Accents

 

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rowing up, everyone looked like me. Everyone when to the same schools, had the same teachers, said the ‘Pledge of Alliance’ every start of class, went to the same lunch, eating the same food, took the same break to go outside and climb the monkey bars and lived in similar houses. We all wore the same clothing purchased by our parents in the same department stores driving the same type of autos. Our fathers went to work every morning and cut the grass on Saturday then watched football after church on Sunday. We all went to protestant churches and said ‘Grace’ before dining.

Then there was diversity.

I understand the migration into our borders, for my family was indigenous to this property. My ancestry, from the recorded census, came from Europe with whatever dough they had in their pockets and whatever reason their homeland to make a new life here in the U.S. of the A.

I knew there were other languages from music, but rarely had to speak to someone who didn’t understand my words or meanings. Still, I enjoyed the accents.

The television was a steady stream of men who entertained in drag or presented the news of assassinations of presidents as a trusted uncle or a preacher. There were no question of the statements and no translations because they all spoke the same words as used at the classroom.

There were a few ‘foreign exchange’ students but they spoke the same language as everyone else, just with an accent. That was acceptable by parents and clergy and workers.

Now in the next century, I listen to news interviews and reports and can barely understand what is being said. Some are completely a native language from another land in the globe that needs translation to understand what is being said. I guess it works the same way in reverse.

There are also some accents (like English or French or Latino or India) that can easy or difficult to understand and convert to American. I took a French language class and only learned how to count to ‘huit’ but couldn’t ask for a drink or find a bathroom in Paris.

The plus of all this intermingling with people who grew up in a different neighborhood, listen to different music and prepare food in a different method than your grandmother is diversity. Everyone becomes aware of each other and share our history. Unfortunately, we also kill each other for the bazaar reasons of being ‘different’.

Which brings me back to spices.

Growing up at most dining tables were salt and pepper shakers. That gave the person who was about to consume the meal a last chance to change the taste to please your particular pallet.

But the chef who has used their experience in the kitchen figures what their base of the meal might be. A choice of starch from rice, potatoes, bread or pasta is prepared for the next step. The choice of dead animal is selected and prepared with rubs, sautés or sliced and diced to sizes preferred. All the elements can be put in a big pot with water or slapped in a pan. Some might be placed in an oven to blend all the flavors.

Then, and only then, come the spices.

Some have cabinets full of little jars full of powders and potions that follow a menu that was written years ago. Small measuring spoons and cups can be filled up to designated lines, added to the meal, stirred and tasted. More of this can be added, but to dilute over spiced meals may be ruined.

That is where Accent came in. It was promoted as the perfect addition to any meal (before eaters were concerned about sodium and MSG). Still every cook has their preferences of taste and the grocery has shelves full of tiny bottles of options to make the dish taste like Thai or Japanese or Australian or India or French or Italian or…

Speaking of where we go to bring home our condiments to provide ourselves with substance prepared in our own kitchen, what is going on at the Tummy Temple?

Being a ‘bachelor’ (as someone said), I only have to prepare meals for myself. I know my palate and my spice rack is fairly empty. No taste of ginger or cilantro in the salad. No garlic on the bread. No meat on the pizza or on the grill anymore.

So, my daily trips to the Tummy Temple to find and retrieve my daily meal are wandering through familiar aisles tasting in my mind if that loaf of bread would work with the can of soup or a bowl of dark red kidney beans?

Most days are routine with a nod to the same faces behind my mask, but today it was different. There was no Zamboni cleaning up the mess on aisle 12 or dodging the bumper carts or avoiding the ‘we will bag your groceries and bring it to your car’ wagons.

Instead, ALL the frozen foods are being rearranged. The frozen vegetables are move to aisle while the ice cream is move to aisle then the pizzas are moved away from the cheeze. I don’t know where anything is, but I’ve been through this before and I’ll learn the locations.

I see one of the managers and say, “Like what you are doing with the frozen food.” She complained (as usual) and said she had no idea why the re-assortment was being made. Another ole guy in a mask asked, “Where is the frozen bread?” Pat walked by leaning on her cart and then pointed out the new home for now.

I’ve continued to ventured the Tummy Temple under the different brands and the expansion which moved everything back and forth, yet somehow, I found the cat food, litter and beer.

My list is much shorter today, but I still enjoy on a nice Spring Day like today, go my usual route, lock my pony at the Stop sign and wander into civilization to bring back seed and peanuts for the yard and hydration for myself.

Should I spice it up?