To my stomach: For eating, at least three times, lard piled high on dark bread. If my German were better, I would have asked what those brown bits in the lard were. Bacon? Pig knuckles? Ants? Pencil shavings? It makes no sense to eat lard – “Schmalz” in German – yet, after a day of skiing and a couple of beers, I was shoving lard into my face and loving it. At home I don’t even put butter on my bread, but in Austria I eat lard. Lots of lard. Can you go to Hell for something stupid you do only once a year?
To my feet: For cramming a second pair of arch supports into my ski boots foolishly thinking they might improve my balance and compensate for the absence of an arch in my left foot. What they did was leave the sides of both feet so tender after the first day of skiing that when I got out of the car, I limped like a man who had been hibernating for 75 years - not an ideal condition for someone who planned to ski for another six days.
To Cole Porter and Steve Goodman, two great songwriters: For listening to and sort of enjoying, after the third or fourth hearing, a dance record by Duck Sauce in which the only words I could make out - Barbra Streisand - are repeated every 15-20 seconds. The title of the tune is, yep, Barbra Streisand.
(I’m thinking of mimicking this approach in a New Essay entitled Betty Hutton. This is how it would go:
(“I had an errand to do at the bank the other day – Betty Hutton – and when I got there the guy I normally do business with – Betty Hutton – wasn’t there but his assistant asked if I’d like a couple of free tickets to that afternoon’s Yankee game when – Betty Hutton – a Nor’easter was forecast to hit. I immediately said – Betty Hutton – that would be great but I needed to first call home and see if – Betty Hutton….”)
To my big left toe: For banging it on the side of a Munich bathtub when trying to step in to take a shower. Why the bathtubs in the city where I used to live have such high sides I don’t know. I do know there is a difference between discomfort and pain, and it was the latter my big left toe experienced because of my clumsiness.
To my arteries and my stomach: For eating two rolls for breakfast every morning along with several slices of cheese and ham and other cold cuts. Not to mention loading up one of the rolls with generous amounts of jam. And apologies too for having sausages and/or soup with sausages for lunch nearly every day.
To my prostate: For those two strong, fine cups of coffee every morning. Real coffee not that sissy decaf stuff I drink at home. Plus that cup of strong, fine coffee I had right before going to bed some nights.
To my head: For never saying no to a schnapps. We have been going to the same restaurants in Pettneu, Austria, for so long that three of them automatically give us a free schnapps when they see us. The owner of one of the places openly confesses, “I don’t drink that stuff. It’s for tourists.” This year he emerged from the kitchen with a small bottle of schnapps, predicting “it will make you fly.” Not being a tourist, he didn’t have any himself, but this tourist did. Although I didn’t fly, I did have a better understanding the next morning of the wisdom of his position. That by no way should be interpreted to mean I won’t have schnapps as well as lard on my next visit.
To my left elbow: For the hard knock it took when I stumbled getting into a ski gondola. I also hit my head but didn’t feel a thing, thanks to the dual protection of a helmet and the schnapps from the night before.
To my grandson’s parents: For not saying a word when he took a vanilla yogurt at breakfast and stirred in it corn flakes and Nutella, that runny, hazelnut spread that looks like chocolate to some and like something else to others. And no, he wasn’t horsing around. He ate that mess.
To my son and grandson: For making them wait in snow and rain while I tried repeatedly to use an outdoor ATM in St. Anton. The blasted thing refused to accept my normal bank card despite my repeated efforts. When I got home and went to my bank to complain, a well-groomed young man pointed out that the card I was waving around while telling my story was a credit card and not my bank card. Don’t you hate it when the bank is right? I realize this well-groomed young man is paid to be nice to customers, even old ones, but could it be he was extra patient and polite because I still smelled like lard and he felt sorry for me?
(Posted January 20, 2011.)
(Since then a couple of friends have suggested "those brown bits in the lard" were fried onions, but an older friend who lives in Germany said it was pork rind.)