Weekends in Alamo

Cody Howrigon

Memoir

 I did my best not to get too close, but something about the sight and smell of bacon simmering in a hot pan had a very powerful effect on a young me. Breakfast for dinner, I thought to myself. What could be better?

“Can I have a bite of one to see if it's ready yet, grandpa?” I asked, gazing dreamily into the pan.

“No, you'll just have to wait patiently like your sisters,” my grandpa replied as he gave me a gentle nudge with his leg.

I backed up only a few feet, and continued to look on in amazement as I watched what I truly believed to be a genius at work. It mesmerized me really. How could a single person cook a full-fledged breakfast, set the table, do the dishes, watch the game, and feed the dog, all while singing a favorite Sinatra tune in the most nonchalant manner possible? Answer: I'm not really sure, but I've been trying to figure it out ever since.

“Cody, come sit down at the table with your sisters and I. You'll get your bacon when it's ready,” my grandma said in an impatient tone.

“Yeah Cody, just because you're the youngest doesn't mean you get to go first all the time. Why do you always have to be such a baby?” said my loving older sister, Grace.

This accusation would normally send me into a sudden fit of rage and chaotic yelling, but due to the complete sensory overload taking place, it didn't really register. So I slowly dragged myself away from the beautiful mosaic of breakfast food, and reluctantly moseyed over to my usual spot at the dinner table and took a seat.

In spite of having to wait, I was still beyond happy to be at my grandparent's house. Everything seemed to be perfect in my young, unsophisticated life. It was my favorite time of year – school was out, the sun was high, and my troubles low. My parent's were making their annual trip East to Detroit for yet another Jimmy Buffett concert, which meant that my two older sisters and I were to be spending the weekend together at our grandparent's house in Alamo, Michigan – a tradition we looked forward to each and every year. I would finally take a break from my stressful nine year-old life, by instead exploring the seemingly infinite Michigan forest in my grandparent's backyard, and with long afternoons reading Calvin and Hobbes under my favorite oak tree.

More than this though, it meant that I would eat well. And I mean really eat well. If there was one thing my grandpa was expert at it was spoiling his grandkids, and his primary means of doing so was through food. Whether it was a steak cooked at the perfect, medium-rare temperature, a gargantuan Bubba Burger (also cooked perfectly), or something as simple as breakfast for dinner, my grandpa has always known how to keep his grandkids happy.

“Time to eat!” my grandpa exclaimed, after what seemed to be an eternity of sitting and waiting patiently.

I quickly filled my plate with an assortment of eggs (both scrambled and sunny-side up), two slices of Texas Toast, a mountain of bacon, a slew of sausage, and a second plate full of hash-browns covered in ketchup.

“That's too much, Cody. Put some back. I don't want you to waste any,” my grandma reasoned, doubting me.

“He's a growing boy! Leave him be. He needs to get big and strong for football this fall anyway,” my grandpa said, defending me.

With that, I dug in. The abundance of salt and fatty grease excited my taste buds and flooded my brain with endorphins. If another innocent pleasure superior to this exists somewhere in the world, I've still yet to find it. The experience was a transformational one, as it always is. I began with an empty stomach and a heart filled with ambition; I finished with child heartburn and a higher BMI.

Since I had finished much sooner than the rest of the table, I was afforded the time to really sit back, relax, and take in a level of pleasure that would make any true hedonist proud. My eldest sister, Courtney was the last to finish, and both of my grandparents were already clearing the table to start cleaning dishes. Courtney looked at my other sister and I discreetly with eyebrows raised, signaling that it was time for the obligatory post-meal thank you. Grace and I both nodded that we understood and all three of us yelled out together,

“Thank you grandpa!”

“That was even better than last time,” Courtney added.

My grandpa received our thanks in his usual stoic demeanor, then left the room with beer in hand to go watch his favorite team's game in peace. This usually meant that it was time for our favorite part of the night – dessert.

“Is it time for ice cream yet grandma?” Grace questioned eagerly.

“As long as you make your beds and get your pajamas on fir--.”

My sisters and I leaped from our chairs and bolted to the living room to “make” our beds (which consisted of simply choosing a blanket and pillow from a nearby closet and setting it on the couch). Once I had my blanket and pillow in place, I quickly threw off my shirt and shorts and was down to my Tommy Hilfiger boxers.

“I'm done, grandma! My bed's made and my pajamas are on!”

She smiled, and handed me a bowl of vanilla ice cream that was nearly as big as my head.

“Jeez Cody! Save some for us,” Grace whined as she was being handed her equally enormous sized bowl. “You forgot your chocolate too, dummy!”

This is where my family's ice cream eating habits differ from most. First, we add an ungodly amount of Hershey's chocolate sauce to our mountainous heap of ice cream, so much so that it would make any normal, health-conscious family cringe in disapproval. Then, after we drizzle that oh too good chocolatey liquid into the bowl, we hold our spoons with a Friday the 13th-style grip, and we very slowly, very methodically, churn the ice cream in a wide, circular motion, round n' round until our arm muscles fail from overexertion. When this occurs, we promptly switch arms (wasting no time, as that was the secret), making the same churning motion as before. This cycle continues for exactly three minutes (as if there were some holy doctrine somewhere stating to do so). The result, is a thick, viscous consistency – one that is so thick in fact, that it can't quite be called ice cream anymore at all. If I'm being perfectly honest, its solid brown color resembles something I don't think I need to spell out for you, and thus, isn't the most appealing thing to look at. However, with the lights turned down low, our favorite cartoons on VHS, and a nice, cozy spot on the couch, can really appreciate the explosion of cavity causing sugar setting off every taste receptor in your mouth. Finishing this monstrous amount of dessert always seemed an impossible feat at first, but I always did manage to get it all down.

Once finished, my sisters and I would move to our normal sleeping spots on the couch, laying motionless and without making a sound as we watched our favorite cartoons on the same “box” TV as always. Every year, at this moment, I would compete with myself from the previous year, by trying to stay awake just a little bit longer than I ever had. I gauged this with the VHS compilation of 60's and 70's cartoons my grandparents would always play for us on the last night of our stay. I would try to stay up one twenty-two minute cartoon longer than the year before, which meant I would get the pleasure of both discovering a new cartoon for the first time, and earning the pride that comes with staying up the latest, which is essential for the psychological well-being of any young boy in a family full of girls.

I really loved these weekends spent at my grandparents. Some of my greatest childhood memories took place there. Those long, care-free weekends all seem so surreal now. It's really almost unfair, like I was too young to be able to really appreciate it all. In my life now, moments like these – where you can truly let loose and forget the world – are few and far between. I will forever be indebted to my grandparents, and the multitude of fond memories they have given me over the years. Now, all I can hope to do is one day become the grandfather I was so fortunate to have, and give a similar experience to my kids and theirs.