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Tony Lawrence:Spaghetto
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This is the Ghetto's day. This is the yearly spectacle of
Spaghetto in the Ghetto, and it is the first that we have
been able to attend. We've known about it since we started
day tripping years ago, we've been invited more than once,
but we could never quite manage it. This year, our first
year in our trailer, we will be present.
For weeks now, a small enclosed trailer has been backed into
the space between our trailer and Carla's. This trailer is
the repository for Spaghetto donations: spaghetti sauce for
the meal, and vodka for the infamous Ghetto punch. We have
already given over our jar and bottle, and they have joined
the others in that trailer. Today is the day to bring them
all out.
The jars fill an entire wheelbarrow. There is also case
after case of beer to be carried out and dumped into
buckets. I chip in for this work, and we have it done
quickly.
Penny, a wise woman of the Ghetto, has advised me on how to
handle myself. Spaghetto is a tremendous amount of work,
she tells me, and my help will be appreciated. But I
must not ask if I can help, because I will be told no. She
explains that there is an element of stubborn pride among
the men folk, and while most of them have known me for
years, I'm still a new comer to the Ghetto, and must show
proper respect for the vast undertaking. The proper method
is to ask nothing, but just be watchful for opportunities. It's a
man thing, she says, I'm sure you understand. No, not entirely,
but I will take her advice seriously.
As the jars are carried out to the field, I have an immediate
opportunity to put it into practise. The jars need to be
opened, and this task seems to have fallen to the women, but
many of the jar lids are too tight for them. I can certainly
help there, and I do. The experienced men tend to building
the fires, and soaping the outside of the pots. Apparently
this makes them easier to clean later, Penny shares with me.
I open more jars.
A tent has been erected, and there is now a brigade of men forming
to help carry tables under it. There are a few official
Ghetto tables, but we also take tables from people's decks. There
will be a lot of people here today, and we will need the tables,
so I suggest also using the table from my deck.
This is a mistake. I realize it immediately, and I see Penny
frown at me from a few yards away. No, they don't think they
need any more tables. I wince at my stupidity. Of course they
need all the tables they can get, but I am not supposed to
decide that. I'm a newbie. Helpful, friendly, yes. But a
newbie. It's not my call.
Chagrined, I wander over and help Penny stir some small pots
of special sauce. There is a large iron pot that most of the
sauce will go in, but the stirring of that is a job for the
old timers, not for a new comer. These small pots are for
sauce without meat, and a highly spiced version. It is OK if
I spend some time stirring these while Penny attends to cooking
some chicken wings.
Someone says they need a cooler to store spaghetti in. No one
else offers, so I say I'll go get ours. No objection is made,
so I go to our trailer, dig out our cooler, and bring it over
to the fires. For the rest of the day, pre-cooked spaghetti
will be tossed into it on it's way to final cooking. Gosh,
I've been able to contribute something. I laugh at myself.
I see an opportunity now, and grab another Ghetto new comer. "Help
me get my deck table over here", I ask him. The two of us
do that. Penny smiles. That's the way to do it.
The cooking of spaghetti while nude is an interesting thought,
especially when you consider that this is done over large,
open fires in the open air. A stray breeze can singe hair
or worse. The sauce is being stirred with a large oar, but
you can't get far enough away from the pots to be totally
safe. Some of the men wear shorts or aprons, but some of
them are just plain crazy. None would condescend to wear
a shirt, of course. Every time one of them burns his
chest, you can see the women raise their eyebrows. I am
surprised that the men *have* eyebrows.
On Carla's deck, Ghetto punch is being made. The main ingredients
seem to be vodka and ice cream. We workers are invited to
sample from the first batch. It's good. Too good.
The next few hours are a buzz, helped, no doubt, by generous
helpings of Ghetto punch. I remember driving someone up
to the club house to get more ice. I drove nude, and I
don't think I had ever done so before. We carried, we stirred,
we tasted. Linda came out and decided that the Veggie sauce
was in dire need of carrots, so she went back to cut up
some. When she returned, she brought back carrots and
some other veggies she found. Other people did the same, and
there was little you could mention in the way of herb or
vegetable that did not find it's way into that sauce.
And then the people came. Long, long lines. Happy, joking,
laughing people. Beer tops popped, Ghetto punch flowed, and
the lines moved slowly past the spaghetti pots. The weather
had cooperated, the sky was clear. Linda and I ate our fill,
and so did every one else. Cameras, normally sharply proscribed,
made an appearance. No one seemed to care: this was Spaghetto,
and it would seem unfair to tell someone they could not
document this day.
For some reason, someone started tearing up a blue sweatshirt
into strips and tying the strips around various portions of
people's anatomy. Men, of course, offer a natural place
to tie a strip of cloth. It is more difficult with women, and
there were gales of laughter as ties slipped off nipples,
only to be dived at by men who would gallantly offer to
reattach them. Soon, there were blue ties everywhere, and
more sweatshirts had to be sacrificed to fill the demand.
And the Ghetto punch flowed.
I don't know how much I ate. Enough to hurt, I know that. And
undoubtedly, I drank more Ghetto punch than I should have. The
mounds of spaghetti piled in my stomach probably slowed it down
some, but I slept very well that night.
It lasted forever, but eventually only we ghetto residents were
left. I don't know how we cleaned up. I know that our deck
table didn't get returned until the next day, and we thought
our cooler was gone forever, but somehow, the field was
returned to it's normal state.
Spaghetto in the Ghetto. Once a year is enough.
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