Really Very Good Zucchini Bread
"So call me a militarist." Teen-aged boys are always trouble, but these ones couldn’t meet my eye and they got lost in the mall’s crowd.
"I love my country and I want to support the forces that keep it great and free," I turned and finished the statement to Jennifer. Then I looked back at the table, manned by a couple of slightly-too-young troops in drop-dead, Air Force blue. "I just want to say, I’m grateful that you’re here today." I took my bag from the curly-haired guy, who flexed his lips in a Cupid’s bow smile. "The Coast Guard may brag about their clam chowder and the Army might have some pretty good pumpkin pie, but I always said, there is absolutely nothing to compare with the Air Force zucchini bread. C’mon, Jen, health-food store this way."
"‘Did you see that guy?" Jen asked. He was the Population Bomb!"
"Yeah," I chuckled. "They’re raising money to re-build the tail-elevator on a long-range bomber. I always try to support these fund raisers, because it’s the patriotic thing to do and because it really is good zucchini bread. But the quality of their sales help is superb."
Jen gave that really dirty laugh of hers.
"Personally, I don’t like pumpkin pie and I’m allergic to seafood, so I throw all my weight behind the Air Force whenever I can. I didn’t mentioned the Marines’ double-chocolate chip cookies, because, honestly, I’m crazy about them, and I didn’t want to make the Air Force guys feel like they were second best, or anything."
"Right!" Jen agreed. "You notice their aftershave?"
"And it only makes sense to maintain the great military legacy our forefathers left us through their own personal sacrifices."
"I can feel myself getting worked up," Jen said. "It’s that Air Force aftershave.
"We have the world’s greatest air force and that’s because we, the common citizens, kick in to keep it that way. If the tail-elevator of that bomber needs replacing, then it’s going to get replaced."
"Maybe we ought to go back and check again," Jen said, half kidding, but only half, "they might be too young but that’s just if you keep them. I believe in ‘catch and release,’ you know? Don’t you need some more zucchini bread?"
"You know the zucchini bread’s just for show."
"Yeah, I know," Jen said.
"People don’t mind contributing when they can see where their money’s going. Now, I don’t like the way those teen jerks behave, but I’d fight anyone to preserve their right to act like jerks and not support the repair of this bomber."
"Not me," Jen protested, "I’d cry and get that curly haired Air Force baker-boy to rescue me and do the fighting. It’s his bomber."
"Maybe they don’t like long-range bombers. There are them that say they’re too destructive and wholesale."
Jen shrugged. "If I think some foreign city needs attacking, I say, support the Marines. Let them go in where they can see who they’re shooting. If there aren’t enough Marines to do the job, volunteer! Everybody loves a good Marine."
"But," I told her, "what with the cyber-bombs they have now and the other highly-evolved laser and computer guidance systems, I don’t think they’re any more destructive than they ought to be. You have to have some of everything to be really strong."
"And maybe they are really just teen-aged jerks," Jen added. "There’s an awful lot of baking going on, you notice? There was that giant vat of beans the Navy had down by the lower level."
"Yeah," I said, "the poor WAVES. Right now there’s a big push on to get the military spiffed up for action. Under Codrescu, Romania has become a threat to our oil shipments from the Urals to Arabia. The pharmaceutical and plastics industries are threatened."
"Save out lipstick!" Jen cried. "Hey, stop for gelato?"
"Sure," I agreed. "I’m hooked on tiramisu gelato."
"I knew, the tiramisu, you spaghetti-bender."
"Their piratical naval forces have taken over, first the Black Sea, then the Bosporus and now they are intimidating Red Sea suppliers." I went on, sort of on autopilot.
"Death to Captain Hook!"
"They won’t act like that for long if they see our Army is strong, our Navy is ready and our Air Force gets a new tail-elevator when it wants one. Like I said, call me anything you like–militarist, whatever.
"Just don’t call you a tail-elevator," Jen said, giving her grody laugh again.
"This is a great nation," I told her. "I am on my dignity."
"Not your widest spot," Jen came back. She is so catty sometimes.
"Always has been, always will be. And one of the things that makes us great is our energy sector. That’s where I left the car when I met you here. I hooked up to the hydrogen tanks for a bubble-up."
We took our gelatos and went over to a little table. "You see pictures on the cable of those poor-persons in other countries, like the EU, pumping their puerile bikes along in all weather. Well, God bless ‘em, we don’t have to. Water, electricity and the common sense God gave a door knob and you have your made-in-American car running along like clockwork. Really, I feel sorry for them not living over here.
"Yeah," Jen agreed, licking straccitella, "glad I’m not some foreigner."
"My mother used to tell me about her great-grand-pop, who came over here after being beaten by the land-owner for picking up a fallen branch for firewood."
"How is she?" Jen asked, knowing Mom had been sick with the flu.
"She’s good now," I told her. It was nice of her to ask, though. "Just think how poor that land-owner must have been to fight over a thing like that," I said, thinking about it. "We don’t squabble over sticks. We have NAPsters," (that’s the National Afforestation Program workers), "at work day and night."
"Practically," Jen mumbled around a bite. "In every possible location, plant and maintain trees. Sure, I mean, you get your shade in summer, wind-breaks in winter, it keeps water tables high, the climate mild, birds and bees chirping and buzzing, the fish...er...splashing, they soak up carbon dioxide from the air and tie it up for a century or more, building materials are cheaper, firewood, even, it gives good jobs to good people, it ... oh, I don’t know, but they’re still phallic symbols. You know?"
"That’s why I don’t pay attention to those human rights activists who are always whining about the draft. A little public service instills discipline."
"You have been going out with that Coastie. I can tell." Jen smirked. But she knew the Charlie thing was wa-ay over.
"Well," Jen said, "so much for the health food. I got to be getting back to Ladies’ Wear or old Brewster’ll write me up. Again." So we said, "Ciao!" and I took off, too. I get an hour for lunch, even though Jen only gets a half, so I thought I’d swing back by the zucchini bread table, just to check. Sometimes guys look really young but they’re not.
When I got home from work I dumped an armload of junk on the counter and sighed. "Somebody ought to clean this place." Mom was very possibly stopping in on the weekend, so I knew I had to get working on it. I decided to put the groceries away, at least. Only the first loaf of zucchini bread would fit in the freezer until I took out the ice cube trays. The freezer was full of clam chowder (that’s how I met Charlie; I didn’t used to be allergic to seafood) and now there’s all the loaves of zucchini bread. So call me a militarist. It really is very good zucchini bread.
appeared March, 2003