Butteloaf (the e is silent)
By: Michael W. Curry
It was the worst of times... and the worst of times. A gastronomic event that shapes a person on the outside... but mostly on the inside as your guts twist and your tongue turns to wood. A time when organs rebel or resent or remind us that we are not in control. Grab your heating pad, take a Tums and put some Pepto in that milkshake and let me explain... or just run straight to the potty and read it there. That might be best.
My wife, my sister-in-law and myself were on our way to majestic Yellowstone from some much needed R and R. We all work for the government and by the end of the school year, “going postal” had crossed our minds a time or two. A trip through the Rockies to see some of God’s wonders was just what the doctor ordered. Actually... the doctor said, “No! Stay off that foot and stay home! Do not move!” So we packed up the car and left.
We took Peg’s car because it was more of a gas miser than our Blazer and the gas prices were the highest they have ever been in the history of mankind. Close to $4.00 a drop in WA State! I elected to let the sisters sit up front so they could cackle and sew and share man love secrets while I took the back seat so I could stretch out my gimpy foot... Did you hear that? I said... while I take the back seat SO I COULD STRETCH OUT MY GIMPY FOOT! But luckily, we had to go to a family reunion in Ritzville on the way back and Peggy thought it would be a good idea to bring along a writing desk, the fridge and a month’s supply of baking goods. Those would only have to rest on my foot in the back with me until we got to Ritzville where we would hire a crew of Mexicans for the day to unload it... then I could stretch out my leg with the gimpy foot the rest of the way. Our car actually looked like that lumbering old Jalopy on the “Grapes of Wrath” flick... the way it was all packed up. I started to get a little miffed when she added the core samples and tree starts. But I put one and a half feet down when she tried to bring a water tower and left over conservation posters for the kiddies. Enough was enough.
We arrived in Ritzville and dropped off the provender at Jenny’s place and I was quite surprised that there was still no room in the back seat as the ladies had promised. They had confused expressions on their faces along with myself, but I am quite sure I heard snickers and saw smirks when they thought my stomach was blocking my peripheral vision. Hmmmmm.... It’s as if they knew I was Sardine boy by default. Could they be that devious? Or was it just a matter of circumstance?
I pondered these curiosities as we headed on our way to Montana. My home. The big sky. The home of the Rockies. Mountains and trees and snow and glaciers and bars with affordable souvenirs. Paradise! All of the various stops had signs on which were loving words such as
“BEER, CIGS, GAMBLING... We Love Kids!”
Wish I could’ve seen it out the windows but the pillows and three coolers blocked my view. But all was good. I could feel the atmosphere as it tried to make its way through the cracks and small pockets of air into my very soul. Luckily, Peg put in a mind numbing tape that played the same song over and over again until all though processes went numb and the person who’s ear was held against the speaker eventually when into some kind of hypnotic catatonic shock and cared very little about the cutlery set poking him on his hoo hoos from out of one of the many duffle bags that didn’t fit in truck and had to go on the floor. Every once in a while, the sun glistened off of something shiny by my face and I saw the reflection of the back of the car. It was quivering and vibrating as if under some great force. But I’m sure it was just my imagination. Like I say, my mind had shut off after the 235th rendition of Peg’s synthesizer with bells and harp instrumental rendition of “Please Put A Screwdriver in My Ear and Continue Pounding with a Heavy Sledgehammer Until I Meet God” song. I don’t think it was really called that but it’s the only title I could think of while trapped in my area.
Needless to say, by the time evening was setting in, we were tired, sore and hungry. We would be too wiped to cook dinner at the cabin which was still a few hours off so I suggested that we eat at a restaurant. Luckily, we had just entered Butte, Montana. Home of the “Ugliest City in the World” according to National Geographic. It’s a big strip mining town and basically a hole in the ground where they built dwellings and businesses to accommodate the slaves who had to work there.
Through my peep hole, I spotted a sign that said “Famlee Restrawnt” toward the upper lip of the pit and we elected to eat dinner there. We were so hungry and so tired, we didn’t even see the “Proud to be Part of the Prison Work Release Program” signs that were taped to the bars on the windows. As we entered the establishment, a wall of tobacco smoke hit us like a wave of fetid breath mixed with carcinogens. “Uh... Excuse me...!” I said as I was just getting ready to explain to everyone there that there should be no smoking in a family restaurant when my wife elbowed me and said, “Michael! This is Montana... NOT Washington!” I understood her wisdom and remained silent after my initial attention grabbing outburst and slowly, the big sweaty men and women sat back down on their stools and ordered more cocktails. The ladies and I were awaiting our turn to be seated as we stood next to the “Wate Too Bee Seeted or Yoo Will Bee Shot” sign when the “Host” of the establishment shouted, “What the hell are you waiting for?!? Go seat your damn selves!!!” So we skittered past the spittoons on the floor and picked a table on the farthest end of the room. The air was slightly clearer there.
The waitress appeared and poured us some greenish coppery waters with dark speckled ice and then threw some menus at us with sharply jagged corners on them. My eye didn’t quit watering for quite some time and Peggy needed a band aid. Through the smoke and eye watering, I noticed a “Meatloaf” special with your choice of sides. Nancy had suddenly lost her appetite but knew the importance of keeping up her strength... especially if we were going to have to fight our way out of here, so she decided on some soup. “I hate soup!” She said. But it was Chicken and Rice so she ordered a bowl of that. Peggy saw the joy in my face at finding something familiar so she decided to get the meatloaf special too. But she got veggies as her side. The waitress brought out a tray with our soups first. Cups for Peg and I and a carved wooden trencher for Nancy. After she unloaded them on the table, I noticed angry needle track marks on her arms. “Hmmmmm....” I thought to myself. “Must be diabetic”.
Peg took the first bite. Now Peg is somewhat of an optimist and usually tries to put a positive twist to most situations. An example might be, a Grizzly bear chomping down on your head, and Peg might say, “Well at least I got to see one up close in it’s natural setting.” Or “Well at least not all of her teeth have entered my skull.” Or “Well at least her stomach will be full and she can take care of her cubs.” I could go on but you get the point. This time she said, “It’s a little thick” as she chewed her crunchy rice. Her spoon was standing straight up in her cup. I could see a lot of big chunks of rock salt in her cup which made sense to me... being in a mining town and all. I could tell it was WAY too salty just by the puckered expressions on their faces. But instead of saying, “Man! This is friggin salty!” Peggy said, “It reminds me of the ocean.” I’m guessing she’s picturing the sludgly oil slick where the ferries park and throw out their trash down on the waterfront docks. But, having worked at Perkins back in the day, I suggested pouring some of the ice water in it. After all... it was almost the same color and texture as the soup. “But it’s already cold” said Peggy. “No no silly goose!” I said, “It’s to thin it out a bit.” I had never seen soup have such a chunky top with differing levels before. Most soups had an even level surface in my experience. Nancy had been using her butter knife to cut her soup but put some of the “water” in hers after hearing our conversation. After doing so, the edges started congealing instantly and left thick tallow colored layers about a quarter inch thick on the edge of her bowl. “I told you I hate soup!” she said as she tried to mash down the mass on her spoon using her tongue and the roof of her mouth. Luckily, she said it made some kind of coating in her mouth and it made it easier for the rest of it to slide down quickly without catching or glomming on to anything vital. She muffled her gag noises in the burlap napkins they supplied for us.
When the waitress set down the meatloaf in front of Peggy and I, I felt the table buckle. But the rough hewn logs held. The blood from previous slivers of patrons past acted as a type of glue. I had never seen meatloaf served with a switchblade for cutting, but we were in a foreign land so I gave it a shot. It was dark like magnesium and about as big as a typical brick. I thought it also odd that it didn’t want to be cut... yet when finally succumbing to the effort... that section would fall to tiny crumbly pieces. Does meatloaf have crumbs? I didn’t think so. Peggy was still trying to activate her switchblade so I went ahead and took a bite after scooping up the bits on to my spoon. The explosion of anti flavor was a shock, but I kept my cool and didn’t let on that I was throwing up on the inside. I was horrified, yet somehow impressed that they had figured out a way to incorporate all the mine tailings into something else besides toxic pollution. I glanced over at the cook window and saw chef watching us with a meat cleaver in his hand. Sweat was dripping down his nose onto the warming shelf and it made sizzling noises and salty steam. He was glaring at us. I quickly turned around and forced down another bite. But this time I used gravy. “Oh mama help me!” my mind screamed as the two connected in my throat. I quickly put in some smashed potatoes to mask the flavor but the moist edges of the spuds turned to powder on the inside as my upper and lower jaws convulsed. The cook nodded and went back to skinning the buffalo he had hit on the way to work.
“How’s your soup?” I asked Nancy. But it came out in a hoarse squeaky voice. She didn’t hear me though because of the loud crunching sound it made inside of her head. “I’M NOT SURE IF IT’S THE UNCOOKED RICE OR THE ICE THAT’S MAKING THE CRUNCHING NOISE INSIDE MY HEAD”, she yelled. She couldn’t tell she was being loud. I glanced at Peggy, but she had gone to her “special place”. She was on auto pilot. I could tell she was hearing that song repetition in her head from her tape and I was actually jealous! I admired her survival instincts. In the meantime, ever the practical scientific brained girl that is, Nancy had cut her soup into four separate chunks. The first chunk she left in the bowl as her control group. The other three were put in unused chipped coffee mugs... which I like to call sample A, sample B and sample C. In the first she put only ice chunks, in the second, she put only Butte water and in the third, she combined both ice and water. She took various bites from the various samples and it was hard to tell which sample was the most bearable because they were all looks of horror and disgust. But it was keeping her busy. “I told you I hate soup!” she’d mutter again and again.
As for the Butteloaf, I put as many pieces as I could of the meatloaf to plug the knot holes in our table and in the walls... but there was still so much left. I just had to leave the rest on my plate. I noticed Peggy did the same. “I have to use the ladies room” gagged Peggy so Nancy let her out. She looked at our plates and then at me and whispered... “So was your meatloaf ok?” I gave her my big panic eyes and quickly shook my head no in such a way that meant, “No! Not Ok! Can’t talk now!” and thankfully she had understood my body language. When the waitress arrived with the bill, she glanced at our train wreck on the table and furrowed her pierced eyebrows. Her tiny pewter eyebrow skulls were grinning at us as she said, “So.... was everything ok!?” in an almost accusing manner. “YES!” We croaked in unison. She let out a slow, wavering breath and removed her hand from her apron pocket. Then she looked back at chef and nodded. He grunted and went back to butchering carcasses. “So like... do you want a doggie bag or what!?” “NO!” we sobbed. Peggy... ever the quick thinker, recovered first. “Um... our car is very loaded and we still have to leave room for the souvenirs. But thanks all the same.”
We made our way to the cash register. Peg and I had our switchblades at the ready in case there was trouble. But they took our money greedily and let us go on our way. Now that I look back at it, I swear I saw Peggy leave a tip! I can’t be certain, but the waitress picked something off of our table and stared at it strangely... almost hungrily... as if she’d never seen one before. It might’ve been just enough of a distraction to save our very lives. All I knew at that moment was that that little space in the back of the car seemed like a womb of protection. I’m sure, that if I could’ve seen through the back window, I might have seen one of the signs like McDonalds has that says, “Over One Billion Served”. However, in the case of the Famllee Restrawnt, it would’ve said something like, “Hundreds have served their time here.” Or “Hundreds of subpoenas served.”
As we rode on toward Yellowstone, it was a silent time as our bodies tried to adjust to the assault. Later on, when I came to, I tried to put a positive spin on things like Peggy does and I told her that many of the geysers and pools in Yellowstone smell a lot like the meatloaf we had eaten. I’m sure they might taste much the same if one were to dip his fingers in the boiling mud pots and stick it in his mouth. While in the public restroom near our cabins I had to laugh because I was again reminded of my clever analogy. Suffice it to say that exploding geysers and roaring, angry fumaroles were at the foremost of my thoughts at that time. Thankfully, the majesty and wonder of Yellowstone is almost enough to keep that certain memory tucked away. Almost!.
