Ten Minutes in Heaven

My beloved father-in-law died recently.  To the good fortune of his family and friends, Gwinn was a newspaperman, and a prolific columnist. He left behind a treasure-trove of columns, on subjects as varied as the 17-year cicadas, his childhood Flexible Flyer sled, and his adored Baltimore Orioles.  One thing he didn’t write much about though, was his worshipful relationship with certain foods, and his religious adherence to mealtime rituals.  As a service to those who loved him, and particularly for the generations that follow, I will address these subjects here.

 

Gwinn was the ultimate creature of habit where food was concerned, and he loved certain foods so much that he felt no need to explore beyond them.  His son, my husband, Paul called this (only somewhat good-naturedly) “Dad’s Platonic absolute.” Gwinn loved chocolate-chip ice cream beyond all other flavors: it was inconceivable that anyone else would hold a different opinion, ergo Baskin Robbins’ “31 Flavors” had 30 superfluous offerings.

 

Every day started with oatmeal, with enough sugar heaped on top to send an elephant into insulin shock. Gwinn boasted, “I have eaten oatmeal every single morning of my life.” In his later years, Gwinn wrote to the good people at Quaker, perhaps with the secret hope that they would replace their white-haired-oversized-black-hat-wearing mascot with a headshot of him, or at least offer to put him alongside Wilford Brimley in a television ad.  Gwinn was crestfallen when they merely sent him a form letter and a 25-cents-off coupon.

 

After oatmeal, strong coffee, mixed part-for-part with more sugar, followed, and finally a cup of Tropicana orange juice, extra pulp (or as my young son once put it, nose scrunched, “with strings.”)   The day ended with similar predictability. Greek salad, with feta cheese and Kalamata olives, was served every night on his dining room table, in homage to his frequent travels to Athens.  And each dinner, as long as it was chosen from the handful of his favorites, was pronounced “the best meal I’ve ever eaten.”  At least, that is, until the next night.

 

One time, when Gwinn and Joan were visiting us in Florida, my parents took us all out to a fancy Italian restaurant for dinner.  The waiter presented each of us with a menu, which read like an epicurean’s tour of Tuscany:  antipasti of every conceivable variety; fresh seafoods delicately prepared with wine, olive oil, fresh tomatoes and cream; succulent chicken and veal scallopinis, osso bucco, homemade pasta carbonara…the list went on and on.  Gwinn closed his menu and addressed the waiter.  “Everything sounds delicious,” he said, “but I think there is no Italian food more glorious than spaghetti and meat sauce. Would it be possible for the chef to prepare that?” Naturally, the waiter complied. I think Gwinn was genuinely surprised that everyone at the table didn’t follow suit, after he had paved the way, so great was his love for spaghetti.

 

“Ten Minutes” was another of his culinary traditions.  The practice began almost 50 years ago, when he and my mother-in-law were raising their four young children.  After Gwinn got home from work each evening, he would insist on “Ten Minutes” of adult time in the living room, when he and Joan would share the events of the day over a martini—extra dry with half a cocktail onion.  “Stini Yasus,” Greek for “To your health,” they would toast, before taking the first sip.  Their glasses empty, they would refill with the melted ice and traces of gin that remained in the pitcher: the dividend, Gwinn would call it. A small wedge of brie and stoned wheat crackers were added in the years that followed.

 

When the kids became adults, they (and their significant others) were invited to join in this special time, which, while retaining the title “Ten Minutes” had morphed into more like sixty.  I say “invited” to join, but really attendance was compulsory—especially at the beach in Rhode Island, where the family vacationed.  And on vacation, Ten Minutes took place before both lunch and dinner.

 

Around noon, and then again at 6 p.m., Gwinn would start rattling around the kitchen, with Joan handing him the various drink-mixing tools like an ER nurse. Then, Gwinn would bellow, “TEN MINUTES!  TEN MINUTES!”  People were expected to stop what they were doing—reading, beachcombing, or, poor souls, napping—and hasten to the front porch where Gwinn would hold court.  

 

One evening, poor Gwinn had a terrible time assembling his family.  When the initial clarion call didn’t work, he shouted, “DOOR HOLDER!  I NEED A DOOR HOLDER!” because it was impossible to open the spring-loaded screen door onto the front porch while carrying the martini tray. I leapt to action, and soon he and I were seated on the front porch, but no one else had followed.

 

“I’M POURING THE DRINKS!”  he announced several times.  This roused a couple more lazy souls, but the full assembly still hadn’t materialized.

 

 “I’M CUTTING THE CHEESE!” he yelled finally, without any trace of irony.  “I’M CUTTING THE CHEESE!” This, of course, became a joke among the younger generations for years to come.

 

What would amuse me, and annoy my husband, was that Gwinn, no matter how often he was told–night after night after night on our longer visits–would offer Paul and me a martini, and then brie, neither of which we liked. Even evening three of our visits would go something like this:

 

Gwinn:  “Paullie? Betsy? Can I pour you a martini?”

Paul:  “No thanks, Dad, we don’t really like martinis.”

Gwinn:  “What’s that?”

Paul: (louder) “WE DON’T LIKE MARTINIS. The situation hasn’t changed since last night.”

Gwinn (shaking head):  “How could a son of mine not like martinis?”

A few minutes would pass, and then he would smear some brie on a cracker, and try to pass it to Paul.  Joan would intercede.

Joan:  “Poppa, Paul and Betsy don’t care for brie.”

Gwinn:  “What’s that?”

Joan:  (louder) “THEY DON’T CARE FOR BRIE.”

Gwinn:  “Don’t like brie?  How could anyone not like brie?”

I would smile and shrug and Paul’s eyes would roll back in his head.

 

Now Gwinn is gone, but of this I am sure:  as the years go on, whenever Owenses are gathered together, the tradition of Ten (give or take a few) Minutes will continue, though we will miss our patriarch terribly.  If we could have him back for just one more evening, no one would hesitate to rush to the porch when Ten Minutes was announced, and Paul and I would slurp martinis and chomp down brie without complaint.

 

And I also know this:  right now, in Heaven, just before supper, Gwinn is sitting with the angels, enjoying Ten Minutes, perhaps offering St. Peter a dividend. They’ll all be well trained when the rest of us join them. Stini yasus, Gwinn.

 

 

 

 

 

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