Mysteries of the Sour Cream Revealed
Thanksgiving Day, my stepdad and I were graciously taken in by the family of my best friends from my hometown. Dinner guests included a ninety-year-old Croatian lady and her son, a Shakespeare professor, and grandson, lead songwriter for Elf Power, whom, it turns out, was a fifth grader at the school when my stepdad was assistant principal. It was great hearing stories on the the Croatian lady's first impressions of America, of spending her first twenty dollars on a radio so she and her husband could practice their English.
Also attending was the widow of a former Greek restauranteur. Many of the best restaurants in upstate South Carolina have been started and are still managed by Greeks. Never mind that we're three hours from water--where there's an Odyssean will, there's a way. In 1975, there were only two restaurants in my hometown. One was simply called "The Ranch", located, intriguingly enough, down the road by our only movie theater, the Apollo (which had bright red curtains and giant armless Greek statues near the front). The Ranch had a giant rustic sign in the parking lot, along with some sad-looking prickly pears and some neon, but it offered the best steak and seafood around. Moussaka and spanakopita never have made it onto the menu even as a footnote--not then and not now. The most hallowed item on the menu was the baked potato with sour cream. People would drive for 30 miles to get that potato and cream.
At Thanksgiving, I discovered that the cream was nothing more than a melange of sour cream, buttermilk, onion, and mayonnaise. The restaurant burned down a few years ago and the owner died, and a few former kitchen staff have now gone on to start their own restaurants, perpetuating the cream. Now I'm determined to explore various ratios to try and recreate it, although I wonder if I'm just trying to recreate my childhood. It almost makes me sentimental for the town I left behind. Until I go to the YMCA to work out and plastered over the treadmills is Isaiah 40:31 and when you leave, there's a big jar of scripture vitamins--little strips of colored paper with Bible verses to take with you on your way out. It's the Y, and I realize and support their right to proselytize. However, I also found out at dinner that it was also common knowledge that the new Y was relocated north to reduce the black:white ratio. So much for brotherhood.
Also attending was the widow of a former Greek restauranteur. Many of the best restaurants in upstate South Carolina have been started and are still managed by Greeks. Never mind that we're three hours from water--where there's an Odyssean will, there's a way. In 1975, there were only two restaurants in my hometown. One was simply called "The Ranch", located, intriguingly enough, down the road by our only movie theater, the Apollo (which had bright red curtains and giant armless Greek statues near the front). The Ranch had a giant rustic sign in the parking lot, along with some sad-looking prickly pears and some neon, but it offered the best steak and seafood around. Moussaka and spanakopita never have made it onto the menu even as a footnote--not then and not now. The most hallowed item on the menu was the baked potato with sour cream. People would drive for 30 miles to get that potato and cream.
At Thanksgiving, I discovered that the cream was nothing more than a melange of sour cream, buttermilk, onion, and mayonnaise. The restaurant burned down a few years ago and the owner died, and a few former kitchen staff have now gone on to start their own restaurants, perpetuating the cream. Now I'm determined to explore various ratios to try and recreate it, although I wonder if I'm just trying to recreate my childhood. It almost makes me sentimental for the town I left behind. Until I go to the YMCA to work out and plastered over the treadmills is Isaiah 40:31 and when you leave, there's a big jar of scripture vitamins--little strips of colored paper with Bible verses to take with you on your way out. It's the Y, and I realize and support their right to proselytize. However, I also found out at dinner that it was also common knowledge that the new Y was relocated north to reduce the black:white ratio. So much for brotherhood.