Determined To Succeed

I don’t know if you guys have ever visited Chicago around the last week of June/first week of July but there is a world-famous food festival that takes place during that time called Taste of Chicago. It is a foodie’s Mecca, where 70 or so Chicago restaurants take over downtown and you can sample everything from alligator (which I have tasted – it’s rather chewy) to frog legs (they DO, indeed, taste like chicken – just fishy chicken) to good old-fashioned BBQ, hot dogs and cheesecake.

When I was a kid, that same festival was called Chicagofest and it was nowhere near as renowned as it is today. In fact, it was in the days when Chicago was a much grittier, grimier city than it is now. But I’ll tell you what the food, especially to a kid who didn’t have money at all, was always spectacular. But food costs money, money we never had in abundance and money that was always in short supply.

But leave it to my mom to come up with a brilliant plan.

Usually with big city-wide festivals there is some sort of sponsored promotion involved and Chicagofest was no exception. At the time they were sponsored by either Maxwell House or Hills Bros. Coffee (I can’t remember which) and the promotion stated that if you brought one of the giant metal coffee cans (like the kind you’d find in a workplace kitchen) you’d be able to trade that in for food tickets.

Leave it up to my mom to hatch an absolutely brilliant plan.

You see, JoAnn Larson loved her coffee. Loved it, I tell you. Cream and no sugar, that’s how she took it (which to me still is icky since I like my coffee as sweet as possible, crunchy even, with sugar). Anyhow, she loved coffee and so did her co-workers at the old (long since shuttered) Sears Roebuck & Co. warehouse on Homan and Arthington in Chicago. They went through tons of coffee at that place, or it least it seemed like they did because one day this brilliant and beautiful woman brought home about twenty or so of these giant, clangy metal coffee cans.

She said to me, “Son, we’re gonna eat good this weekend,” and she laughed with an exuberant “whoohoo.” That’s when I knew she really was happy. Turns out she’d been planning this for months, asking her co-workers to save her the coffee cans so she could take her son to eat at Chicagofest. My mama was loved by everyone, so they did. They saved her twenty or so cans and she lugged them all home one Friday afternoon (since we couldn’t go during the week because she had to work).

Now to a child, any child, anything that looks weird is potentially embarrassing. So imagine my chagrin to learn we had to then take all of these cans on the 6 Jeffrey Express all the way from Hyde Park to downtown, walk a couple of blocks – IN PUBLIC – to just be able to redeem them. I was mortified. I knew we were poor but now we were gonna look it, too. But mama said “trust me,” and I did and that next day we got on the bus and headed downtown, cans and all.

Damn those things could “CLANG!” I felt mortified being on the bus with those things. I could feel eyes on me as I grasped my giant Hefty garbage bag of cans while my mom, confident as a peacock grasped hers. She knew something, I could tell. So I took that strength from her, shut my eyes (standing up) and blocked out the world.

When we FINALLY got there (can I tell you again how absolutely embarrassed I was?) we approached the ticket trade-in booth and mama said “we’ve got a lot of cans to trade in.” The lady behind the counter was shocked that one person would be trading in all those cans, not because of the cans but because of how many tickets she had to give us for them. I don’t remember how many it was but it was a TON! Back then, there were no limits of how many you could bring and my brilliant mom took full advantage of that allowing us to eat like royalty that day.

We ate anything and everything and, most importantly, she didn’t have to tell me “no, son. I don’t have the money for that.” It was amazing! Absolutely amazing. And what capped off this culinary caper? The infamous Chicago BBQ turkey leg. We each got one, a giant piping-hot turkey leg hand-dipped in a sweet and savory BBQ sauce. It was awesome. We ate all day and into the night when the Chicago fireworks would happen over Grant Park (Chicago used to for years and years and years have their major fireworks display on July 3^rd instead of July 4^th). And thanks to my mom I knew what it was like to have money that day.

On the way home she looked at me and smiled in an ever-so-slightly sly smile and said “you didn’t believe me when I said it would be O.K., did you.” I shook my head and said “no,” but from that moment on I never doubted her brain. In all my life I never met a woman who had moments of brilliance that would stun Einstein like my mom did. She smiled her smile and knew she did good that day for us both, and I was happy just being near her sharing in that love – and that food.

Mama, I miss you so much but when I need a smile I think back to that time and how well you did for us. How much food we had and how it was all because of you and you not being ashamed of bringing home simple metal canisters. Those cans became our gold that day and you made me feel like a prince. Thank you for that, Ma. But truth be told, you always made me feel that way, food, money or coffee cans or not.  I was your son and that was all that mattered in the world and that was one of those time where you were so smart it lit up the sky – like the stars or 4^th of July fireworks.

I love you, mama, and thank you for keeping and bringing home all those coffee cans for us. Who knew a little coffee could go such a long way?

You did. That’s who.

Day Four.

What does it mean to be my mother’s son? When I was a child, it used to mean going to school, doing my homework, staying out of trouble and helping around the house so that my mom didn’t have to worry about me when she went to work. She’d leave at about 7:00 or 7:30 a.m. to begin her long haul to work in Cicero, Illinois, and would come home to Hyde Park between 5:00 or 6:00 p.m. after a hard day of packing catalog orders for Sears. I am quite sure during that time period every single day my mother prayed to God that I was O.K.

Well these days I’m pretty fucking far from O.K.

I’ve been lying to people ever since I was a kid. I grew up in a one-room, roach-infested hotel room in the Hyde Park Arms Hotel which was not something ANY child would EVER want to be known, let alone seen by friends. My mom, JoAnn, who worked her ass off making sure we had SOME roof over our heads and food in our stomachs, who went out every day on two buses and a train to work in a warehouse, did the absolute best she could to make sure we had SOMETHING, especially since my father gave little to no support to us in any way including financially. It may not have been much, and it may have been something about which I was embarrassed, but it was good, innocent, honest and our truth.

My mom also said something to me that stuck with me and continues to stick with me now which was the basis for what would become my lying lifestyle. My mom said, “Bill, no one has to know our business but us.” It’s true. Who wants everyone to know everything about them? Do you? Ask any person you see today how often they lie or omit truth to keep something private and you’ll find out the number is overwhelmingly in favor of lies.

But with those words I knew two things: that I could tell my mother anything and everything (and did) and that I had permission to lie to people if I wanted to preserve our secrets and reality. That’s when my creative mind came into play. As I got older I got much better at lying, so much so that even I could barely remember what lies I told which person. I had to start keeping my lies “straight.” And for what? For the sake of making myself look and sound the best I could be to ALL people?

No one can be all things to all people, and my mom is now the one who would be embarrassed of me. I haven’t been my mother’s son for many, many years.

When truth is told trust is earned, plain and simple. Someone knows they can depend on you based on your words backed up by your actions. In this weight loss thing (the only thing I have done right especially these last few years) I knew I had to be honest with myself and others about what I ate and shit I did that made me heavier. The accountability I made public was the one truth – the one absolute truth – backed up by my actions. Too bad the rest of my life, while showing glimmers of my mother’s son, was lost.

There were times I glimpsed him. Either I’d see him looking back at me in the mirror or I’d see him out of the corner of my eye. But he was never there for very long and his image would always fade. Nowadays, with all my lies exposed I am actually beginning to see signs of him again where I hadn’t for so, so long.

Look, I know weight loss is a bitch. It is, but  there is lying there, too. How many times do you eat a pint of ice-cream, nibble on cookies, sneak a piece of cake, grab an extra portion or go through the drive-thru and not tell anyone. I know I’m no saint but I admit that every day to you. That is where there is trust. I screw up and eat shit I shouldn’t but I get back up and try to do better the next day. Through all of this the past few days I have been less hungry because I am literally not trying to keep my lies down or make myself feel better with food. But my mother’s son was never meant to exist just as someone definable by weight loss. He was meant to exist because JoAnn Larson worked her ass off and did her best to raise a boy to be a man that people could look up to. To be that somebody parents tell their children they can be.

Now, for the first time in my adult life ever I am beginning to be that somebody and finally be the man my mom would be proud of. As I go through old photos I see that innocent kid and I think about what happened to him over all these years and it’s enough sometimes to be proud but also enough sometimes to throw up. But I will get back to him again. I will get back to being my mother’s son and stop wasting time, energy and effort because truth does mean trust and I so want to trust in myself again and be the man she always wanted me to be.

Happy weekend, my friends. I am just returned from attending Kenwood Academy’s 40-year all-class high school reunion. I have to say I wasn’t quite sure what to expect exactly. There’s a part of me that was expecting sweeping changes, the futuristic visions we’ve all seen in movies – an almost completely foreign inside building with only the outside facade remaining. Then there’s part of me that was hoping it didn’t change THAT much. That I would still recognize the layout, classrooms and even some of the people – so that coming back meant, in part, coming home.

It was both.

I woke up yesterday excited at the chance to visit Kenwood, and that excitement turned into vast hunger and I all but inhaled a huge (HUGE) breakfast that I knew was bad for me (and this after having my requisite hot dogs). Ugh. But I ate knowing I was saving myself for the main event, and not knowing what kinds of food would be served I wanted to be prepared for anything.

I am glad I ate that huge breakfast, too, because I sat in the second worst traffice of my entire life (the first worst being one gruelling two-hour morning on southbound Lake Shore Drive going probably half the distance) on my way to the thing. It took me two-and-a-half hours to get there from near the airport to Hyde Park. Add to that my growing excitement and I was thinking I was definitely going to be hungry.

When I arrived there was only one other person from my 1988 graduating class, Dionne, who also just happened to be the event organizer. So instead of catching up she had things to do, places to go and people to kill which left me standing there watching as others saw their classmates, gave hugs and talked about the past x-number of years.I felt a bit alone, but there was a cool sense of being back in something that looked – and felt – familiar. So I just stood there and drank it in.

Surprisingly, there were a ton of people from Kenwood’s original 1970 graduating class. It was so cool to be standing there amongst people who were there to “break in” the school, who saw it’s brand new walls, who named its King Room (yes, after Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.) and who were the first to graduate from this awesome place.

Then, something remarkable happened. As I was talking to several people from the 1970 graduating class it occured to one guy whose name escapes me (sorry, dude) who said, “so, you were born the year we graduated high school?!” All of a sudden, in a world that today seems to be filled with people getting younger and younger, I felt like the young one. I somewhat embarrassingly said “yes, sir. I was,” but thought to myself “I never thought I’d hear someone say that to me about me. Sweet.”

Then a few familiar faces showed up and the evening got better – and louder. People from almost every class were so excited to see people and all of us, with our respective classmates, walked the halls one last time. We noticed the big things were still the same: the buildings and halls were the same, the restrooms on each floor STILL had the front doors removed. Hell, even the band room, save for one piece of new digital looking equipment almost hidden in the front looked exactly the same. The auditorium had the same seats and the halls almost had even the same smell if there ever was such a thing. It was the small differences that made the night – the wonderful addition of wheelchair-accessible elevators at key points in the building, the new lockers were really skinny (to accomodate many more students, I guess) AND BLUE. Metal and weapon detectors at all the entrances (very sad it’s come to that in high schools these days). Kids talking on and texting with cell phones (if we wanted to get a message to someone we had to – gasp – pass notes).

The best new addition – a fully-stocked weight and workout room. This thing was so cool. All of us 86-87-88ers marvelled at it and became instantly jealous that students, on a free period, could work out if they wanted. And that the teams had far better equipment to use. Freaking sweet. That thing was better equiped than my gym. It’s wonderful to see fitness actually take hold in schools.

I didn’t stick around for the food, though (chicken, veggies and pasta). By almost ten o’clock I was done. I had walked the halls, laughed with old friends and remembered what it was like to be young again. God, how I wish I could go back to that time in my life. I do, sometimes. We all do sometimes. But as I walked out I noticed the newer generation of current Kenwood Broncos enjoying themselves and making the memories that will make them come back to this place twenty years from now.

As you are now, I once was. As I am now, you will be.

I thought about that wonderful saying as I ate my turkey BLT club trying to avoid the fries but failing. I may not be that young anymore but I do have the rest of my life to look forward to because I’ve lost this weight. Who know? I might not even have been here now if I hadn’t lost it all. No matter what, I am glad I went. I will be a Bronco for life and the memories I made in that school have become a part of the living history of it.

I just hope the food in the lunchroom isn’t the same. Although, I do miss a good piece of cheese toast and the taste of a dry-ass cheeseburger every now and then.

A plain milk chocolate Hershey bar. That was one of my mom, JoAnn’s, favorite treats.

Today is June 9th, the one-year anniversary of her passing. It is also the last of the firsts without her physically being present on Earth (you know, the first set of holidays, my first birthday, her first birthday, Mother’s Day, etc.) and you guys know I have been thinking about this day for quite some time now, sometimes with a bit of sadness and sometimes with a smile from a wonderful memory.

And sometimes, like today, with the strongest taste for a plain milk chocolate Hershey bar.

I have shared many things about my mom with you but I don’t think I’ve ever shared with you some of her favorite foods. The foods that made her happy. The foods that made us both heavy. Hell, even the foods we didn’t have sometimes. The foods we could (and couldn’t) afford. So today I am going to celebrate my mom’s life by talking about her favorite foods (and some of my own, too). It may not be the healthiest blog post I’ve ever done but it will be fun…and slightly mouth watering.

My mom, JoAnn Larson, was always fond of saying how much she loved to eat two things when she was pregnant with me – Chinese food, and chocolate and vanilla ice-cream. She used to eat so much ice-cream in fact that she was convinced that was why my tummy is slightly lighter on one side than the other (my birthmark – a chocolate ice-cream half and a vanilla half). I have to laugh at that one given my half-white/half-black bi-racial make-up. It always seemed corny but I could never disprove it, especially since I had physical proof.

She also loved her some beef chop suey.

When my mom was kicked out of her home in Cicero, Illinois for daring to date and bear the child of a black man (gasp, the drama) she moved to Hyde Park on Chicago’s South Side. This was a wonderful place because it was so mixed in terms of it’s population. It also had the best kick-ass Chinese food on the planet from Lung Wah Chop Suey. It was there she found her love for beef chop suey (and gave me mine). My mom had it when she was pregnant with me and treated us to it all the time (when we had the money) when I was growing up. It was our fast food of choice, over McDonald’s, Wendy’s and even Harold’s Chicken. An order of beef chop suey and three egg rolls is what we used to get. Damn, those were the days.

There was also Pat’s Pizza, the pizza joint right across the street from where we lived (and where my mom established credit for us during our leanest times). I don’t know how the name just came to me (I couldn’t remember the name for the longest time) but I am thankful it did (thanks for the reminder, ma). Even if we didn’t have money my mama made sure we, and I, ate and there were many a night when we had either meatball sandwiches or a large sausage pizza. Sure there were times we got sick of it (because we had it a lot) but damn it was good, and their pizza had such a distinctive taste that when I found Al’s Italian restaurant and Pizzeria one year ago as my mom lay in hospice I cried because it tasted exactly the same. I needed that taste of childhood at this time last year.

Then there was Valois, the cafeteria-style staple of Hyde Park. This was truly a place where the melting pot of Hyde Park’s eclectic community came to make soup. My mom loved their breakfast – sausage, two eggs over easy and potatoes with white bread toast – and their lunch – pot roast, with mashed potatoes and gravy and fruit Jello for dessert (there’s always room for Jello). On Saturday’s Valois had spaghetti and meat sauce. We used to get that with a side order of “mash and gravy” (don’t ask why we had potatoes with spaghetti. Just roll with it). And many a Thanksgiving was spent there, if not at my mom’s best friend, Rosalyn’s, house, having their “traditional” Thanksgiving dinner (turkey and all the trimmings). And did I tell you this place has grits for breakfast? Awesome!!!

My mama also loved her fish, and we visited the Cafe Enrico frequently to take advantage of their “all you can eat” fried perch dinner. Hell no, it wasn’t good for us but it was damned good and damned cheap, too. In later years, when she lived with me for a while on the City’s North Side, we got fried fish and fries from a place called the Fish Keg on Howard Street. Again, not healthy at all, but some damned good-tasting food.

Rosalyn was an awesome cook, too. She’d make us fried chicken, spaghetti, greens, corn bread, beans and rice…everything. She even fried up some chicken wings and made spaghetti one night when we were so broke all my mom had was bus fare to get back and forth to work. My mom called Rosalyn in what had to be a pride-breaking moment and asked if she could make us something to eat – and she did. Thank God for Rosalyn. That night we ate and didn’t go hungry, and it was also that night I firmly remember saying to myself I’d never EVER go that hungry again. That I’d help my mom any way I could understand how to make money stretch so we’d never have to feel that poor. That was when I began my truest understanding of how cold money could be. If you have it, great. But when you don’t have it…

…but this is not a sad talk. It’s a talk about food, and no food conversation about my mom would be complete without memtioning her love of fried chicken, speaking of chicken. We used to eat at Harold’s Chicken all the time, but her first love was Kentucky Fried Chicken. For as far back as I can remember she loved (and therefore I loved) their extra crispy chicken (until they messed it all up and made it spicy crispy. ick.), mashed potatoes and gravy (noticing a trend?) and cole slaw (which I am now sure contains a level of crack cocaine or other addictive narcotic). Even when she was diagnosed diabetic in her later years I used to bring her the occasional KFC meal and sit and enjoy it with her, and she loved every bite. her and the cat, that is.

On Sunday’s we used to get sweet rolls and other pastries from the fresh bakery that was perfectly placed between where we lived and the park we went to every week. We used to get danishes, and she’d get her coffee (extra cream, no sugar) and we’d enjoy decadent sweets while sitting in the park or reading the paper at home. It was in this park I scattered her ashes almost a year ago.

Lastly, my mom loved her Pepsi. Back in the day, pop could be purchased in actual glass bottles (still the best-tasting way to enjoy an ice-cold soda) and we used to save our pennies, nickles, dimes and quarters to be able to afford a case of “the good stuff.” We’d put it right in the fridge and, when it was cold, would pop open a bottle and enjoy it together. Or we’d sit outside on the benches a couple of blocks away and enjoy a cold one on a hot summer night. Those were awesome times. And even though I have switched and am now a Coke man, I will occasionally have a Pepsi and think of my mom. For old time’s sake.

Well, as they say times change and you can’t go home again. Lung Wah Chop Suey, Pat’s Pizza and the bakery no longer exist. When I spread her ashes almost a year ago I would have given anything to have at least an egg roll from Lung Wah just to ease the pain a bit. But no dice. Or maybe that’s a good thing. Harold’s is still just as active as ever and I do have it from time to way occasional time when I visit, and there is nothing like trying to find a table in the now-double-the-size Valois for a taste of breakfast served just the same way as when I was a kid.And if I ever get a hankerin’ for pizza, I’ll always (hopefully) have Al’s.

But no matter where I go in the U.S., no matter what time of day and no matter what convenience store in which I shop I can always have the first and best thing that reminds me most, culinarily speaking) of my 0f my sweet and beautiful mama…

…that simple, wonderful and amazing plain milk chocolate Hershey bar.

T.G.I.F.! Wow, it seems like this week went fast. Doesn’t it? It seems like just a week ago I was saying T.G.I.F. And yes, that is supposed to be a joke.

As I sit here writing today’s blog I realize how little I’ve been joking. I also realize, well, agitated I’ve been sounding. It’s true. There are many time I believe that weight loss feels like a battle, scoring victories against those pesky ounces in a war that never ends. Hell, even these last ten pounds are what I call “the battle of the final ten.” But on this Friday it’s time to take down my tone a few notches and be Zen about weight loss. After all, you can’t run on DEFCON 1 all the time. Like me, you’ll go a little crazy if you do that.

When I was in grammar school at Murray Language Academy in Hyde Park I studied Japanese, not just the language but the culture, too. And both are beautiful. Mizuno-sensei (my teacher, Mrs. Mizuno) made sure we received both language training (something I sooooo need to start up again if I ever hope to go to Japan and truly appreciate it) as well as an understanding and appreciation for the culture, people and “feeling” of Japan. I was so thankful for this. It breathed life into something that could have very easily been just another class for a fourth-grader to take.

I may not have kept up with the language but I did carry the teachings with me throughout my life, including how you can appreciate the beautiful aesthetics found in the Zen art of the traditional Japanese garden. The principles of Zen have many lessons for us even for weight loss. Below are just a couple of design-related principles that govern the aesthetics of a Japanese garden I have related to our weight loss journey. Perhaps they will get you thinking in a slightly-less nervous and anxious way about your own weight loss challenges.

Kanso – Simplicity or elimination of clutter. This principle can remind us of two things in particular. One, to remove the “noise” and keep focused on the harmony of the goal. I sometimes think of clutter when too many things come crashing into my brain, usually when I am tired at night. I can’t think straight. You get that feeling at work. Too much to do. Not enough time. Too much going on. We will get to our goal. The snack aisles and their many choices represent noise. We have the power to shut that off. In the Kevin Costner baseball movie “For Love of the Game,” his character, a major league pitcher, illustrates this Zen principle beautifully when he turns off the crowd noise by saying “silence the mechanism.” This allows him to focus on the goal – getting the batter out. We can also eliminate “clutter” by getting rid of bad foods in our pantries and replacing them with fruits and veggies.

Kanso also reminds us to get rid of things like fat clothes that can distract from the journey. I have always thought this is important anyway. Why potentially sabotage a journey by giving yourself a way to go back? Remember, concentrate on the goal and let go of the past including the clutter of bigger clothes. We will get there.

Enso Fukinsei – Asymmetry or irregularity and Shizen – Naturalness. Enso Fukinsei is the Zen idea of controlling balance via irregularity and asymmetry while Shinzen is the absence of pretense or artificiality. The enso (”Zen circle”) in brush painting, for example, is often drawn as an incomplete circle, symbolizing that imperfection is a part of existence. In other words, at least to me and as I said last week, our bodies are beautiful. They may not be the perfect things we see on TV or in the movies, but they are beautiful in their own unique ways. Weight loss will bring down our weight and closer to our size goals, but if things aren’t just right (like the loose skin here and there – and yes, I, too, have loose skin) it’s O.K. And it’s also O.K. to find your own way to lose weight. What works for you may not work for someone else and vice-versa.

Datsuzoku – Freedom from habit or formula. Escape from daily routine or the ordinary. This principle describes the feeling of surprise and bit of amazement we feel when one realizes they can have freedom from the conventional. That it is possible to break your old routines and find a new way to do things. For example, I didn’t “have” to have those McDonald’s breakfast sandwiches every day, or more recently, I don’t have to have a Coke when I think I get a “taste” for one. Weight loss is about a change in lifestyle and yes, about breaking with old patterns and finding newer, healthier ways to still enjoy foods but make them better for you.

Seijaku – Tranquility or an energized calm (quite), stillness, solitude. This is the one I need the most, especially when I go off the rails and feel obsessive over every single bloody ounce. Weight fluctuates every day based on what we eat, activity, and so on. While it’s important to moderate what we eat and not make treat foods every day foods, if we gain a few ounces we will re-lose them by bringing our activities back in alignment once the bad eating situation is over. Make sense?

Weight loss is just as much about the mind as it is the body. Our mind wills us to do things, like exercise, making good and better food choices, etc., and that’s cool. This may seem a bit touchy-feely to you but I think it’s worth it to remember. Just a few short weeks ago I was dreading weekends, remember? I was so worried I’d go on a huge food drunk every single weekend and wreck whatever progress I’d made during the week. Sometimes I did but sometimes I didn’t. It’s all balance, and once I got my mind right and focused on what I needed to do, therefore “silencing the mechanism,” I was OK.

God, I hope this makes sense to you guys. It does to me. Yesterday reminded me (in more ways than one) that life does have balance. There are things going on in the world – oil spills, flooding, money issues, mean bosses at jobs – that really make you appreciate the life you have and what you’ve accomplished. And when I go off the rails like that I lose sight of the forest through its trees – that I am living the path of weight loss not fighting it all the time.

How’s that for Zen?

Today is Sunday, May 9, 2010. It’s Mother’s Day and, as expected, I feel the emptiness and pain from missing my mom inside my gut, like the sickly dull pain aftershock of being kicked in the stomach. And while the pain has dulled since her passing on June 9, 2009 it has by no means, and will never, completely go away. And, quite frankly, I don’t want it to.

There are so many memories of my mother, JoAnn Larson, that I want to share with you guys but I feel weird being so morose and somber on a day when others are out and about celebrating their moms or celebrating being moms (like my best friend, Mike’s, wife Ewa who recently gave birth to their beautiful son, Thomas Michael). Happy Mother’s Day, guys.

So today should be filled with happy memories, or at least memories that make us laugh a little. It should celebrate life as my mom was so full of life. She was goofy, warm, personable (she never met a stranger – ever) and disarmed you instantly. And even when I thought she didn’t understand something she came out with such insight, knowledge and advice I was amazed – no, humbled – by her for she was also very, very wise.

When I was 16 years old I attended Kenwood Academy High School on Chicago’s South Side neighborhood of Hyde Park (go Broncos). My sophomore year was an unusual one because I, as we all are when we’re 16, felt a bit adrift and therefore floated between different circles of friends that year. On one particular Friday I was invited to a party thrown by the “cool” kids. Yes, me, Bill Ivory Larson, partying with the cool kids. I couldn’t believe it. Me, at a party with liquor, music and girls. A real party. I was so excited.

Now, before I continue I will go all tangential and admit I had a fake I.D. yes, yours truly had a fake I.D. that made me 22-years-old (I thought being slightly older than the bare-minimum 21 would be less conspicuous). I got it after seeing the fake I.D. of a school mate of mine, who told me exactly where to get this masterpiece of subterfuge, this ticket to pre-mature adult hood (O.K. basically to drinking). It cost all of $8 and about two hours of my time one day after school. But I was in, baby, or so I thought. This comes into play a bit later…

Back to the story. So Friday night rolled around and my mom, who was awesomely cool, let me go to this party because I was a fairly responsible kid. Admittedly it is different for boys than girls and yes, it was a different, seemingly less dangerous time where kids could run around a bit more in an age of no cell phones, etc. No matter what, though, she trusted me to be good and not get into any trouble, at least any of the “call the police” variety.

The party was jumpin’. The House Music (slightly different than the House Music played in clubs today) was being spun by my friend, Dave, whose house we were using. His trusting but gullible parents let him “have a few friends over,” although that quickly turned into 20 or so people, all of whom were underage, and all of whom were drinking heavily…including yours truly.

As the night wore on we ran out of booze. So we all looked at each other to see who had the best shot of “scoring,” and that turned out to be me. I was pumped. Not only was I with the cool kids but I was now looked at as the savior of the party. The guy with the plan and the I.D. So a couple of people drove me to the liquor store (not the one my mom and I went to all the time for candy bars and Pepsi, but a different one) and I could feel my heart beat in my chest. “What if I get caught? Oh my God!” I was so scared but I screwed up my courage and walked into the liquor store on 51^st Street to peruse the aisles for enough hooch to keep us going all night.

I got a fifth of Old Granddad (yes, that nasty-ass Old Granddad), Jack Daniels and a few other things, including another 24-case of beer (as long as it wasn’t Coors – a house rule of Dave’s), and walked up to the counter. I felt sure the woman at the register was going to ask for my I.D., see right through it and call the long arm of the law. But she didn’t. I couldn’t believe it! She just rang me up. And even though I fully admit to looking much older than I was I was pissed because I DIDN’T get to use my shiny new fake I.D. But I don’t know what got me madder – not using the thing or being served alcohol and being a minor (something that still sort of troubles me today). Anywho, I got back to the party and drinking resumed and it carried on all night. At about 2:00 a.m. at least I think it was (I was so freaking drunk I couldn’t tell a two from a cat) I called my mom to say I was spending the night at Dave’s place. My mom was cool and thanked me for calling (I was always told to at least just check in and I did – her rules). And I crashed out by like 3:00 a.m. or so.

Saturday morning rolled around and I felt like shit. Real shit. My head was pounding so hard and I felt so sick to my stomach I wished I could have thrown up and died just to feel better. Yes, it was my first hangover and it was a doozey. Worse yet, I remembered I had to be at work in the children’s shoe store (my first job) by 9:00 a.m. that morning. There was no freaking way, I thought. As I bade my sleepy and still-drunken friends adieu I stumbled out of his place into the brisk morning air.

All the way home I was trying to puke. It would have made me feel better, as would a bullet to the head or being struck by lightning would have. I felt awful and I had no one to blame but myself. When I got home I told my mom I felt terrible (“sick” I actually think I said) and that I couldn’t go to work that day. But being the wise and wonderful mom she was she said “no, son. You are going to work today.”

And while my mom was cool, I knew she meant every word of it.

Needless to say I was a tad late getting there, which was sad given I literally lived around the corner from my job and began my day. I arrived at 10:00 a.m. and didn’t make it to noon. I was so hungover and I’m sure reeked of booze. I begged the forgiveness of my boss and went home to sleep it off.

Somehow my mom knew I wasn’t going to make it all day at work. When I got home she let me sleep, and sleep I did. I slept until like 5 or 6 that afternoon. When I woke up she looked at me not with anger but with a smile and said “betcha won’t do that again, will ya?” I smiled right back knowing instantly how much she knew I was messed up and in need of a lesson. I told her all about the party and she was so cool about it all. She looked at me after a while and asked me one simple question: “you know that’s why I made you go to work, right?” I nodded my head and laughed, and so did she. She also confessed to having a bit of a laugh at my expense over the whole thing wondering how long I was going to last at work (which, again, was not very long).

I never forgot that lesson. It was so important and special and cool and everything I needed at that time. It was a life lesson taught to me by a woman who was wise enough to know it was the only way I was going to learn the consequences of my actions, that I still had responsibilities to handle no matter how drunk I got. She taught me that people depended on me and I let them down because I was stupid. Oh, and let’s not forget she taught me I should never get that wasted the night before I have something to do the next day, a lesson I broke only one other time in my life and I was well into my 30s when I did. I’ll tell you about that sometime over a, er, drink.

When I look back at that story I smile because my mom knew going to work was all the punishment I needed to learn that life lesson. And she was right. It wasn’t the first nor the last time her pearls of wisdom were laid on me to teach me what I needed to know when I needed to know it. She was excellent that way. Excellent.

So for all you folks out there who still have your moms with you never take your mom’s words for granted. They and the lessons they teach us won’t be around forever and you’ll miss them deeply and terribly when they’re gone. And to all you moms out there, thank you. Thank you for teaching us kids what we need to know when we need to know it. It may not be what we want to know but it sure as hell is what we need to know.

On this Mother’s Day I will raise a glass (of something non-alcoholic) to my mom, JoAnn. I miss her voice, I miss her laugh, I miss her smile and I miss her words of wisdom. And even though I can’t pick up the phone and say “Happy Mother’s Day, Mama,” I hope she knows how much I love her and miss her and how much she’ll always be in my heart and always be my Mama.

Have you guys ever been to Las Vegas? If you have you know that the opportunity to gamble hits you as soon as you get off the plane. Near every gate slot machines welcome you much like the wonderful hula dancers do in Hawai’i. Except instead of Leis and the sounds of island music you are welcomed with the pings, dings and electronic sounds that beckon you to come a “throw a few in” before hitting “the Strip.”

For me going home to Chicago is the same kind of experience, except instead of really cool flowered necklaces or blinky “one-armed bandits” I am welcomed by the temptations of Chicago food, starting with the Chicago-style hot dog. I don’t remember if I’ve ever described to you how absolutely yummy a Chicago-style hot dog is so I’ll start with it’s ingredients:

One sesame seed hot dog bun steamed to perfect softness, one Vienna Beef frank, mustard (and absolutely never, under penalty of being shown to the next departing flight, do you EVER add ketchup), onions, nuclear green relish (Chicagoans know what I mean when I say nuclear green), hot peppers, cucumbers, tomato slices and a pickle wedge topped off with a sprinkle of celery salt. Now that’s good eatin’, and the beginning of my visit home.

Some of you might be saying “that’s too much crap to put on a hot dog.” Well, no it’s not. That’s why hot dogs are famous in Chicago.  They are absolutely delicious, and like the Sears Tower or Wrigley Field (my Field of Dreams), a part of the city itself. But the beauty of this is equal to the problem with it – it begins in the airport and it ends in the airport.

Whenever I go home my friends here in the Philadelphia/South Jersey area ask me “so Bill. Are you going to have any Chicago pizza when you get home? Or that Italian Beef sandwich you keep talking about?” And the answer is never easy. I say “Nah. This trip I’m going to have my favorite Chinese food (at least an egg roll or two). Maybe a hot dog.” You see I have to be sooooo careful whenever I go home because a trip home usually means being tempted by the same foods that helped me grow to be over 400 pounds.

Today, I was lucky enough to have one of my hometown papers, the Chicago Sun-Times, do a story on me and weight loss and that’s what got me thinking about going home and eating. It’s so automatic. It’s so instant. It’s so tempting. Most of all, it’s so dangerous. All the foods I love in my favorite place in the entire world – home. It’s comforting and dangerous and so very tempting to have my home food experience begin as soon as I get off that plane.

But do I enjoy myself? You bet your a – er, I mean, bottom dollar – I do. But now I have to be almost hyper aware of my surroundings, situations and emotions whenever I’m near my favorite places – like 65 Seafood Restaurant, my favorite Chinese Food and egg roll in the city, near the corner of Michigan Avenue & Wacker (Wacker. Wacker. It is funny sounding, I know, but a street name, nonetheless).The legendary Superdawg on the corner of Milwaukee and Devon (pronounced de-VAHN by us natives), or Portillos in the heart of downtown on the corner of Ontario and Clark. Even Gene & Jude Red Hot Stand on River Road who hand-cut their delicious french fries right in front of ya’. That’s tasty eatin’, indeed. Not to mention my South Side/Hyde Park favorites – Harold’s Chicken (best damn fried chicken in the city), Ribs ‘N Bibs and Valois, a restaurant known as much for its wonderful all-walks-of-life clientele as it is for its “see your food” cafeteria-style method of serving.

You can see how a Chicago boy like me could grow up to grow out so much. This is what I have to be hyper aware of when I go home – the cravings for all these foods bombarding me like the beautiful neon and lighted signs and pings, dings and blinks of the slot machines that are abound in Las Vegas.

Nowadays, I am better. Not perfect, but better, about eating if/when I go home. I certainly give myself a big pep talk before stepping foot on my homeward bound plane saying “OK, Larson. You know you need to make smart choices. If you’re gonna have this you can’t have that. Got it?” And if I am lucky I do avoid giving in to the culinary temptations that surround me almost at every corner.

However I do admit having slot machines in the airport is a smart deal. They may not get you coming in, but, ideally, you’ve had so much fun you want just one last taste of it before heading back to reality, especially when waiting for your flight. This is the exact thing I feel in C Terminal at O’Hare International Airport. Whenever I’m home I have a blast just walking the streets that I want one more Taste of Chicago before heading back to Philly…

…one more hot dog for the road.

And for those history buffs out there…

The “Chicago Style” hot dog got its start from street cart hot dog vendors during the hard times of the Great Depression. Money was scarce, but business was booming for these entrepreneurs who offered a delicious hot meal on a bun for only a nickel. The famous Chicago Style Hot Dog was born! They’d start with a Vienna Beef hot dog, nestle it in a steamed poppyseed bun and cover it with a wonderful combination of toppings: yellow mustard, bright green relish, fresh chopped onions, juicy red tomato wedges, a kosher-style pickle spear, a couple of spicy sport peppers, cucumber and finally, a dash of celery salt. This unique hot dog creation with a “salad on top” and its memorable interplay of hot and cold, crisp and soft, sharp and smooth, became America’s original fast food and a true Chicago institution.

It is raining in southern New Jersey. A slow, steady rain that makes a day perfect for movie watching.

Going to the “show” as we called it was probably the top on the list of favorite things to do with my mom. On Sundays when I was a kid we’d get the Sunday paper, a couple of fresh sweet rolls from the bakery and her coffee and we’d read the paper. But while she read the news I’d flip to the entertainment/movie section to see what movies were going to open up that following Friday, read about the celebrities starring in them and see what the new posters looked like.

My mom started taking me to the movies when I was five years old. At least I think I was five because I knew I saw a couple of movies before “Star Wars” and I saw that when I was six. Hell, I not only went to the movies that young I saw crap no child should see. Stuff like “Jan Michael Vincent’s “White Line Fever,” and Diane Keaton’s and Richard Gere’s “Looking For Mr. Goodbar.” Those films were “Rated R” but my mom did something every parent should do…

…she told me “son, you know everything you see up there isn’t real.”

That simple sentence was all it took to take away the fear of horror flicks, the seeming brutality and reality of murder/thrillers and the danger of action movies. In other words, it was my mom wrapping me up in a security blanket of knowledge. That even though she surrendered me to the film for two hours she never stopped protecting me from what I saw on-screen. That was awesome and I will always love her for doing that.

But there was one time though that made me smile above all others going with my mom to the movies. It was summer of 1982, which was a decent year for films. We took the 6 Jeffrey Express bus downtown from Hyde Park and transferred to the 151 Sheridan and headed to Water Tower Place, Chicago’s signature downtown mall. Unlike most malls we’re used to this mall was built up (a necessity for any mall constructed in the middle of downtown Chicago). And nestled inside on the mezzanine level back by the Lord & Taylor and popcorn shop were the Water Tower Theaters (which, unfortunately, no longer exist).

That day I was so excited. We were going to see “Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan” for the up-teenth time. You see, it was no longer playing at the theater across the street from us (my beloved Hyde Park Theater) so we had to go downtown to see it. The film (tied with the newest “Star Trek” as the best “Trek” film ever) was amazing and was over all too soon. But my mom, my beautiful, sweet and wonderfully sneaky mom said “Hey. Wanna see E.T.?”

I was confused, but I took my mom’s hand as she quietly led us into the theater about to show E.T. I was so scared. We were being so bad sneaking into a “free-ture” (free feature) but I didn’t care. My mom was at that moment the coolest mom, ever, and she was sneaking me in to see the biggest movie of all-time (at least in the days before we knew what the hell an “Avatar” was).

We watched E.T. (and yes, I cried) and it was awesome. I was having such a great movie day with my mom. And afterward, as we left the theater we walked by the teenage ushers, who I was convinced were going to throw us both in jail and throw away the key. But they did nothing. They said nothing. Hell, I don’t think they even noticed – or cared. And if they did, who cares.

The most important thing in the world was that I was with my mom, the person to whom I owe my love of movies. And while I never will be able to repay the wonderful feeling of that special day 28 years ago (God, has it been that long already), I hope she knows how much I think of her every time I go to my local multiplex…

…or stay home on a rainy day, curled up on the couch, watching my favorite movies.

Those are the best days ever.

All you can eat.

All of us have heard of that offer and most of us have taken advantage of it at one time or another taken advantage of it either at office parties, salad bars or restaurants like Old Country Buffet. I have friends who think buffets are great and others who think buffets are nasty and to be avoided at all costs. But no matter which way you slice your ninth dinner roll, “all you can eat” is one of the biggest problems facing our country today particularly in our fight against obesity.

My first experiences with “all you can eat” came when I was a kid. My mom used to take me to a small place in Hyde Park called the Cafe Enrico on 53rd Street. From what I remember it was pretty cool and being a kid I thought it was the pinnacle of fine dining. And on Friday nights this treasure from my childhood served an “all you can eat” fried perch dinner. Living without much money meant this was a wonderful option for us to not only eat out but also eat well, and we took full advantage of it.

Again…

…and again…

…and again.

I remember one time in particular when I got three helpings of that delicious deep-fried perch. Hell, I even think I pissed off the waitress at the time because I remember seeming annoyed she had to keep bringing me slices of this culinary delight.

As I grew older, “all you can eat” took on different forms. I loved (LOVED) my Chinese food “all you can eat” buffets. Oh My God, are you kidding? They are delicious to me. Deep-fried orange/spice chicken, rice, beef with peppers – yummy. I could eat all day. But most notably in my life was Old Country Buffet. My mom loved eating at Old Country Buffet for the exact reasons I loved eating at Cafe Enrico. If you have ever been to an OCB you know they serve lots (AND I DO MEAN LOTS) of foods that are not that healthy for you. But it was cheap and mom liked it (and so did I) so we ate there again…

…and again…

…and again.

As we have become the heaviest nation in the world I am reminded of the “endless bowl of soup” parable I heard while attending One Day University recently in New York. Amherst professor Catherine Sanderson told us about the study of people who were given a magic soup bowl which was rigged from the bottom to always fill with soup no matter how much the consumer ate. At the end it was found that people using this “endless bowl of soup” at  two- to three-times as much as people whose bowls were allowed to empty. This proves that not only the attractiveness of food but also portion size influences eating decisions in our country.

And in this economy I can’t say I completely blame us for wanting a “bigger bang” for our buck.

But you guys know as well as I do quantity does NOT equate to quality.And just because you can have three or four plates of crap doesn’t mean you are eating well. It just means that we, as a country, are eating to excess.

My mom always did the best for me she could and I know that. I actually feel horrible writing about these times with my mom going to Friday night “all you can eat” perch nights because they are treasured memories with my her (and some Pac-Man games were thrown in there, too). However,  it is part of why I became an obese child. I am sure that part of what drives families to places like Old Country Buffet on a regular basis is that want to provide food for the entire family but it is also part of what makes families and children in this country obese as well. But we need to stop. Eating so much is slowly killing us. We are sacrificing eating healthy for sheer size and that is wrong. I am living proof of it. Or should I say my high blood pressure, sleep apnea and aching joints were proof of it.

If I do eat “all you can eat” these days it is at a salad bar and I only have two helpings at most. Not just because I get fuller faster now but because I give my brain enough time to register that I have eaten and I am getting full. I make the conscious decision to walk away and not go for a third or, mom help me, fourth plate. And I know that making smarter choices like these equates to one thing…

…I know I will be living a much longer life.

Am I here to tell you never to eat “all you can eat” ever again? Certainly not. There will always be people in your life who love the Old Country Buffets of the world (I love you, mama). But if and when you can use the money you’d spend and go to a grocery store. But fruits and vegetables. Make meals at home. Create a yummy soup that could last for days. Put yourself at the top of your priority list instead of your wallet.

By doing that you’ll not only help your waist line (and our collective American waistline) but you’ll be able to enjoy life’s many wonderful foods for many more years to come.

Have you guys noticed the retro Pepsi commercials hittin’ the airwaves? Seems Pepsi and Mountain Dew “Throwback” sodas are available through the end of February featuring the same original formulas and real sugar.

Even though I am now a devout Coca-Cola drinker I was taken back to very fond memories of the Pepsi I drank growing up as a kid, finding spare change with my mom and going to the liquor store or the corner store to get ourselves a Pepsi to split.

Back then Pepsi and other soft drinks were in heavy but beautiful long bottles. They came in eight packs and you had to pay deposits on the bottles (even more incentive to get you to bring them back to the stores). You had to have bottle openers to even open them. But no matter how much they weighed and no matter how much a pain-in-the-ass they were to carry with bags of groceries, there was nothing – NOTHING – like opening up an ice-cold Pepsi and having good times talking with my Mama.

I still remember the light cloud of white that appeared at the tops of the bottles when you’d open them. And blowing it away before you’d take the first swig made a cool “whoosh” sound over the bottle’s opening. Then the taste of it, the sweet taste of Pepsi, was like a drug. But more so it was something my mom and I did together. Finding that loose change was incredible. We didn’t have money growing up but we had fun and we could always enjoy a Pepsi together.

Sometimes we’d take bottles of Pepsi to our favorite spot on 53^rd Street in Hyde Park (the old benches at the Hyde Park Bank), on the South Side of Chicago and crack ‘em open there. Or even take them to the park. Sometimes we’d buy cans of them and sit in the Laundromat watching the old black & white TV as our clothes dried on “inferno.” Most times, we’d have ‘em at home watching TV and talking. That was the best.

Why am I telling you all that? Because it’s all of those memories of my mother that made me purchase one of those retro bottles of Pepsi the other day.  I got the coldest one I could find (which was pretty cold). And I was so excited. This was a chance to reconnect with my childhood, my Mama, and taste a sweet soda from my kid-dom. I miss my mom so much and I was just so excited to be presented with a chance to have a comfort food and think about how alive my mom was.

But, as they say, you can’t go home again.

The long-necked glass bottles have been replaced by plastic screw-cap ones. And the taste, which seemed way sweeter, was so different than I remembered. Wasn’t this the Pepsi from my late-70s/early 80s youth? It had the same logo. It claimed to be that old formula. It brought back the best memories. But the taste wasn’t the same and I was at once sad and deflated. I wanted so bad to have that swig of Pepsi and imagine me and Mama sitting up watching something on TV talking about her day at work or what movie we’d see that coming weekend.

But you can’t go home again.

So I finished the 20-oz. bottle of Throwback Pepsi and set the bottle on the table. I sat and thought about my Mama and said to myself “Well, Ma. It’s just doesn’t taste the same.” And I could hear her in my head responding “It be like that sometimes, son.”

I guess so, but I wanted to have that smile again just one more time. Not just from the taste of Pepsi but from the look on my mom’s face when we found that change and bought them. I thought about when my beloved first (and ironically last) cat, Tiger, died how I went to get some comfort food egg rolls from my favorite childhood place and how they’d changed the recipe for those, too.

You can’t go home again.

Oh well. Some things change and some will never change. But thank God for memories. They are truly what we have when we miss our loved ones so very much. It’s been over seven months now since mom passed away and I am still heartbroken over it. The world lost a wonderful and bright star that day in June but I can still hear her wonderful voice, see her bright smile…

…and remember the “swoosh” of the Pepsi bottles we opened up together.

I miss you, Ma. Here’s to you. And I hope wherever you are you are having that nice tall Pepsi we both loved so much.