Pork Chops with Brown Rice

Pork Chops with Brown Rice

“These pork chops taste like shoe leather. What’s your mom teaching you to make these days? It’d have to be better than this.”

“Pork chops with brown rice. Mine are way better than these. Come over tomorrow night and I’ll show you.”

Randall drained his coke. “Adam, I have the perfect recipe for finding girls.”

Would this turn out like Judith? Randall told me that he’d heard she “liked me.” I was more likely to strike up a conversation with a rattlesnake than to talk with a girl in Junior High. Judith particularly intimidated me. A tall, honey blonde cheerleader. So, I said “sure, Randall. Talk to her.”

I anxiously awaited the “report” from the “conversation” when I came home from a weekend trip with my parents. I kept reminding myself that there was “hope.” It was wrestling season. I wasn’t “fat.” My zits were under control. Maybe Judith had imagined me without glasses and decided that would be okay.

“Piece of grunt, Davidson!” Randall was such a conservative member of the First Church of Holy Jesus that he couldn’t say “shit” or “damn.” Not even in Junior High when cursing was “new” and we all couldn’t wait to use each new word or phrase.

I knew this wouldn’t be good since he’d begun by “cursing.”

Randall continued. “Well, I talked to her a couple of times that Friday while you were at your aunt’s house. The second time was at the Youth Center. We danced to some fast songs. Then before you know it, we were slow dancing. And now we’re dating.” Junior High “dating” meant they had an occasional coke at the dingy convenience store on the way home from school.

Things worked the same with Anne Marie, a pretty girl in the band. I played the clarinet. Should have talked to her myself. At least both girls dumped him quickly.

With friends like Randall, I didn’t need enemies. But the dating scene was a bone-dry desert in college—way more men than women attending in the early 1970’s—maybe I’d give Randall’s “recipe” a try. I wasn’t home for much longer. In June, I was headed to Washington, DC to spend the summer of 1972 interning for the Speaker of the US House of Representatives. What did I have to lose? Maybe I’d have a couple of dates before leaving.

If I didn’t, I’d meet cute girls in Washington.

“Okay, Randall. What’s this recipe?” I drained my beer but didn’t order another one. Randall glared at me and began to outline his plan.

“Well, the first ingredient is to drive over to Peterson City.”

Smallville, where we lived, had only one movie theater and a couple of greasy restaurants. One of them, Bob’s Grill, where we were eating now, had just started serving beer. Randall didn’t touch alcohol. Warned me repeatedly that I was headed straight to hell for starting to drink in college. If I wasn’t already going there, for just “being” a Methodist.

Even if you found a date in Smallville, you’d have to go to Peterson City to find something to do. Other than driving up and down main street or hanging out at Sonic. It was pot luck whether the movie in Smallville would even be showing something I wanted to see. Especially now that I was seeing lots of movies in Norman. I was becoming more interested in Randall’s recipe.

The remaining ingredients beyond going to Peterson City were quite different from anything I’d ever tried for finding a date. Mother was teaching me to cook. Self-defense. The coming semester, I was living with three other guys in an apartment near the University of Oklahoma campus. At least we’d have decent meals when it was my turn to cook. Randall ticked off the remaining “steps/ingredients.” Like Mother telling me how to make those delicious pork chops with brown rice.

Drive over to the Quick Stop on Grand Avenue. (An abandoned convenience store.)

Pull into the lot with our car facing the store building and the trunk facing Grand.

Lean up against the trunk and watch the girls drive by.

Wave at the cute ones and get them to come in.

Date the cute ones.

I didn’t tell Randall that this sounded stupid and juvenile to me. Hell, I was a 20-year-old college student. But of course, it was no more “shallow” than “swiping right or left” these days. Merely going over to Peterson City and “dragging Grand” and buzzing its larger selection of drive-in restaurants wasn’t working any better than fruitlessly dragging Main in Smallville. I wouldn’t mind a date or two before leaving for the summer.

“Okay, Randall. What the hell. Let’s try it.”

“Just in case, we’ll take Rodney with us.”

Fuck. This would likely do no good. Rodney was handsome, blonde and had piercing blue eyes. He was sort of a small-town Robert Redford. He attracted girls—at least the ones who didn’t know him-- like a magnet. But then he didn’t know what to do with one after she “found” him. Oh well. The girls over there didn’t know that about him yet. They would find him attractive.

The next night, after I had treated Randall to the pork chops and he’d pronounced them “great,” we drove over and set everything up according to the recipe. Randall and I eyed the parade of teenagers and college students dragging Grand. Two college age women in an ancient Chevy Nova drove by a couple of times. They inspected us closely as Rodney stood there looking like the Sundance Kid.

“Who’re they, Randall?”

“I know them from Junior College. But they don’t like me.”

This was promising. So, I asked him the key question.

“Are they cute?”

“Yes; but they don’t like me.”

Well, this was truly promising.

“Wave them in Randall. Maybe they’d like to chat about your college algebra class.”

Before long, I was talking effortlessly with Amelia. And Rodney and Margaret seemed to be getting along. Randall was all by himself. Perhaps even better, no girls were driving in to talk to him!

Amelia was cute. Silky legs. Dreamy green eyes. No bra. And before my mind had quite shifted gears to focusing on her traits that weren’t superficial, I decided she’d surely pass the “pencil test.” Because if I had put a pencil under one of her delicious breasts, it would have plummeted to the floor.

I couldn’t tell you what Margaret looked like.

Before long, I didn’t care how Amelia looked.

Amelia wanted to know me. Where I lived. Where I went to college. What sports I played in high school. Where I was working this summer. What movies and books I liked. What my parents did for a living.

She had finished Junior College. She and Margaret were planning to live together in the fall and attend Oklahoma State. She didn’t seem to care that I was a life-long Sooner. She was excited that I wanted to be a lawyer. But instead of asking me about making a lot of money, she wanted to know how I’d feel if I represented a murderer. And knew he did it. She had a summer job at an oil company. Told me about the computer they had that filled an entire room. Invited me to come pick her up for lunch and see the computer. No girl had ever invited me on a date to see a computer! Except on Sadie Hawkins Day in High School, no girl had ever invited me on a date at all. Even the Speaker didn’t have a computer. He had a lot of stuff other members of Congress didn’t have. But NOT a computer.

Amelia was impressed, but not awed, by the internship.

The decrepit Chevy had a name. “Irving.” I’d never known someone who’d named their car. That was enchanting! And she could bounce so quickly from a serious subject to a funny one and back to a serious one. Seamlessly, without effort. We discussed politics, current events, the Civil Rights Movement, Vietnam. What I thought of Tricky Dicky Nixon.

My long hair was “cute.” I had a “nice” smile. I was named after Adam in the Bible. My last name had "David" in it. She didn’t care if I hated Nixon and the War. And I didn’t give a shit that she was a Republican and went to the First Church of Holy Jesus Version 2.0. Hell, I didn’t even care that she was about to become an “Aggie.”

Meanwhile, Randall remained satisfyingly alone.

And then the girls suggested that we go “out to the lake.” This was the “code” phrase for going out to the shore of a beautiful, moonlit lake. “Parking.” And “making out.”

A pretty girl who wanted to know me and asked all the right questions had invited me to “make out.” Randall would be left behind with his car. Waiting for us to return. How awesome! We told him we’d see him in a couple of hours. Or so.

Hasta la vista, Randall!

On the way to the lake, we continued the easily flowing conversation.

“Adam, I’m sorry, but I just don’t like Randall.”

“Why not? He thinks he’s quite the lady’s man.”

“Well, he’s so vulgar.” I’d never heard Randall, such a conservative Christian, called vulgar.

“It’s nasty and disgusting when he says things like ‘piece of grunt.’ I’d just as soon he said ‘shit’ or ‘damn’ or the ‘F word.’”

I rejoiced that I didn’t think there was any way Randall could steal Amelia. “He can say gross things,” I agreed. “We’ve been friends since we were toddlers. Grew up on the same block. Lately, we’re growing apart.”

“Did you play football in Junior High?”

“Yes; I started.”

“Do you remember the game in Smallville? Right before Halloween. The 8th grade. You were playing Peterson East Junior High. One of our Moms drove my friends and me over to Smallville to watch the game. You beat us. Smallville hadn’t beaten us in 20 years!”

“I DO remember that. We were clinging to a 14-8 lead. The game was almost over. Your QB completed a long pass to inside our 20-yard line. If East scored, they’d tie the game. If they scored and got a two-point conversion, they’d win. I sacked your quarterback to end the game.”

I now felt like quite the stud. Certain that my football prowess at almost 14 had “sealed the deal” with Amelia. She’d already scored several touchdowns with me. And we hadn’t even kissed!

We pulled into the place at the lake where Amelia said she preferred to “park.”

She took off my glasses and laid them on the dash. Her green eyes were mesmerizing. Before long, we were French-kissing in the front seat while Rodney and Margaret were steaming up the back windows.

I confirmed that her delectable breasts did, indeed, pass the pencil test.

She said she liked my chest and stomach hairs.

As we drove back to the Quick Stop, we discussed the movies we liked. Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, A Man for All Seasons, West Side Story. Amelia preferred “tear jerkers.” But she admitted she cried uncontrollably during a good one.

I said, “Butch and Sundance is my favorite movie.” We teased Rodney about looking like Robert Redford.

I asked Amelia on a “real” date for the following night.

“Lawrence of Arabia is on. It’s long and probably boring. I doubt it makes you cry or me laugh. If you get tired of it, we can leave.”

Of course, I HOPED she’d tire of it. And we’d end up back at the lake. But I hoped even more that we’d keep talking like this!

As we drove up to the abandoned service station, I thought Randall looked like an empty popcorn box by itself, at the edge of a trash pile, after a big football game.

Lawrence of Arabia, indeed, was incredibly boring. We ended up at the lake again. But on the way to the lake, Amelia told me about her espionage during the day leading up to our “official” first date.

“So, Adam, I asked a few of my JC friends who grew up in Smallville about you.”

Oops. She surely found out that when I wasn’t working out for football or wrestling, I was an overweight, dumpy nerd. I had trouble talking to girls. At least now, I was a skinny hippie. And even better, an athletic-looking one who was sexy without a shirt. I no longer had much fear of talking to anyone. I just had to get to know you; then I wouldn’t shut up. Amelia made getting to know her incredibly easy. But now…it was surely over.

“They said you were one of the nicest guys in the school. But you didn’t date much. And you weren’t a partier. Told me I was lucky to meet you.”

“Well, that’s fair. I didn’t set the dating world on fire in high school.” I didn’t ask Amelia about her dating “life.” Randall told me that Amelia had recently broken up with someone that she probably thought was “the One.”

“I drink a bit, but I don’t particularly like to party.”

“I like to have a good time. But I like a guy who knows when to be serious, too…” Amelia was a party. But so much more.

“Maybe we should discuss religion. I need to warn you that The First Church of Holy Jesus Version 2.0 is super conservative. You aren’t even supposed to look at a guy. Sometimes the preacher speaks in tongues.”

“Well, I’ve always been a Methodist. I’m pretty sure my whole family has been Methodists from the time they arrived in America. Lately, I only go about once a month. If that. I still believe. But sometimes I attend other churches with my friends. I’m just sort of a generic Christian these days. Speaking in tongues…whoa!”

I wasn’t worried about the sexually conservative church. Amelia was fun at the lake. I’d like her if she were dressed in a bag. If it lasted, I was okay with taking “things” a bit at a time.

“I don’t like my church anymore. Never did, really. Too much yelling. I’ve been to the Methodist Church with friends. The minister just ‘talks’ to you. I like that. And once a month is more than enough for me. For now…but it’s important to have faith.”

We stopped off at A&W Root Beer on the way to the lake. The nearly perfect conversation continued over the cold root beers served in frosty mugs.

The second trip to the lake was better than the first.

I later learned that Rodney and Margaret had a couple of dates and never saw each other again.

We saw each other nearly every night for two weeks. Then followed a tearful good-bye the evening before I had to “Leave on a Jet Plane.” Maybe it wasn’t “love at first sight.” But it hadn’t taken long for us to say we loved each other. Remaining faithful to each other between then and my August return wasn’t a problem. Everyone wanted to “hook me up” with the tall, eye-popping native American girl who also interned for the Speaker. I insisted I was “taken.” My faith that Amelia wasn’t dragging Grand and taking other guys to the lake was unshakeable. It helped that we wrote each other every day. And maybe even more, Randall wrote me a letter telling me how much Amelia missed me.

Every time I heard Peter, Paul & Mary singing Leaving on a Jet Plane on the radio in D.C., I teared up.

Thank God the Speaker had a WATS line. Long distance was expensive.

Everything was the “same” but “better” on my return. Especially the lake and the floor of her parents’ living room! Except for the times when we shared a cry about attending two different colleges in just a few weeks. We thought we could do it though. We had lots of friends who attended different colleges and still dated.

We drove to Norman so I could “add and drop” a class. Over dinner in Oklahoma City, Amelia told me that she loved how I “sparkled” in Norman. At the end of the romantic dinner, I just about couldn’t stop crying.

When we got home from the Norman trip, I got sick with a throat infection and high fever. Amelia came over to Smallville to visit me on my “death bed.” She and Margaret had “broken up”. They didn’t move to Stillwater.

Amelia attended OU and graduated with me. She moved into the same apartment complex where I lived. Those guys raved about Mother’s pork chops with brown rice. She liked the pork chops too.

In August, 1973 we were married. The night before the wedding her brother warned, “That’s one stubborn woman.” He forgot to tell me about the uncontrolled shopping. And that she never threw anything away.

Randall was the best man at our wedding. He and I hardly ever saw each other again.

We celebrated 51 years of marriage. We almost never grew tired of talking to each other.

The last time I made pork chops with brown rice was at a stunningly beautiful condo in Costa Rica. I found Amelia unconscious in her recliner shortly after we came home.

The recipe is still in a spiral notebook in my bookcase. I no longer feel like making it.

Amelia wasn’t a saint, although she was always on my “pedestal”. Much about her drove me crazy…but…

Through better…and worse…Amelia was always my biggest fan. She was the biggest fan of our children, grandchildren, her friends. Our home. A good party. Life itself.

She’s buried at the lake near where she took me to “park.”

Randall didn’t say what his recipe would “make.”

It was the recipe for “glue.”