father and often the wiseguys would say hello to us on their way out. “Hey Charlie, nice to see you. Lovely family.” After we moved, the nearby restaurants were a notch fancier, so my brothers and I would wear a sport coat and slacks – a tie if it was a holiday or an occasion. It was nice to be a part of it – this family era. Whatever number in the bank my father felt he had to attain before dropping $200 on nice dinners in 1981, he’d gotten there. But no matter which financial Rubicon was crossed, my parents never changed – not in the slightest. They got a larger house, and a larger Schnauzer, and that was it.
One year on my mother’s birthday, she decided she wanted the duck from The Black Swan. We sat and the sommelier with the rumpled tuxedo and the gimmicky tastevin cup on a long silver chain approached the table, as usual. Mom was the only one ordering wine – the rest of us were sipping Finlandia and tonics. She rarely would order a bottle unless someone else was in the mood for a glass, but the “expert” always pushed and tried too hard. We assumed he must have been the chef’s brother-in-law or relative – what other reason would there be to hire Lurch from The Addams Family to annoy the customers? My mother requested a glass of Pinot Grigio and gave him the hand when he attempted to slip my father the 11-pound book of pricey wines.
“Well, madame, may I ask if you already know what you will be choosing from the menu this evening?” The pressure campaign began in earnest.
“I am having the duck – it was so good last time,” Mom said enthusiastically.
He replied dismissively, as if scolding a child. “Well, there’s nothing by the glass that will pair with that, so let me suggest the…”
At this point she lost patience with the entire process, because it was always like this. Sweet as pie, with a sparkle in her eye, she turned away from the interloper and asked, “Guys, if we give him $10 will he just go away?” The neighboring tables quietly tuned in; my brothers and I grinned. Incredibly, despite the joke loaded with blunt truth, he spoke even more condescendingly to her, like a dog with a bone.
“Madame, I simply think you would be much happier if I could suggest…”
“I have an idea!” Mom exclaimed with extra vinegar, halting the intrusion instantly. “Charles, for my birthday, how about we buy this place, fire the staff, and burn it down?” This was the precise moment I learned that vodka and tonic burns when you cough it into your sinuses; it was either that or release it in a full spray like one of The Three Stooges. My father started a seismic belly laugh that shook the silverware around the table, his cheeks turning red. My younger brother Drew turned his head toward the sommelier and said the only thing left to be said: “Bye.”
Growing up on a farm, you always had enough to eat – and you learned not to take any guff from anybody. And being born on the 4th of July, there would always be fireworks on your birthday. I miss you Mom and I love you – today and every day.