International Thanksgiving in Alaska
1976
Ft Richardson Army Base, near Anchorage, AK
Being stationed in Alaska from 1975 to 1978 was a great thing for an outdoor type like myself, with a wife, little girl and dog to keep me company. We had each other and our shared hobbies and interests.
Ft Richardson Army Base, near Anchorage, AK
Being stationed in Alaska from 1975 to 1978 was a great thing for an outdoor type like myself, with a wife, little girl and dog to keep me company. We had each other and our shared hobbies and interests.
For those Air Traffic Controllers
who worked for me it was quite different, they were alone. Stanley did bring
his wife up and had a house to go to, but their families were far away, just
like the others. We needed each other to make our own family group.
The idea started out simply as a Thanksgiving meal where everyone could gather and not be by themselves. A good plan, but as we added people to the list it began to show a different color to me. The names that I wrote down on the page were what did it.
There was the Southern boy, with an Ohio wife and a Georgia born daughter in the house already. Add to that a Japanese kid from Hilo, Hawaii, and Polish guy from New Jersey. A German man from New York City with his British imported wife. A Czechoslovakian from Michigan, a French Canadian from Wisconsin, a pair of Nebraska yuppies of mixed Scandinavian ancestry, and a nutball from Guam by way of Puerto Rico.
The idea started out simply as a Thanksgiving meal where everyone could gather and not be by themselves. A good plan, but as we added people to the list it began to show a different color to me. The names that I wrote down on the page were what did it.
There was the Southern boy, with an Ohio wife and a Georgia born daughter in the house already. Add to that a Japanese kid from Hilo, Hawaii, and Polish guy from New Jersey. A German man from New York City with his British imported wife. A Czechoslovakian from Michigan, a French Canadian from Wisconsin, a pair of Nebraska yuppies of mixed Scandinavian ancestry, and a nutball from Guam by way of Puerto Rico.
What we had was a U.N. meeting without
the politics. From that realization came the theme of: International
Thanksgiving.
I called upon my second-in-command, Stanley, to assist me with finding cultural dishes from each ethnic group represented. This could prove to be a strange conglomeration of dishes, but that would just make it more interesting.
I called upon my second-in-command, Stanley, to assist me with finding cultural dishes from each ethnic group represented. This could prove to be a strange conglomeration of dishes, but that would just make it more interesting.
For our Hawaii born Japanese son, Clifford Mitsuo "Mitch," we decided
that octopus was a good representative offering. There were none to be found in
the commissary, so we headed into town and stopped at the big chain grocery
store. The man at the meat counter laughed at me when I asked for a whole
octopus. I guessed that was a no to my question as to whether they had any.
As is common in remote parts of the world, everyone listens to everyone else's
conversations and Anchorage was no different. An older Chinese gentleman heard
our question and was too polite to interrupt the rude grocery man, so he waited
until we turned to leave to summon us to his side.
He was dressed in traditional Chinese clothing
and looked to be very ancient, but he spoke better English than the clown we
had just dealt with. "Gentlemen," he said, "You may find what
you seek at this market" and handed us a card. It sounded like a line from
a James Lee Wong story!
We drove to the market and went inside a small building with a huge shop
stuffed inside. It truly looked like a black & white movie from the 1930s
with all of the stuff hanging in that shop. There were live chickens in crates,
canaries in bamboo cages, eels in pots of water and more of the little ancient
Chinese guys smoking pipes. The place was a trip!
I couldn't find the cash register,
which is where every American shopper goes to find out about anything, so I
asked the youngest looking man in the place if he spoke English, and he said,
"No, but my grandfather does," pointed at a really old guy and left.
What?!
The man in charge came to our rescue and told me that the others were a bunch of jokers and asked if he could help. I explained what I was trying to find and he lead us around and through the maze of shelves to a big deep sink. Covering the sink was a sheet of glass with bungee cords holding it in place.
The man in charge came to our rescue and told me that the others were a bunch of jokers and asked if he could help. I explained what I was trying to find and he lead us around and through the maze of shelves to a big deep sink. Covering the sink was a sheet of glass with bungee cords holding it in place.
I thought that was odd until the moment he unhooked the cords. A tentacle
pushed under the edge of the glass and kept growing in size until the body of
an octopus appeared. Evidently they are supreme escape artists that can and
will get out and slip into the most inconvenient places imaginable, and
probably some that we couldn't imagine. The shop owner deftly grabbed the
creature by the head with his fingers in the eyes and breathing openings. He
said will this one do?
“Well, yeah!” we said, thinking how the Hell, and what the Hell do we do with
this thing now?
The man had already figured out that
we didn't have a clue so he took us farther into his shop to a free-standing
butcher block. There he grabbed a wooden club similar to a belaying pin on a
sailing vessel, and whacked the life out of the beastie in one stroke. He then
took a meat cleaver and had the beak and the internals out of the octopus
before we could really focus on what he was doing.
The gentleman gave us instructions on how to wash the creature to properly
prepare it. He suggested that we dunk it in boiling water, and then steam cook
this meat. Why didn't we remember that they have McDonald's on the Big Island?
This was going to be a lot of work. “Hey wait a minute,” we thought, “let's
make Mitch do it!” Cool, this was going to work after all.
Stan kept fussing that his German food was next, but at least it wasn't so hard to get. He wanted Bratwurst, Sauerkraut, and German beer. The man was actually a pretty good cook too. I guess it was his bachelor years between wives.
Stan kept fussing that his German food was next, but at least it wasn't so hard to get. He wanted Bratwurst, Sauerkraut, and German beer. The man was actually a pretty good cook too. I guess it was his bachelor years between wives.
His first wife didn't like him being
on the road all the time playing bass for great jazz horn man Chick Corea and
had emptied his bank account, filed for divorce in Reno, (Hey!) and driven off
in his brand new Cadillac. So Stan had to fend for himself.
When he married Geisla (Geese-La) in
London, he didn't realize that he would still have to do the cooking if he
wanted to taste anything. Even though she was born in Germany of German
parents, she was raised in London by relatives who had made her into a complete
Brit. No flavor in her food at all.
Our man Andre was a French-Canadian transplant to Wisconsin. He was born there and was a US Citizen, but all of his family lived in Canada. When he joined the Army, his parents and siblings went back north to live where the rest of the clan was.
Our man Andre was a French-Canadian transplant to Wisconsin. He was born there and was a US Citizen, but all of his family lived in Canada. When he joined the Army, his parents and siblings went back north to live where the rest of the clan was.
His contribution was Canadian duck,
a really tasty meal, which used chopped up duck meat, ham, onions, celery, some
kind of green peppers, a lot of butter, flour, and all kinds of spices. He
fussed around with it in the kitchen all morning singing stuff in French and
being just a happy chef. It required a lot of stirring, I do remember that, and
it was awesome tasting.
Scott was a unique individual. He was the crudest, rudest person that I have ever known. We couldn’t take the man into a bar with us, because a fight would start within five minutes of his arrival. He was also one of the most brilliant electronics technicians that ever lived.
Scott was a unique individual. He was the crudest, rudest person that I have ever known. We couldn’t take the man into a bar with us, because a fight would start within five minutes of his arrival. He was also one of the most brilliant electronics technicians that ever lived.
He could look at any piece of
equipment and know what it did and how to deal with it. If textbook fixes
weren't possible, he would invent something that worked. I can't tell you how
many times he made something out of nothing for me. Of course this was the same
guy that lit his hind end on fire lighting flatulence too. Can't have
everything I guess.
Scott was only allowed to bring
alcohol. No cooking should ever be consumed if he had anything to do with it.
He could somehow cause food poisoning in an unopened can of peaches. He brought
about 3 gallons (No, I am not kidding) of hard liquor and we called it good.
My number three guy, Jerry, was of Polish extraction and had been raised in New Jersey. He right away jumped on the idea of Kielbasa and a surprise, which he wouldn't tell us until he brought it. It turned out to be six large pizzas with anchovies on every one of them.
My number three guy, Jerry, was of Polish extraction and had been raised in New Jersey. He right away jumped on the idea of Kielbasa and a surprise, which he wouldn't tell us until he brought it. It turned out to be six large pizzas with anchovies on every one of them.
He was a sick individual. He knew
that if he said "anchovies" before hand, only he and Mitch would say
yes. This way no matter which pizza he got to, it would have his beloved little
dead, sea creatures on it. The Kielbasa was very good though, and it was cooked
in some kind of seasoned oil that his grandmother told him to buy.
Alexander was the only boy of six children in his 100% Czechoslovakian family from Upper Michigan. He was never in the kitchen growing up to do anything but eat. He chopped a lot of firewood and did all of traditionally male oriented chores, but didn't have a clue about cooking anything.
Alexander was the only boy of six children in his 100% Czechoslovakian family from Upper Michigan. He was never in the kitchen growing up to do anything but eat. He chopped a lot of firewood and did all of traditionally male oriented chores, but didn't have a clue about cooking anything.
We told him that we had lots of food
and we just wanted him to join us and enjoy. He finally settled on bringing the
staple of every American gathering, potato chips… bags and bags of potato
chips. He couldn't decide what kind went with our meal (like who could?) so he
bought a big bag of every kind the store had.
Alex was a big, sensitive, quiet guy, who I had to coax into speaking into a microphone when he first arrived, but could now hold his own working traffic at the control tower. You were never quite sure what he was thinking, but the man never missed anything going on around him.
When he arrived back at my house
after he dropped off his bags of chips and went to the barracks to get cleaned
up, he was again carrying a bag. What the Hell is he doing I thought, not more
chips! But it wasn't.
His family practiced a tradition which is largely thought to be Russian, but
many cultures in the area pursue it; that tradition being that of carving eggs
and painting them as gifts. He had two large eggs for Stan’s and my house, and
smaller, chicken egg size ones for everyone else in attendance at that dinner.
They were all ornately carved and
painstakingly hand painted with a tiny brush, inside and out. We aren't talking
Easter egg dye job painting either. Alex had painted scenes inside of each egg
and crosshatch patterns with gold paint on the outside. Think Faberge eggs and
you would be close to what they looked like.
OK, they were certainly not that
same quality, but every bit as precious to us. He had stayed awake every night
after work creating these gifts instead of sleeping, because he wanted to
contribute something to our celebration. There were a lot of allergic reactions
all through the room as the manly men rubbed their eyes and tried to regain
composure. It was a very touching gift you must agree.
The last two members of our group were the newest arrivals to the family of controllers. The female partner was the controller, “Can't Cook Kate,” with her husband Sam, who worked in Personnel. The husband told us her nickname when we first met them at their check in to the Company HQ. He was explaining a scorch mark on her duffel bag, saying that she had dropped a flaming pan of something on it and he had rolled the bag to put it out. We all assumed he was joking. Turns out, he wasn't.
The last two members of our group were the newest arrivals to the family of controllers. The female partner was the controller, “Can't Cook Kate,” with her husband Sam, who worked in Personnel. The husband told us her nickname when we first met them at their check in to the Company HQ. He was explaining a scorch mark on her duffel bag, saying that she had dropped a flaming pan of something on it and he had rolled the bag to put it out. We all assumed he was joking. Turns out, he wasn't.
Kate was to bring a big garden salad. The two wives had advised us that no one
could screw that up, so we gave that assignment to Kate. She asked if she
should bring salad dressing too, and thinking of bottles of stuff you pour on
your green salad, we said, sure, why not.
Their car had not arrived in Anchorage yet, so Stan and I drove over to the temporary quarters they were in to pick them up. As we walked in the front door, the smoke was rolling out to meet us and a smoke alarm was playing a melody that we were to hear so often at their house.
Their car had not arrived in Anchorage yet, so Stan and I drove over to the temporary quarters they were in to pick them up. As we walked in the front door, the smoke was rolling out to meet us and a smoke alarm was playing a melody that we were to hear so often at their house.
Kate was coming out of the kitchen
towards the metal trash can outside with a pan of blackened something, which
turned out to be French toast… after the Revolution, I'd say. Sam was
nonchalantly walking out of the bedroom in his country club tennis attire
complete with the sweater tied around his neck. I fully expected him to say,
"Oh Buffy, shall we go." But he didn't.
There was still a layer of dark
smoke hugging the ceiling as Kate came back from changing into her matching
tennis outfit, again complete with a sweater around her neck. We started out to
the car and I asked, “Weren’t you bringing a salad?” “Oh yes,” she says and
runs back towards the next remodeling job for the housing office on base. She
didn't pop right back out, so I went in after her.
She was mixing something back and
forth between two mayonnaise jars and looking puzzled. I should have known that
was a bad sign, but I was in a hurry and didn't. I picked up the bowl of salad
looking stuff and she carried the jar in her own hands.
We had pans of food everywhere there was space to set them down. The octopus was still in the pan of water it was cooked in, the duck was in a big pot on top of the stove, the Kielbasa on a cookie sheet in the oven, as were the bratwurst, with the sauerkraut on the back of the stove, stinking up the place.
We had pans of food everywhere there was space to set them down. The octopus was still in the pan of water it was cooked in, the duck was in a big pot on top of the stove, the Kielbasa on a cookie sheet in the oven, as were the bratwurst, with the sauerkraut on the back of the stove, stinking up the place.
The pizza was delivered in a snow
storm by a goofy looking guy from a ratty old pickup truck, and Mitch met him
at the back door and took delivery. Mitch was funny; he would not allow anyone
to walk into our house wearing their shoes. There was quite a pile of boots,
shoes, coats, etc., piled up just inside of our back door.
My daughter Jenny, who was three at
the time, decided to help and threw all of it down the basement stairs, and
then brushed her hands together and declared, “There, that’s better.” She had
done such a good job that later when people were trying to leave, no one
remembered her comment and didn’t have a clue what happened to all the gear.
The six pizzas and the big salad
occupied the dining room table, so we just grabbed plates and did the buffet
line thing and filled up with goodies.
This brings us to the actual meal
time and a very touching moment where each person said something in the form of
a blessing in the language of their heritage. It was truly a special moment and
I had no idea how much we would need those prayers.
As we all started with the salad,
being the more or less traditional beginning to American meals, it was
predestined that we should all react in the same way at the same time. We put
the salad in our mouths at the same time, and we all spit it out at the same
time.
Kate had poured the entire quart jar
mixture on the bowl of salad and saturated it really well. It was primarily a
whole bottle of vinegar and an unknown type of oil which she had found in the
cabinet in the kitchen in a clear bottle. I for one didn’t think that I would
ever get it off of my tongue, even though I was licking a kitchen towel.
Moving right along, we tried to stab
a piece of octopus and found that one could not stab the pink morsel, you must
scoop it up. Mitch grabbed his with his fingers and drug it through the soy
sauce and popped it into his mouth. We all did the same thing eventually. Then
we chewed, and chewed, and chewed a lot more. If these were pink pencil erasers
they wouldn’t have been any harder to chew up and swallow.
The Canadian Duck was excellent,
what there was of it. We told Andre not to make a lot of it because we had so
much food and he did as instructed. The brats were good, but very greasy, and
the Kielbasa was good but spicy as all get out. The sauerkraut still stunk like
crazy, but we ate on it.
Jerry was happy as could be eating
his anchovy pizzas, and in fact ate so much of it that he had to go outside and
unload some it, well, and tequila and beer, before he could start eating more.
By the time the evening was over, we
had consumed all of the duck, most of the brats and Kielbasa, all of the
alcohol and all of the potato chips. Four large pizzas were gone, and two whole
ones were left. There was lots of salad and octopus to be had. Maybe we should
have mixed the two together; the oil might have softened the meat to where it
could be chewed. We did learn that we had over cooked the octopus a teensy bit.
OK, ten times the amount of time we were supposed to do, but who knew?
The only thing we remembered for
sure was that we had all been together for the day and evening and we enjoyed
each other’s company immensely. No one was alone, or left out, and that was
tremendous in a place where being alone can be fatal to your mind and well
being.
It was a good day.