FOOD, GLORIOUS FOOD
 
           I was in hog heaven.  One summer day, while looking for a
baseball in the garage adjacent to our home, I stumbled across a
virtual smorgasbord of goodies, a collection of treats so varied
that my younger brother Jeff and I would subsequently refer to
it as “the stash.”  Exactly how a seven-year-old and his six-year-
old sibling arrived at that term is still a mystery to me, but I
distinctly remember the designation.
           To be more precise, “the stash,” was a large freezer filled
with every frozen delicacy conceivable to a young boy’s mind.
there were frozen fruits, Popsicles, cheeses, and ice cream.
the freezer also contained our favorite treat-hot dogs-which
after being held in a warm hand for a few minutes could be
swallowed in two or three bites.
           For several weeks after we discovered “the stash,” my
brother and I made  both scheduled and impromptu raids into
the garage.  Often, when we found nothing to do, we would
look at each other and yell “the stash.” This was a signal to run
maniacally to the freezer, in search of a popsicle or fudge bar.
Likewise when we returned after playing hours of baseball or
“Cowboys and Indians” in the neighborhood, our first stop was
that frosty haven in the garage.  The old freezer, tucked away
from the hustle and bustle of the outside world, became our
home away from home.  It was a place to recount the events of
the day, to plan new adventures, to talk freely about our six
brothers and sisters without fear of retribution, all in the
comfortable and reassuring presence of an ice cream sandwich.
All this changed the day I froze my tongue to a gallon of lard.
           It began as a day like all other days during that long hot
summer.  After enjoying one of our mom’s world-famous
breakfasts, my brother and I set off to conquer the
neighborhood.  We had dragons to slay, high seas to sail, and
far-off lands to discover.
           Having completed these objectives by mid-morning, we
headed home.  I soon discovered that, for my brother, fresh air
and sunshine bore no match for the latest adventures of
Underdog.  However, I had bigger fish to fry.  From the porch I
grabbed my baseball glove and the rubber ball which always
rested securely in its pocket, just above the stamped signature
of Willie Mays.
           In the far corner of our backyard stood a silver tank used to
store propane gas.  To me, however, it was more than a lonely
reservoir on scruffy ground.  It was where Lou Brock, during
the final game of the 1969 World Series, homered off Denny
McClain with the bases loaded and two outs in the ninth. It
was where Ray Washburn came within one out of throwing
consecutive no-hitters against the Cincinnati Reds and the
Atlanta Braves.  It was where dreams came true and where
hopes were dashed forever.
           In theory, throwing a rubber ball against a metal tank is an
exact science.  It took almost no time to discover that a pitch
delivered to the upper portion of the tank produced fly balls of
various heights and distances;  a throw hitting the tank in a
roughly 6-inch by 5 foot rectangle in the middle-section of the
tank resulted in line drives of differing velocities; a ball striking
the tank below this rectangle caused ground balls which, after
being fielded, had to be returned to the tank to simulate a
throw to first base.  With a man on first and second base and
less than two outs, a very swift fielder could sometimes turn the
double play, provided he was adept at scooping out the
invariable ground ball throw to first.  A touch of the unexpected
was provided by the existence of a long hook protruding from
the top of the tank.  When a ball hit that hook it went off in
almost any direction, causing great anxiety among the defense.
In practice, a seven year-old boy throwing a ball some forty or
fifty feet at a relatively small target was lucky to hit the tank
seven out of ten times.  But that was okay too, since wild
pitches added to the utter unpredictability of the sport.
           When a young  boy plays ball on a hot summer day, he is
certain to get hungry for something from “the stash.” I
remember standing halfway between the house and garage,
glancing at each structure like a forlorn puppy trying to decide
to which of two masters it should advance. I was hot and
sweaty, and having just retired the hated New York Yankees to
secure another Cardinals’ World Series victory, I was clearly
deserving of a post-game reward.  Still, I felt guilty about going
to the freezer without announcing my intentions to my brother.
           After several minutes I convinced myself that, on some
occasion, Jeff must have tapped “the stash” without me. I
slowly walked to the garage and slid open the door. I do not
know why, but even after several trips to the freezer I always
seemed to be surprised by its very existence and its seemingly
endless supply of goodies.  After all, even the largest oasis dries
up eventually.
           I anxiously opened the large freezer door. No previous trips
had prepared me for what I saw, or thought I saw, that
afternoon.  When had Mom bought a gallon container or vanilla
ice cream?  Previously we had discovered ice cream only in
smaller, individualized portions.  But now I saw the
possibilities, now I had been to the mountaintop, now I
deserved more, and it was all mine.
           There is little in life more disappointing than expecting the
sweet, luscious taste of ice cream and receiving the harsh, bitter
reality of beef fat.  This disappointment turned to sheer panic
the moment I realized my tongue had become permanently
attached to the frozen container.  I don’t recall what possessed
me to use my tongue to gather the ice cream in the first place,
but be that as it may, it was stuck and going nowhere fast. I
tried to remain as calm as a person could be while mustering all
available strength to hold an eight pound tub or lard to his
mouth.  I stood motionless in the garage for what must have
been five minutes, trying to decide what avenue held the
greatest potential for relief.  It was during this introspection that
Jeff entered the building.
           “Hey, what are you doing with that ice cream?” he
stammered.  I replied, “This is stuck to my tongue,” in what I
thought was perfect English, but to him must have sounded
like “sfrrto tggylihh d;tkg.”
           “What are you doing eating without me?” Jeff demanded.
He did not seem at all shocked that I had used my tongue to
dig into what he was still convinced was ice cream. I took some
consolation in knowing he apparently would have done exactly
the same thing.  I tried to impress upon my brother that not
only was the substance disgusting to the taste, but that my
tongue was beginning to experience distinct pain from
prolonged contact with the cold.  But Jeff was clearly more
interested in ranting and raving about how I should have come
inside and got him before I went to “the stash,” or at least when
I discovered the ice cream.  Only after I screamed at the top or
my lungs with the best articulation I could muster, “IT’S
STUCK,” did my dear brother realize something was terribly
wrong.  He also my have been alerted to possible trouble
when, in resonse to his verbal barrage, I neither continued to
eat the ice cream nor pulled the container away from my face to
defend myself.
           I would like to say we calmly discussed our options and
decided on the best course of action.  Unfortunately, that is not
the way I remember it.  Despite my brother’s best efforts to
calm me.  I began to wail like a lone wolf in the night.  I just
knew I was going to be the only kid in the neighborhood with a
Wells Blue Bunny ice cream container permanently attached to
his tongue.  All of a sudden, Jeff jumped to his feet, told me to
stay there, and headed toward the house. When he returned, I
saw a washcloth in his hand.  “Oh great,” I thought, “My
tongue is turning blue, and my dear brother is going to take a
bath.”  As Jeff rubbed the lukewarm cloth against my tongue
where it came into contact with the lard, I slowly realized what
he was doing.  I thought back to the countless number of times
I had awakened in the morning, unable to open my eyes. The
first time it happened I was convinced I had gone blind. My
mother used a washcloth to wipe the sleep from my eyes, all the
while comforting me in her own special way. Quite obviously,
my brother had paid close attention to these episodes and must
have figured that what worked for the eyes must also work for
the tongue.  I felt the container slowly withdraw its grip, and
before I knew it I was free.
           I have never been sure whether Jeff rescued me out of a
deep sense of brotherly love, or whether it was because he
didn’t want to tell Mom and Dad about our unauthorized visits
to “the stash.”  I do know my trips to the freezer were far less
frequent after this particular episode, and even when I did go,
nothing ever tasted quite the same again. After all these years,
I still raid the freezer when I go home, but I leave the ice cream
for a heartier soul.
 
Martin Bergschneider
Laboratory Technician