Paddle Your Own Canoe: One Man's Fundamentals for Delicious Living Read online

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  My mother has two brothers and one sister. My uncle Don is the baby of the family. Later I was astonished to realize that he is young enough to have been my older brother. He was so great with us—all my aunts and uncles were like the Super Friends to me, but Uncle Don was Aquaman (the coolest). My mom’s younger sister, Michele, whom we called Aunt Micki, she was more mature and studious, as well as being fun—like when she used to name our freckles for us. She’s a librarian/historian in Minooka now, and my older sister, Laurie, works with her. Aunt Micki turned me on to the Chronicles of Narnia books, the Lord of the Rings trilogy, the Madeleine L’Engle books. I can’t give her enough “props,” as the kids are saying, for turning me on to such great fiction. (My brother and sisters didn’t like reading in the same way. They eventually caught on.) And Little House on the Prairie. I got so turned on by a series of books set in an alternative world. I wanted to know everything about the world—what has Pa got in his pockets?

  Uncle Don was the tangible version of that notion. I don’t know how it came to happen, but he bought this little motorcycle and left it at our house. I think it was just generosity, knowing we couldn’t afford to get something like that for ourselves. My mom’s oldest brother, Uncle Dan, and his wife, Dee, became the overseers of the farm as my grandparents grew older. They had a boy and a girl, Ryan and Angie. Ryan is six months younger than me, so we grew up like brothers. They had the resources of the farm at their disposal, so Ryan had a go-kart and a snowmobile. But I couldn’t afford that stuff, which could have been why Uncle Don left the motorcycle at my house.

  Uncle Don was just fun. He was and is really funny. He went to college and studied mechanical engineering. Motors, basically. He worked for a while in town as the bus mechanic for the school. But I think he and Uncle Dan were both destined to stick on the farm. Their knowledge is just amazing. To be a successful farmer you have to be a high-end mechanic, a botanist, and a soil engineer. You have to be a carpenter. Uncle Don was an incredible student of life but also loved to have fun. He was so freehanded—he would take us with him on snowmobiling trips and motorcycle rides, or we’d just go ride bicycles. Our family loves to fish, so we’d go boating. We’ve always had some version of our own boats, and now everybody’s got his/her own getaway cabin in Indiana or Wisconsin or Minnesota.

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  Uncle Don had the most throbbing boner of a vehicle you could have in 1978—the Pontiac Firebird with the phoenix on the hood and the T-top. It was so badass. He would take us for a treat to Shorewood, the near suburb of Joliet, to the Tastee Freez to get ice cream. I’d get a vanilla cone dipped in cherry—whatever that cherry candy shit is; it’s the greatest. And he’d play Frank Zappa, which was forbidden.

  We had a very decent household. We weren’t allowed to watch The Three Stooges. Our TV was governed pretty closely. There was a ban for a while on Tom and Jerry, but eventually that was lifted. My parents didn’t want their kids to see things with violence in them, which is so hilarious and sad now. (Looking at you, video games where one can chop the heads off prostitutes. [Which is my own surmise—I don’t know if that actually exists, but I’m pretty sure you can find it.]) So something like Frank Zappa singing, “Don’t eat the yellow snow,” and having to puzzle out the meaning of that was an early awakening of the notion “I like that use of language.” My neighbor Steve Rapcan lived next door on another three-acre parcel. His parents were slightly more licentious and he was allowed to have things like KISS and Eddie Murphy records. My folks did not know that we would hole up in his bedroom and listen to Eddie Murphy over and over. We’d lie back on the floor, and as I’ve now damn near gotten into a stand-up career of my own, I think how astonishing it was to me that someone like Eddie Murphy could talk hilariously about eating pussy in public and get paid for it. The amazing thing is it sparked something in me that remained an ember for a couple of decades. It never occurred to me that “humor” was remotely something I could aspire to.

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  By the age of eight or nine it began to dawn on me that I wasn’t exactly like the other kids in Minooka. I remember my fourth-grade classroom well. I had Miss Christensen, one of many top-drawer teachers in our school. She was just an admirable woman, with whom everybody was in love, of course. Fourth grade was a big reading year, and there was a contest called “Battle of the Books,” for which we would read titles like Caddie Woodlawn, My Side of the Mountain, and Island of the Blue Dolphins, and then compete by answering questions about the subject matter. We were learning the rudiments of plot, theme, and vocabulary, and one of our vocabulary words was nonconformist. I just dug that word. I heard the explanation, the definition, and I felt like I had just learned about a new hero in a kick-ass Marvel comic book. I raised my hand and I said, “Nonconformist. That is what I would like to be.” This was met by a bemused smile by Miss Christensen, who was probably already aware of my status as a creative thinker but couldn’t have imagined how far I’d take the execution.

  It didn’t take me long to discern that I had essentially announced to the world, “Excuse me, everyone? I am a weirdo.” But no matter. The die had been cast.

  I also recall a moment in second-grade art class. We were given a piece of wood and a little paper cutout of a clown head. (The assignment was to finish the wood with stain, then glue the clown head to the wood after coloring it in with crayons, then varnish the whole shebang.) I adorned my clown head with color and glued it on with the clown’s head cocked to the right. My teacher gave me a C.

  I said, “What the fuck are you talking about? This is so much better than what the rest of these squares made.”

  And she said, “You glued it on quite crookedly.”

  I replied, “He’s got his head tilted at a rakish angle, asshole!”

  I remember thinking, “You don’t fucking get me. This is my art! This is my shit!” I recall being outraged, thinking, “I don’t understand. Don’t you realize mine is uniquely creative and therefore way better than these other dipshits’?”

  I simply knew that I was peculiar and that I was a puzzle to those around me. I was also learning that this weirdness was a part of me that was not to be extinguished.

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  But for the time being, Minooka and the family farm were all that I needed. In the summers, when we would get together for family picnics, we would have enough people to field two teams of ten and play softball out in the meadow. I was charmed that half of the participants would have their beers out in the field. You’d have old people saying, “I’ll go out and play right field. I can’t do much.” It’s something that’s unfathomable today. To even suggest to the teenagers, or anybody now, “Let’s go play a sport.” They’d say, “Are you crazy? We’re watching the football game.” Or, “We’re playing our Wii.” All we needed back then was a bat and a ball.

  We would amuse ourselves with what we had on hand. After dinner, we would get on the hayrack, and everybody would ride around and look at the crops. It was a recreational ride, sitting on hay bales, singing songs. It was so heartwarming, and all it cost was the price of the fuel. We didn’t have to do anything to have a good time. It’s an incredible gift to be able to make your own fun.

  Eat Red Meat

  Unless you’re an ignorant fool (creationist), you’ll have noticed that a great deal of attention is being paid to humankind’s evolution over the millennia, especially with regard to our diet.

  According to science and smart anthropology types, our particular mammalian species evolved into sentient bipeds who learned to develop and then employ tools to further the domestic comforts of their caves. We then learned to advertise and sell these implements to one another. The progression is easy to track: the hammer—the spearhead—the flyswatter—the Clapper—the Xbox—the perfusion catheter.

  As we human-folk learned to kill and eat other animals, we came into a period of social development that I would liken to the “Quickening
” of Highlander fame. The added proteins in our diet turned us into physical specimens the likes of Sigourney Weaver, Schwarzenegger, and, at the very least, Ringo Starr.

  In short order, with knives of obsidian (a brief fad) and then sharpened steel, we learned to butcher animals in such a way as to garner the tastiest portions of their musculature, or “meat,” for eating. Then we learned to cook those muscle scraps over an open flame. Then we learned to apply sprigs of rosemary and thyme to the offerings. We learned to “rub” our seasonings into the flesh. Then we added garlic and butter to mashed potatoes, and then we invented barbecue sauce, and that creation, gentle reader, finally seems worthy of a restful seventh day. If there is a God, no part of the Bible or Christian doctrine will convince me of his existence half as much as the flavor of a barbecued pork rib. It is in that juicy snack that I can perhaps begin to glean a divine design, because that shit is delicious in a manner that can be accurately described as “heavenly.” I have never had need of a firearm in my life, not remotely, but I’ll happily sport a bumper sticker that reads, “You can have my rib eye when you pry it from my cold, dead fingers,” or even write a bit of poetry.

  The Bratwurst: A Haiku

  Tight skin flute of pork.

  Juices fly, explode in mouth.

  A little mustard.

  Ready for some controversy? I can actually understand the factions of people like those in the PETA organization when they raise hell about any time an animal is treated cruelly. I think mistreating animals is a shameful practice, and bad for one’s karma, to boot. When I talk about the mistreatment of animals, I’m thinking of some brute kicking a dog, or beating a horse, or, say, the countless horrors enacted upon the chickens, hogs, and cattle in the meat factories that supply the bustling shit dispensaries we call fast-food chains.

  And therein lies the problem. Fast food. For God’s sake, and also the sake of Pete, if you don’t respect your own body enough to keep it free of that garbage, at least PLEASE STOP FEEDING IT TO YOUR KIDS. Read Fast Food Nation. See the excellent documentary Food, Inc. If your excuse is a lack of time, then you need to get your priorities straight. There is no part of this country where one cannot find a source of fresh, organic meat and produce. I’m not talking about Whole Foods, I’m referring to farmers’ markets and local butchers and fishermen and -women. If you can’t find a source for fresh produce and eggs and/or chicken, bacon, and/or dairy products, by Christ, become the source! What more noble pursuit than supplying your community with breakfast foods?! If you want to read more about this notion, by actual smart and informed writers, pick up some Michael Pollan and some Wendell Berry.

  I have no intention of ever ceasing to enjoy red meat. However, I firmly believe that we can choose how and where our meat is raised, and I’m all for a grass-fed, happy steer finding its way to my grill long before a factory-farmed, filthy, corn-fed lab creation. It’s up to us to choose farm-to-table fare as much as possible until it becomes our society’s norm once again.

  One of the most tried-and-true methods by which we humans can collect our own protein from the land is that of fishing. My family doesn’t hunt (except for Uncle Terry—Aunt Micki’s hubby—who takes one or two bucks a year, usually with a bow and arrow, and keeps us all happily in venison, jerky, and sausage), but we fish like crazy. Between the family households, we have cabins in Wisconsin, Minnesota, and Indiana. Fishing is the default vacation for the entire family; if there’s a break, you can find us out on the lake. I have had the opportunity over the years to take some assorted friends on these Offerman/Roberts family fishing trips, and nothing gives me more pleasure than teaching them to clean their own fish. Of course it’s unpleasant in comparison to being served a delicious white fillet of sole in a butter sauce with capers, but every one of my students has expressed a primitive satisfaction in the knowledge that they can harvest their own meat from a lake or river, should “the shit” ever really go down. I admire my uncle for his hunting discipline, because he doesn’t do it for the fun of killing an animal, and he doesn’t do it wastefully. It’s simply a choice to fulfill some of his family’s grocery needs in the larder of the forest rather than the Albertsons. Among the other advantages of harvesting this meat himself, Uncle Terry is keeping himself from getting soft. We may hear more on that topic a bit further into these woods.

  Everybody knows, but many deny, that eating red meat gives one character. Strength, stamina, stick-to-it-iveness, constitution, not to mention a healthful, glowing pelt. But take a seat for a second. Listen. I eat salad. How’s that for a punch in the nuts, ladies? What’s more, as I sit typing this on a Santa Fe patio, I just now ate a bowl of oatmeal. That’s right. Because I’m a real human animal, not a television character. You see, despite the beautifully Ron Swanson–like notion that one should exist solely on beef, pork, and wild game, the reality remains that our bodies need more varied foodstuffs that facilitate health and digestive functions, but you don’t have to like it.

  I eat a bunch of spinach, but only to clean out my pipes to make room for more ribs, fool! I will submit to fruit and zucchini, yes, with gusto, so that my steak-eating machine will continue to masticate delicious charred flesh at an optimal running speed. By consuming kale, I am buying myself bonus years of life, during which I can eat a shit-ton more delicious meat. You don’t put oil in your truck because it tastes good. You do it so your truck can continue burning sweet gasoline and hauling a manly payload.

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  Hail Mary, Full of Beans

  My family was, and still is, very involved in St. Mary’s Catholic Church in Minooka. Now, let’s get off on the right foot about religion, especially Christianity and the Bible. I generally think that organized religion has a lot of great attributes, and I think the Bible is largely an amazing and beautiful book of fictional stories from which we can glean the most wholesome lessons about how to treat one another decently. I’ll have some rather different-seeming opinions later in the book. These opinions have to do not with Christians in general but rather with ways that I believe people misuse Christianity in modern society, or ways in which people in our democratic government try to use a religious text to influence legislation. I disagree with these specific notions, and we’ll talk about that in a bit.

  But for now, I’ll say that growing up as a contributing cog in the clockwork of St. Mary’s had many excellent benefits for me. I was an altar boy by age eight or nine, and I quickly learned that I could make the people in the congregation, or “audience,” laugh into their missalettes if I were I to, say, sniff the unstoppered cruet of Eucharistic wine and deliver an unpleasant review of its bouquet with a wrinkling of the nose, coupled with a raised eyebrow, a look I had been practicing tirelessly in school in emulation of my hero, John Belushi. My dad had a differing opinion, as you might well imagine, of my first attempt at comedy (which pretty much killed—sorry, Dad). He made it quite plain that he was not interested in any further display of opinion on my part from the altar. Thus, my surreptitious cultivation of the deadpan style was born. From the Catholic proscenium I had to find a way to entertain my loyal following of cousins and friends whilst remaining undetected by those joyless adults. I mean, come on, who doesn’t want a good laugh in the middle of boring old church?

  My family went to church every Sunday. There was no discussion or vote. Sometimes there were tears. Our hair was cut regularly and without mercy, so as to appear presentable in church, and you can bet your fanny we wore our Sunday clothes. Little sister Carrie, our only blonde, was allowed to grow her locks long, and she is still the prettiest of us, as well as the finest at belching, beating out older sis Laurie by the merest decibel. Church was where the community would countenance and then assess one another on a weekly basis to make sure we were all well scrubbed, well clad, and well barbered.

  When I began “serving mass” as an altar boy, the priest was Monsignor Seidl, an old-school (and also just plain old), venerated frog of a m
an. Great guy, just looked a bit amphibious. Things felt very institutional on his watch. It was easy to understand that our diocese (like a Catholic precinct, if NYPD Blue was about church) was directly connected through an ever-ascending chain of command to Rome and the Vatican.

  There were ten of us altar boys manning a strict schedule, serving in different permutations of three altar boys at a time. We’d cover a mass on Saturday evening and three more on Sunday morning in addition to the baptisms and funerals and weddings that peppered the calendar. The manning of special occasions was a highly coveted gig, because they usually involved a handsome cash tip from the families. That’s what church is all about, right? The $$$?

  As I was saying, the proceedings under Msgr. Seidl’s reign were very august. The mood was very somber, with a deep sense of respect for the dogma of the mass. That’s when I learned my trade. Handle the water and wine, hold the book, ring the bells, the whole nine yards. Hold a strange long-handled tray beneath the communion hosts (the Body of Christ) as they traveled from the priest’s chalice to the mouth of the believer. I definitely enjoyed the theatricality and ceremony of the Catholic mass.

  The best thing the altar boys got to do was ring the handbells. The servers would jockey for position to be the guy who rang the bells. Sometimes one guy would ring the bells first and then hand them over so a second server could get a taste of the good stuff. It kinda tells you all you need to know about church if three seconds of bell-clanging is the high point of the action.