Notes from the Neighborhood – Home

Home . . .
What a great word this is.
Home. This is a word worth saying again.
The dictionary says that home is a place where someone lives. I say there is more to this. I say there’s more to a home than where we live. I say home is more than where you hang your hat. Then again, the dictionary also says that home is a place or institution for people in need of care or professional supervision.
Well?
Guilty as charged.

Home . . .
I grew up in a home which was somewhat small and humble. There were a few bedrooms. There was a basement. There was only one bathroom which was tough because some people in my family took longer than others when going to the bathroom.
This was my Old Man. You knew this was going to be a problem when he took the newspaper with the crosswords into the bathroom.
I could call this unpleasant to say the least. And, somewhat funny.

The Old Man was a hard man. He worked hard. He lived a hard life. The Old Man was less than delicate and less than understanding but, at the same time, there were times in my life when my Father showed a delicateness that was unmatchable by anyone else.
This was The Old Man’s home.
He paid for the food and the bills and for the heat and the clothes on my back.

Mom was very different.
She was a typical housewife, but Mom liked this role. She enjoyed her life, at least I think she did.
Mom had a few dishes which, especially to me right now, these dishes were my emotional Penicillin. 
I could use a few of Mom’s magic meals right now . . .

Maybe I’ve told you about this before. But just in case I didn’t I have a thing for soup.
I have always enjoyed a good bowl of soup. I love good broth. These days I add a drop of hot sauce in it to liven things up a little bit.
Sometimes I put a drop of ghost chili in it or sometimes, I’ll add a drop of Carolina reaper pepper – but just a little hint.
I love the way the broth heats the tongue and sometimes, I swear, when the soup is right, I break out into a sweat.
I love this.
I used to see this as a transfer of energy. I used to see this as me sweating out the toxins and Mom, well, she never added hot sauce but maybe she knew and maybe she didn’t that I liked to sweat when I’d eat her soup. Then again, it’s not like I knew how to explain this to her.
Besides, I was too young.

No one makes anything exactly like Moms do. Or Grandmas or Grandpas or Dads.
There’s a special ingredient that only comes from them because this was made by them.
For example:
I was listening to an interview with a multi-billionaire. He was saying that even if he wrote a tell-all book on how he made his money, no one would ever be able to duplicate his success.
They might come close. They might even surpass him.
But no one could ever duplicate him.
The reason he gave is because while the steps to success might be scripted in black and white, no one else would have his exact same intuition. No one would see things like him or have the same perception, interpretation or relate the same way to information.
There could be people who might think closely and similarly.
But no one would ever think, feel, see or react the exact same way as he will.

I say this (and perhaps I’ve said this before in previous journals), but instead of wealth, I think back to the way Mom made her mashed potatoes or her chicken cutlets.
Mom had her own intuition. She knew exactly how to add salt or pepper.
I think back to the way Mom made her special hot chocolate when I was young and sad. I think about the way Mom made her iced tea and again, I could follow her roles, step by step, and never duplicate anything that Mom made. Her special ingredient cannot be duplicated – because this was made for me, by her, and with a love that only she knew how to share.
I can say the same thing about The Old Man and the way he would make breakfast. In fairness, my Brother used to make a killer steak.
He taught me how to season a steak before putting it on the barbecue. 

I have had my own creations since that time. I have had the chance to make a meal or two, or should I say that before my weight loss, I knew how to make big meals and eat everything on my plate . . . and your plate too, and the plate next to that, and so on, and so on. 

However, this is more about the sentiment of food than the food itself. So here’s the plan.
This journal is my plan to document a new series in my life. For example, it has been a very long time since I have lived in a small home or an apartment. But times are different for me. I haven’t moved in yet. I’m setting things up. I want this to be a special place for us.
I have some area rugs but the furniture is not in yet. I have a new television set. I have a computer desk, which I will need.
I think I’ll have to decorate this appropriately; however, the kid in me still wants a lava-lamp.
So yes, there will be a lava lamp on the desk next to me. 

But getting back to the warm and welcoming sentiment of food –
I am hoping to make a good meal. I have plans for this.
I’ll have to get the pots and pans. I’ll have to get some more things for my place first.
I’m not there yet. It’s not ready.
But when I am, I promise there will be something special.

I think I would like to have a go at Mom’s mashed potatoes.
But I could use a little help on the breaded chicken cutlets.
I’ve never been very good at those.

Or, maybe I could dice up some tomatoes and crush some garlic. I could put some oil in a pan and then add a little tomato paste and some red wine, some capers, and some crushed red pepper for a little kick. Or we could make this with a spicy vodka sauce instead.

No?
I could pick up some shrimp and some lobster tail meat. I could sauté this in the pan with a little red wine.
How’d that be?

What else?
Ah, I have an idea.

I am now and will always be a lover of slow-cooker recipes. For example, there’s a dish with two-cups of apple cider and one cup of red wine.
You can cube up some country style pork ribs. Brown them. Make sure you scrape all the oil from the pan and don’t forget to put those tiny bits of fried up goodness into the crock pot. 
Add some carrots and salt and pepper to taste. Add whatever you like to this as I am open to suggestions.

Either way – we do this and toss the ingredients into the crock pot.
We can let this take control of itself on low-heat and let this go for a few hours. Yes, this will be a great meal.

Home . . .
Home is a place for inventions. Home is a place to rest and to be protected and have shelter.
Home is a place to protect yourself and your love. While I do agree to being someone in need of professional care and perhaps supervision, I want to build my home as best as I can – even if this home is only temporary; still, then let me make this a castle.

I cannot reduplicate anything done or created by anyone else.
I can’t stop life from happening. However, my intention here is to script my newest project which is building a home and transferring the wealth of what I build here to go with me (and us) no matter where we are or where we go. For the record, I still say it’s time to get out of Dodge.
So three years, tops!

Home . . .
I say this is the most loving place in the world.
I want to build this. I want to be proud of this.
I want to share this with you.
I want to do this with all my heart, which is going to take some time . . . and some work!

I admit it . . .
current times are new and admittedly uncomfortable; however, home is a place that is supposed to be built for comfort. 

I may not have too much (right now)
But I have these arms to hold you.
I have this heart to protect you and a life to live for you.

By the way, I don’t know any soup recipes.
But I’ll learn some . . .
I promise.
This way we can sweat out the toxins of an otherwise toxic and outside world.

Just let me know when you’re ready.