c. 2025 Rod Ice
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(9-25)
Living in an eastern township by the county line affords this writer a perfect vantage point for seeking opportunities in all directions. When needs arise, more metropolitan areas of Geauga and Lake are easily accessible. Yet when yearning for preferred trips deeper into the pastoral comforts of Ashtabula, such alternatives lie close at hand. I find myself regularly visiting Cantini’s Village Market, in Rock Creek. Or, Trumbull Locker Plant, on Route 534, north of Hartsgrove. Both of these local businesses offer tasty, home-produced products, and friendly service. I am a particular fan of pepperoni rolls and scratch-baked treats, at the former. And smoked meats of many kinds, at the latter.
But my favorite destination for summer fare and creative meal items, year-round, remains Geneva Giant Eagle. A place where edible bargains are readily available. My Weber grill stays active every week. And I never go hungry from lacking inspiration.
But while this habit of acting as a front-porch, hillbilly chef is one founded on years of minimal household budgets and a need for outdoor relaxation, I sometimes forget that the bedrock of such deeds is always laid upon practicality. The necessity of producing gastronomic sustenance. In a healthy and timely manner. Cooking vittles over glowing briquettes of charcoal does not need to be sophisticated, by any means. And I avoid pretentiousness in any form. But while working over my smoking, kettle appliance, one habit lingers that is central only in a tangential way.
I have to be drinking. Preferably, a cool brew of some sort.
After a hiatus of six years, due to personal concerns, I resumed this favorite pursuit with gusto. An impulsive purchase via eBay sired this resurrection. I happened to see a Kingsford Charcoal Chimney listed for sale, and remembered that many years ago, a friend at my workplace during the era opined loudly that having one in his garage made an enormous difference on grilling days. He had been someone on our crew known for enthusiastic declarations that did not always stand up to careful scrutiny. So, I simply blew off his recommendation. Yet with the passage of years, and an appetite for new ideas taking hold, I remembered what he had advised. The new gadget was fairly cheap, and appeared to be sturdy, and simple. I only had to use it one time, for the shining light of an epiphany to glow over my head.
It worked better than anything I had ever tried, before!
The result of this change in my culinary routine was swift and consequential. I soon found myself at the cooker every other day. Always with a chilled refreshment in hand, of course. This shift in my household regimen attracted neighbors and pets, immediately. And, guaranteed that I was spending much more time outdoors. But a side-effect of keeping this home fire burning was that my consumption of beverage alcohol spiked precipitously. Instead of keeping a case of suds on hand, in the fridge, it became routine to stack extras in my living room. Or to jam loose rations in the door pockets and anywhere else that a can or bottle would fit.
I enjoyed products branded with many familiar names. Yuengling, Genesee, Iron City, Naragansett, Great Lakes Brewing varieties, Molson, Labatt, and even the pedestrian libation, Miller High Life. With my confidence in old habits restored, I did not hesitate to celebrate life and liberty with ebullience. Every swallow of refreshment came in between bites of seared steak, chicken, and pork. My belly was full, and I did not feel guilty.
This dietary rampage might have continued unabated, except for an annual checkup put into place by my regular physician, at the Geneva Clinic. In a yearly exercise, she asked that I visit the laboratory on-site, for blood work. The scores that resulted would tell a tale of good health, or bad. I always felt as if the Sword of Damocles was hanging above my skull, when complying with this request. I would sometimes turn pale, or tremble. Yet more often than not, my levels had been within acceptable limits.
Until, that is, just before my 64th birthday.
With the benefit of modernist technologies in effect, and quick communication through a cellphone app, I learned of my standing condition even before having an official conference with the doctor. Figures for every part of my body tested were in line with standards set by the medical community. I was able to breathe a sigh of relief. Yet one glaring defect spoiled this report card. My blood sugar and A1C were both elevated. I did not need a scientific degree to assess the cause of this malady. I had been guzzling hops and grains in a high-carb cocktail, all throughout the summer.
Even before the lab encounter, I had been feeling the fatigue and other telltale signs of something being amiss. I knew instinctively that my liquid, caloric intake had grown excessive. But chafed at the notion of switching out these satisfying beverages for a lesser alternative. I felt good enough, yes indeed healthy enough, to go forward without cheating my palate. I had little desire to accept the fact that, as so many before me had done, a change to lighter fare was in order. I had been gambling with my well-being, unaware.
Still, when on my way to discuss the test results, I knew what had to be done.
Instead of taking medications for a pre-diabetic condition, in the interim, I opted for penitent self-denial, with purpose. The last of genuine brews disappeared from my kitchen reserve, as I commemorated this woeful event with a moment of silence. Then, I purchased a 24-count case of Lite. A weaker, less burdensome concoction that in truth, did not appear to be out of place for some one of my age and general girth.
I could not help remembering my cockiness, during yonder days, when seeing a friend who was more seasoned and wise, sliding a package of Milwaukee’s Best Light through one of the register lanes at our store. I had teased him about being too old and withered, and crusty to handle ‘real’ beer in all of its glory.
Wayne knew that I was young and ignorant at the time. So, he simply nodded and smiled.
“You have the personality of an armadillo, Rod! You know, when I lived in Texas, we saw those damned things all the time!”
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