This is the first draft of a chapter from an upcoming book: Fize & I: A Trip Full Of Adventures With World’s Best Dog.
Pfizer was my best buddy for 15.5 years: he saved my life and I saved his. Enjoy.
The box. The tall thin narrow box it comes in, sitting there with all the others on the crowded supermarket shelf, is enough to provoke gagging and nausea. Cute kids on the cover or a picture of a steaming pile of, well, this is PG rated.
For my Father it was meatloaf. He claimed that in the war, (WWII), he ate enough meatloaf to pave all the roads in Maine. At the time I couldn’t understand where he was coming from, for Mom made the best meatloaf in town. The crusty part on top, stuck to the edge of the pan, was my favorite, and seldom made it to the kitchen table. Often I would get up during the night and either finish off the leftovers or put a substantial dent in it. The next day, if I hadn’t killed the whole thing off, would mean meatloaf and ketchup sandwiches. Yum!
Dad always got steak, which put a mighty serious dent in his meatloaf story. Mom said he had too many horrific memories of his Mothers’ meatloaf and was afraid to try hers. In all my life I can’t remember seeing Dad eat meatloaf. Probably a good thing for me, as it meant more to go around. He never had problems with mashed potatoes though, which I had heard were always served in the Army. As I grew older and would watch movies with my Dad on a Friday night or on a lazy Sunday afternoon, I would always be on the lookout for what they showed the soldiers eating. He would be deeply immersed into the movie, watching intently, and be shocked out of his black leather chair when I’d yell, “Mashed potatoes!”
Mashed potatoes were to die for. Mom used only the smaller red potatoes, from Washington State, as she said the Maine potatoes held too much moisture and not enough flavor. Nothing but whole milk and real butter were whipped into a frenzy with the boiled potatoes. Add some salt and I was in heaven. Have meatloaf on the side and what more could a kid ask for. Sunday mornings, were what. If, by some miraculous event, there were left over mashed potatoes, Mom would keep them tightly wrapped in the white, round top refrigerator. On those rare events she would first cook the eggs, in butter naturally, and then put the leftover mashed potatoes into the hot skillet. With more butter added, she would fry the potatoes until bits of wondrous crispy brown flakes were woven throughout the potatoes. Heaven on earth.
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