Goulash and Homemade Bread

Our refrigerator died. Mid-June, the freezer fan began squealing, but before the warranty group would send out a tech, we had to defrost the unit.

The squealing went away, but so did the cold air in the refrigerator until it was over 70 degrees. Freezer slowly warmed, if still functional, and I made another call.

Company ordered the wrong part, so the tech has to return when the correct assembly arrives. Dinner preparation has become challenging, since any leftovers must be frozen and reheated, and space is limited. Eating out or daily fast food is not a possibility, which creates a hardship.

So, why am I telling you this?

Because past meals have been dancing through my memory—tantalizing, teasing, whispering.

Looking over the menu for Mr. K’s Karry Out…charburger, footlong hot dog, or pizza? Always a difficult choice. The charburgers were thick, juicy, and satisfying. Glen toasted and buttered hot dog buns, and the finished product melted in your mouth. And the pizza? Always a perennial favorite.

(Elias Brothers) Big Boy sandwiches. Yes, Slim Jims were a favorite for many, but I could never turn down a Big Boy, fries, and a chocolate malt. Used to meet my sister-in-law Phyllis at the Big Boy’s on Opdyke Road with our babies, who made terrific messes with crackers, fries, and ketchup. (We tipped our waitress well because of it, but hurried out in embarrassment, too.)

The Clock (or Flame?) diner on Opdyke, heading north from Big Boy's, with the best hash browns in Oakland County.

Once, during a late-night visit with my sister Janet and her husband Dave, a momentary silence fell. Little ones were sleeping, we’d been playing cards, talking, and laughing when I had a mental image of piling into a car, babies and all, and heading for the Clock to savor a midnight breakfast.

“I’m hungry,” my sister said.

“Me, too,” Dave said, “and I was thinking about ordering pizza when I saw us in a diner ordering eggs and bacon, with our waitress pouring coffee.”

Food thoughts are powerful.

Thanksgiving dinner at home when we were kids. The turkey would have been roasting all day, with the perfume of turkey, seasonings, and cooling pies torturing ravenous appetites. The boldest would sneak into the kitchen and pinch off a chunk of stuffing…yum.

Mom’s homemade bread. Remember those enormous green Tupperware bowls with the snap-on lids? Perfect for raising dough over the pilot light on our gas stove. Once the dough popped the lid, was punched, and popped the second time, the oven took over. Ah, the smell and taste of freshly-baked bread slices spread with butter and apple butter.

I’ve never been a noodle lover, which my friends and family know, but I’d sit down to the family table for Mom’s goulash, buttered bread, and the typical arguments, debates, and nonsense (family discussions) that crisscrossed during dinner.

Within a week, our refrigerator should be repaired and working, and meals will be easier, but I still can’t order a charburger or Big Boy, or cut Mom’s fresh bread.

So I’ll enjoy them here.