You Want Ketchup With That?

I’m super excited to have been invited to join a blog group alongside three talented bloggers.  Each week, one of us chooses a topic and we all post a blog entry on that topic, usually on Thursdays.   

Here are the links to the other fabulous blogs:

Merryland Girl

Froggie

Moma Rock  

            This week, I asked the other bloggers to write about 3-5 things that you used to love, enjoy doing, etc., in the past but now you don’t like.  Or, write about stuff you used to not like but have grown to enjoy.  And feel free to throw in one thing you’ve always loved and always will.  Here’s my take:

Stuff I Used To Dislike But Now Kinda Like:

(1)  The Beatles:  For most of my life, I’ve not been too crazy about Beatles’ music.  I never understood why people went absolutely ga-ga over their songs.  Sure, there were a couple of catchy ones, but I usually turned the radio dial when a Beatles’ song came on.  I really didn’t get how they “changed the world”; to me, Elvis was just as gutsy and perhaps even more groundbreaking around the same time.  I preferred The Monkees, as they were cute and fun and had an awesome television series.  (And Davy Jones.)

When I was in my early 20s, I spent a few years living in L.A.  I used to hang out at the long-hair clubs dotting Hollywood Boulevard and the Sunset Strip, listening to band after band playing mostly original music.  One night, one of my fav bands played Hey Jude – and the place went wild.  Imagine the sound of 100 long hairs nah nah nah NAH NAH NAH NAHing in unison, over and over again.  The moment has stayed with me over the years, and even though the moment holds much meaning, it didn’t convert me.  I’d leave Hey Jude on if it came on the radio, but I’d still switch the station for the other songs.

But for some reason, lately, I’ve started to listen.  I’ve started to appreciate.  I really don’t know why.  If a Beatles song comes on the radio, I won’t lunge for the tuner.  I’ll sit.  And I’ll enjoy.  I’ll even sing along.

I’ll never be a crazed Beatlemaniac, and I’ll still always prefer the Peter Frampton/Bee Gees cover of Golden Slumber/Carry That Weight (thank you cheesy Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Heart’s Club Band movie!).  But now I can honestly say, yeah, the Beatles are okay.

(2)  Tomatoes:  I grew up in a Polish/Italian family where the Polish kind of fell to the side.  In my childhood home, our traditions – and most especially our food – came from the Italian side. 

And, so, of course, tomatoes were plentiful.  We ate pots of “gravy” made from canned tomatoes and tomato sauce.  My parents grew (and continue to grow) them in their tiny patch of a garden in their tiny patch of a backyard.  Chunks of tomato dotted every salad (which accompanied every dinner).  In the height of the tomato season, plates full of juicy sliced tomatoes were passed.  And I?  Passed.  I had no interest.  I didn’t like the taste or the texture.  They seemed pointless, just another vegetable I didn’t care to taste.  (Exception:  sugary sweet processed ketchup.  I’d dunk anything in ketchup.  Anything.  Maybe even a tomato.)

Today, I love tomatoes.  Love love love them.  I look forward to trips to the farmer’s market to pick up fresh tomatoes.  I will eat them sliced with a little salt, or alongside some fresh mozzarella in a Caprese salad.  I cut them up and add them to pizza as a topping and mix them into homemade omelets.  And is there anything better than a grilled cheese with slices of tomato tucked inside?  Yum! 

I regret my years of tomato abstinence.  I think of the hundreds of opportunities I had to pick a fresh tomato from my parents’ garden and slice it into a sandwich.  But at least I finally came to my senses and I hope I have many years of tomato-filled goodness ahead.

Something I Used to Like But Now Really Don’t

Swimming:  When I was a kid, we had a pool in the backyard.  Nothing fancy, just a round metal three-foot above ground pool that filled almost the entirety of our yard.  Oh, how I loved that pool.  It was a magnet for the neighborhood kids, and we took full advantage.  We played hours of Marco Polo.  We walked in circles to make whirlpools (until my Mom banged on the picture window to tell us to knock it off because we were messing up the filter). 

Eventually, my Dad took down the pool (and I’ll note that he lied and said he would replace it – instead, he bought a pile of sod and replaced the yard).  I was old enough to hit the public pools, so my friends and I spent our summer afternoons and evenings at either the Jefferson Park pool, which was new and close by, or the Portage Park pool, which was older and further away but which had diving boards and cuter lifeguards.  We lived at those pools until we graduated grammar school.  For some reason, the thrill ended when high school began.

Living in L.A. afforded me my next access to a pool.  I shared an apartment with a friend in a complex called Club California, and our favorite feature was the huge pool surrounded by all the deck chairs full of long hairs.  My roomie and I had little in common, but we both loved the pool.  We went often; there was always someone to talk to . . . or look at.  I didn’t really “swim” so much as hang out and jump in to cool off.  The pool was more of a place than a thing.  But I loved it still.

On Mother’s Day 2001, I had a couple of seizures (doctors never figured out why, and I never had another).  As I recovered, my doctors told me to skip swimming unless someone watched me closely – and what fun is that?  I walked in fear of seizing again, as no one could guarantee it wouldn’t happen again, so swimming seemed especially daunting.  I didn’t want to drown, and I didn’t want to be babysat.  I chose poolside.

In the years since, I’ve lost my desire to swim.  I haven’t had a seizure in more than a decade, so that is not the reason.  No, pools kinda gross me out.  They’re big cesspools of germs.  I don’t want to immerse myself in what is nothing more than a giant bathtub with countless strangers.  You just know people pee in them.  Even if they are chlorinated to the hilt, I have no desire to stick my head in a pool of other people-tainted water.  (And, honestly, I’ve no desire to stick my head in a giant vat of chemical water, either.  It is hell on the hair.)

I’m still okay going in an ocean, but I won’t put my head under.  I’ll go into a pool up to my neck to cool off, but that’s it.  Sadly, my Marco Polo days are over.  (Though I’d still be up for a good neighborhood whirlpool.)

Something I’ve Always Loved and Always Will

I would bet money that most of you are expecting a mini-essay about . . . Bon Jovi.  And for sure, Bon Jovi would fit the bill here.  But there is something I’ve loved longer than Bon Jovi, something that touches me almost every day, something I intend to embrace until I die – and maybe after.

Blue jeans.

Oh, how I love denim.  I am at my most comfortable when wearing a comfortable, well-fitting pair of jeans.  I feel good; all feels right.  I like clothes well enough, and I own dresses and skirts and shorts and leggings, but none of those things compete with blue jeans.

I came of age in the era of Calvin Kleins and Sergio Valentes.  We wore our jeans dark and tight, with just enough room to squeeze a comb into the back pocket.  (We laid on the bed to zip those puppies.)  I owned exactly one pair of Calvins, and I cherished them.  I wore them to death.  I wish I still had them. 

As times changed and brands expanded, I branched out.  I didn’t care much about the name on the tag – I just wanted a good, comfortable, flattering fit.  These days, my favs can be found at the Gap.  And I wear them until they fall apart.  Literally.

I can’t help but think about my cousin Suzie when I think about loving jeans.  Suzi was a cousin by marriage (which in Italian families means, Suzie = cousin).  I stood up to the wedding at which Suzie married my cousin David, and Suzie wore jeans under her wedding dress!  Her mother was livid, but Suzie wouldn’t budge.  She said she was most comfortable in a pair of jeans, and she knew feeling that soft cotton against her skin under the piles of wedding dress fabric would calm her down.  It did.  (It also made for some amusing wedding photos.)

Suzie passed away very young; only 37.  I was living in L.A., so I couldn’t attend her funeral.  I’ve wondered whether she was buried in jeans.  For her sake, I hope she was.  Because now that I am older, I understand her intense love of denim pants, and I know she would have wanted to look and feel her best as she passed on to whatever waited for her. 

I’d be fine being buried in jeans, maybe with a nice top and some cute accessories.  I intend to be the 85-year-old woman still wearing jeans as she toddles around the retirement community.  No polyester for me – and no elastic waists! 

I don’t particularly like Neil Diamond (never have, probably never will), but even he wrote about the love of denim.  Too bad the Beatles couldn’t do a cover.  I’d happily listen, sitting poolside, wearing my jeans and biting into a fresh tomato.

Sounds like heaven.