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When I was a kid growing up in Marianna, I loved spending time and having lunch at Harrison’s house.
Cresh Harrison, the only boy among four children, was my classmate and best friend. He had his three sisters, so it was always a breather to be away from his three older brothers who tended to have more testosterone.
In my predominantly male household, you never knew when you might find yourself pinned down with a flying boot, thrown against furniture, or made the guest of honor at a party with a toilet bowl swirling over your head. Life was quite civilized compared to Harrison’s home. I especially liked their food selection.
The Harrison brothers ate what every kid growing up in the 1970s wanted to eat. Spray Ritz crackers with cheese from an aerosol can. Yes, please.
Chef Boyardee’s beef ravioli is heated fresh from the can. Hmm. Want to see more Campbell’s spaghetti? Definitely. French-American macaroni and cheese also comes in cans and contains pale yellow noodles as long as red, wriggling insects. Is there anything better? Purple Kool-Aid is poured from a pitcher shaped like the Kool-Aid Man destroying walls. oh yeah.
When we returned home, my father, an outdoorsman, would fry freshwater fish, cook the pigeon and quail he had just shot that afternoon, and serve us venison stew and steaks grilled over an open fire. Bleach. It’s not a kid’s meal. My mother, who I loved and was of Norwegian descent, could roast red snapper in the oven and make a mean tuna salad, but that was about it. French chef Julia Child did not.
When you are a 12 year old boy, your taste buds are also 12 years old. Taste buds are not yet developed. What you’re looking for is the highly digestible caterpillars advertised on TV, not haute cuisine. Pass the Pringles and take the Pompano.
“Kung Fu”
At my family’s dinner table, we either ate whatever was served or went hungry. The only exception was when my mother prepared rutabaga, which arrived weekly. No one cared about the bitter root vegetable, and when her mother cooked something disgusting on the stove, the whole house smelled like her hair was burning.
Also, at the age of 12, he became a fan of the TV show “Kung Fu”. The story follows Kai Chan Cain, a peace-loving martial arts expert, as he gets into fights in the Wild West. Kwai Chan was a vegetarian, so I became a vegetarian too. One Monday night at dinner, I gave a speech that said, “As long as I live, I will never eat meat.”
“Okay,” my father said. “Do what you want.”
My father purposely grilled steak every night. Porterhouse, 1 dinner. Next up is T-Bones. Delmonico’s strips were grilled to perfection. He always had a plate of beef placed in front of me so I could take in the aroma. To make matters worse, he narrated every remaining bite of the steak. “A little taste of heaven.” “A steak this good should be against the law.” “This would be bowing to the cow.”
By Friday evening, I had the ribeye. Master Po might say this. “Once you can steal a steak off your plate, it’s time to become a failed vegetarian, grasshopper.”
It’s getting better and better
As palates have matured since the ’80s, grocery stores and menu options have gotten even better. Who knew there was something like fresh asparagus instead of the gelatinous, limp ooze that slipped out of the Green Giant’s metal cylinder?
Does that mean cooked spinach is better eaten as a raw salad than the cooked, over-salted slime that Popeye the Sailor inhaled? (In the 1970s, salads were all about iceberg lettuce with French dressing.) Who would have thought that sushi could be sublime rather than disgusting?
Here’s how to peel and eat steamed artichokes. Like everything else in life, food choices just require an open mind and a willingness to try something new.
That being said, I was served some salads with what appeared to be garden trimmings. Has anyone ever wanted to eat kale? Oh, kale, do humans really need to go to the bathroom 5 minutes after eating a kale salad? Can we all agree that macaroni and cheese cauliflower mash tastes like sad clown tears?
Some people find the herb coriander to be an insect repellent. I think the ginger shavings that served as a palate cleanser for sushi tasted just like the Dial soap I used to put in my mouth as a kid to stop myself from swearing. I’m still waiting for the day when I “win” Olive’s lottery ticket, but it hasn’t happened yet. For now, I tried adding baby onions to my martini.
You don’t have to like everything. But you won’t know until you try.
Last dinner with Kress
On Christmas Eve, my wife and I were having a shrimp appetizer followed by seafood stew and focaccia bread with wine for our holiday dinner. Merry Christmas from Florida. Before the meal was over, text messages from Marianna’s friends and her brother started flooding my phone. Kressh is dead. He collapsed from a severe heart attack and died. I sat at the dinner table in stunned silence.
Isn’t it funny where your mind first goes when you learn that a lifelong friend has passed away? I could have thought about how Kressh attended my first birthday. Probably. Or his childhood obsession with digging ditches (he didn’t get into the clod wars until he finished the next chapter of “Charlotte’s Web”, which hooked Kressh).
Then we spent all of our summer weeks at Harrison Cottage in Panama City Beach. What about those high school dates in his family’s basement break room?
No, my head went to Chef Boyardee and Spaghettios. I returned to the Harrison house and sat around the kitchen table, sipping on the children’s food and trying to make Creche laugh. A terrible joke. Terrible impression. anything. God, he laughed so hard.
Sometimes you just need comfort food.
Mark Hinson is a former senior reporter for the Tallahassee Democrat. He can be reached at [email protected].
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