A SPECIAL BREAKFAST

Saturday morning breakfasts were always a big thing for Mom. There is nothing wrong with a simple plate of scrambled eggs and ham on a Sunday morning after church, but she always liked having that bigger, special midday meal on Sundays. Saturday mornings are when the good stuff happened, a celebration to kick off the weekend. Start big on Saturday and end with a bang on Sunday, with plenty of snacking in between.

I grew restless a couple of Saturdays ago. Since last summer, I hadn't made a big breakfast, the kind that Mom enjoyed. Sure, I would make a quick breakfast burrito or a bagel with cream cheese, but not one of Mom's favorites. Sometimes, I am stuck in a rut and ask myself why I should bother. Grab a quick bowl of cereal or some fruit in my stomach, and I am off to take a mid-morning nap before I settle into whatever chores I have on my weekend to-do list.

This particular Saturday, I had no Pillsbury cinnamon rolls in the refrigerator, the smell that constantly stirred everyone in the house with their fresh-baked aroma. I rummaged through the cupboard of cake mixes and canned goods to find something mom would have liked. I found two boxes of Betty Crocker blueberry muffin mix nearing expiration dates, but I didn't have any fresh blueberries to put into the batter the way Mom would. I finally found a box of Kodiak waffle mix and a can of blueberry pie filling; I was ready to make the Saturday morning breakfast treat Mom loved. 

This treat takes me back to North Carolina. A fellow teacher and I were bored one Saturday morning and headed to Raleigh for breakfast at an IHOP.  She ordered a waffle with blueberry compote on top, asking the waiter to substitute the whipped cream topping for a side of sour cream. I was aghast. Sour cream with blueberries? Isn’t sour cream for a baked potato? Surprisingly, I tried this combination of sour cream and blueberries on my waffles and have become an avid fan. 

On one of my trips home, I went to Denny’s in St. Clairsville with Mom and my aunt and uncle. I confidently ordered a waffle with blueberry topping and a side of sour cream - hold the whipped cream.  They all raised their eyebrows, as shocked as I was at IHOP, wondering what in the world I was doing putting sour cream on the blueberry topping of my waffle. Of course, I generously offered them a small taste, converting Mom forever. 

I pulled out the small waffle maker from underneath the oven, lodged behind the toaster and mixing bowls, which I used far more regularly.  I wiped the remnants of unuse from the cover and plugged the waffle maker into the outlet to ensure it still heated. I mixed the waffle batter, adding an egg and milk to make it even more flavorful. 

I cracked open the can of blueberry pie filling, which was not quite blueberry compote but still damned good with sour cream. As my waffle baked, I set a place for one at the kitchen table. Mom may not be here this Saturday morning, but I would be civilized and eat at the table rather than under a blanket while watching TV in the living room. I had my coffee mug and place setting organized. Fork on the left, knife and spoon on the right, a bowl of blueberry topping at 10:00, and a fresh container of sour cream at 2:00.

The waffle maker clicked as the red light blinked out, and I slowly lifted the lid to find a beautiful waffle. I struggled to maintain my effort at etiquette as I jammed a fork into the waffle to carry it from the counter to my plate on the table- so much for the decorum.

Mom would always carefully spread butter across her waffle before adding small dollops of blueberry topping and sour cream to each corner. I am my mother's son, but I had a whole can of blueberry pie filling and a fresh container of sour cream. I did not need to share either one with anyone. So I covered my waffle with several heaping spoonfuls of blueberry and a huge swath of sour cream. 

For some reason, I act like a hungry dog who ate his last meal days ago, as if someone is lurking behind me, ready to snatch my plate as I lift the fork to my mouth. Mom would always shake her head, pausing between her smaller bites to lovingly advise me,  “Slow down and chew your food.” I would put down my fork, cross my arms, and then reach out for a sip of coffee. Once I returned to eating again, I would join the rhythm of her eating, savoring the taste of the food and so much more.

On this morning, I sat at Mom's seat in front of the big window overlooking the backyard. I slowly used my knife and fork to cut my waffle into smaller, bite-sized pieces. I ate slowly, taking an occasional drink of coffee. My special breakfast seemed endless as I read the paper while I ate, thinking about the day ahead and looking out the window to see birds flying by the window to land on the bird feeder. My waffle with blueberry topping and sour cream tasted so good.

GOD & THE FISH FRY

The first Friday of Lent arrived, and being the good Catholic boy I am, I wanted to make sure I had a fish sandwich, just as I had one every Friday for as long as I can remember.

Cold air and a strong breeze left me feeling as if winter was finally moving on to wherever it goes after challenging us with excruciatingly long nights, bone-chilling temperatures, and occasional snow showers in February. As much as I love preparing for Christmas and winter in late fall,  I had begun to commit wholeheartedly to the arrival of spring; unfortunately, I felt as if my eyes were barely adjusting to the oncoming light of the horizon.

After an early morning class, I drove around, wondering which fish fry would be open at 11:30 AM. That's kind of early as most Catholic Churches use their school cafeterias to welcome the onslaught of people ready to commence the yearly Lenten tradition. We all partake in the oddly spiritual commercialization that pieces of lightly breaded fried pollock or whitefish between two slices of generic white bread brings to religious-minded people. Throw in some french fries, mac and cheese, apple pie, and a can of Coke, and you will have a Lenten fast worthy of a king. (I am well aware of my cynicism. I plan to work on it this Easter season as part of my goal to improve myself.)

As I drove around, all these thoughts continued. What am I doing? Why am I searching for a fish fry? Why not go to Arby’s or Wendy’s? I do not think this is at all a crisis of faith. I consider myself more like a sheep wandering away from the flock. Not too far, but enough to explore on my own without getting lost.

My Aunt Rosie always baked a tasty pineapple upside-down cake for the fish fry at Our Lady of Seven Dolors Church. Aunt Rosie was a loyal congregant at St. Vincent de Paul Catholic Church in Elm Grove, the “descendant” church a mile or two from Seven Dolors. Since my aunt's passing (God rest her sweet soul), my Aunt Lou has taken up the mantle of the pineapple upside-down cake in her sister's memory.

My parish, Saint Michael, wouldn't start its fish fry until 4 o'clock, and I felt the old pangs of hunger early on this Friday. So I made my way from downtown Wheeling to the outskirts of Elm Grove where I headed up Route 40 past Bliefus Tire Service to Our Lady of Seven Dolors. 

Do you ever notice that we tend to see people and places, traditions and celebrations, differently as we grow older? What we once saw as simply a random moment or place, often means so much more as we consider how our lives are changing. The memories pile up until they evolve into perceptions we never see coming.

Our Lady of Seven Dolors Church sits near the bottom of Chapel Hill Road, beside a small, beautifully manicured cemetery. Both are picturesque visions into the past, inviting passersby to slow down well below the speed limit. The entire area whispers of times long gone while beckoning to the modern world, hoping that life will not move on without it.

I parked near the cemetery, and began walking to the fish fry, stopping at the steps leading up to the seldomly-used church and the grey concrete nameplate affixed to the brick of the old building. The entrance was at the bottom of a steep stairwell, much like the concrete steps at my grandfather's house which once stood at the top of Edgington Lane. Those steps at my grandfather's home led down to his dark and damp basement where he would sort eggs into cartons for Saturday delivery. But those steps at Seven Dolors? They led me down to something altogether different.

I pulled open the door to a basement lined with wall-to-wall banquet tables. Countless people sat back to back, pressing themselves against the edges of each table to leave as much room as possible behind themselves. Any newcomer had to navigate the thin space between the diners with the adventurous skill of Indiana Jones carefully traversing through dark catacombs riddled with traps and pitfalls.

I must say that as much as the cold and wind outside left my bones achy and sore, the welcoming confines of the basement fish fry warmed my soul with a sense of renewal I had not expected, a spirit I did not quite comprehend until I embraced the experience and accepted what this event meant to the people here. 

From where I sat, I could see through a small window into the kitchen. All the older women gathered around a table in the center of the room, lovingly placing pieces of hot fish between slices of bread and then loading the trays at the window with sandwiches, mac and cheese or coleslaw containers, and bowls of homemade vegetable soup. The women moved beautifully together, like multiple mothers and grandmothers caring for a solitary child they all called their own.

I broke from my observations to text some coworkers at school. I had to tell them about this place. I sent pictures of the placemat and the fish sandwich, which was hardly a convincing way to explain my feelings adequately. Indeed, pictures were one thing, but the words were more challenging. I eventually texted random thoughts, desperate to convey my feelings. I rattled off odd things, calling the fish fry in the basement “heartwarming.” I chuckled and texted, “It is more magical than Disney.”

I was excited yet frustrated about my explanations as I paid my bill and left, only realizing a more thoughtful insight upon returning to my car. I immediately sent my last text, strange words to describe a fish fry: “I feel as if God was there.” 

Those seven words remained with me throughout the following week. I had to travel back up Route 40, back up Chapel Hill Road, and back down the stairs to the basement of Our Lady of Seven Dolors to find out if God would return to the fish fry on the Second Friday of Lent.

Where once I had seen a simple fish fry in an old church basement, I now believed I had experienced much more. Was it God? I didn’t know, but I wanted to switch myself up a little bit. Typically, I have no issue actively observing from the sidelines to gain unique insight. But finding out why I thought God was actually here would take more effort on my part.

As I opened the door, I knew I would need to be proactive to find the answers to my questions. No more sitting back and watching from a distance. The fish fry was even more crowded this week, so talking to people would be a struggle.

On this day, I ordered more from the menu. I had cole slaw and some small condiment cups of these homemade pickles. The cole slaw reminded me of Mom when she made her slaw (Love you, Mom💖) with Marzetti Original Cole Slaw Dressing. The pickles, though. What are these about? I scanned around the room to find out where they came from. To my right, I saw bottles stacked by the checkout line. To my left, near the canned drinks, I saw a huge tray filled with those small condiment cups of pickles. 

“Ma’am?” I called to the lovely gray-haired lady wearing St. Patrick’s Day attire near the phone, where she took calls for take-out. 

She looked puzzled, perhaps wondering if I was talking to her.

I held up one of my containers of pickles. “What is the deal with the pickles, ma’am? I never see these at any other fish fry. Did someone here make them?”

She smiled and nodded her head. “We all do over the summer. Right here.”

“You make them here?” I looked over at the table again, stood up, and walked toward the tray where I repeated my question. “You all make the pickles here?” 

“A.J., do you need something?” a man’s voice asked behind me. It was Larry Bandi, our former school president at Central Catholic High School.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Larry. I wasn’t taking anything. I just wanted to see this big tray of pickles. The lady there says you all make these here over the summer. Is that right? Are they made for the fish fry?”

Larry laughed. “That’s true. We come in for three days over the summer. We cut and prep the vegetables for the jars, let them soak, and then jar them. You know, all of the stuff your mom used to do. Just so we can use them for the fish fry.”

I stood there for a moment, absolutely astonished. I began to look more carefully around the room at the old pictures hanging on the walls. I had assumed they were pictures of other church events, families, children, or Jesus holding a lamb. “Larry, how long has this fish fry been going on?”

Larry seemed lost in thought over my question. “I don’t know, A.J.”

As I patiently waited for Larry to answer,  I began calculating for myself. “Larry, is it over forty years?”

“Oh, yes!” Larry waived another worker over. “How long have we been doing the fish fry?”

The lady shook her head. “I am not sure, Larry. I know it has to be more than fifty years.”

Larry led me over to some pictures on the adjacent wall. We made our way through the tight space between the tables and closely looked at it together. We studied the three black and white pictures in the wooden frame. They were all older women, not the ones working in the kitchen. Perhaps their mothers. My mind was racing with more questions.

“Hey,” Larry called out to someone behind us. “Is this Ginny Blake?” 

I read the rectangular papers at the bottom of each picture within the frame. “Larry, look here.” I pointed to the last paper. “This paper here says ‘Virginia Blake.’ I think this is her, Larry.”

We both stepped back and looked around. The crowd had dissipated. A few tables still had small groups who continued to talk to one another. Time passed slowly as we stood there thinking, contemplating our ages and the timeless longevity of this church and its fish fry.

“Larry, I want to grab a piece of pie from the dessert table. I am sure you have stuff to do. Thanks again for sharing this with me.”

I returned to my original spot where I had eaten my sandwich, cole slaw, and pickles. I dug into a slice of homemade strawberry-rhubarb pie. The thin, delicately smooth crust and the sweet and tart combination of the strawberry and rhubarb spoke of the love and tradition remarkably evident in the fish fry.

Nearly two weeks ago, I was looking for a good fish sandwich on a Friday in Lent. Memories of my traditions and family brought me here, where I found more than I ever expected.

I found a community wholeheartedly rooted in faith and service when I opened the door to the basement fish fry at Our Lady of Seven Dolors Church. The secret traditions of preparing the fish, sharing familial baked goods, the seasonal jarring of homemade pickles, and welcoming strangers to their community allow them to miraculously circumvent the cold inevitability of time. 

I understand why I thought God was here.