This excerpt from The Irish Hungarian Guide to the Domestic Arts (which, incidentally, is brilliant and makes [ahem] a perfect gift) is dedicated to Al the Retired Army Guy, who sometimes needs to remember things old school.# # #
The slumgullionexperience of my youth always started off with a pound of raw hamburger on thekitchen counter. My father would pluck a chunk from it as my mother admonishedhim.
"But that's forthe slumgullion!" she'd say.
Undeterred, Dad wouldsprinkle the meat with salt and pop it into his mouth en route to hisdownstairs machine shop.
Then Mom wouldslumgullify the wormy red mass by browning it, draining off the fat and addingterrifying ingredients. In went Monday's spaghetti, the oily onion and greenpepper dregs from Tuesday's pepper steak, and the remainder of Wednesday'ssuccotash (which included both lima beans and--god help us--hominy). Throughoutthe process, my brother and I exchanged looks of unified dread that culminatedin silent mastication at the dinner table.
Slumgullion.
The name alone ishard to swallow. It's like a slug in a guillotine in a slum. It's an awful wordthe way crotch is an awful word. Who says, "Oh baby, I want to dive intoyour crotch"? No one says that. It's gross. "So baby, howzaboutsome slumgullion?"isn't much better.
Completely unreliableonline historians trace slumgullion back to a) the watery refuse resulting fromwhale blubber processing, b) a dish made from slaughterhouse cast-offs in theslums of England in the late 1800s, or c) a thin stew California miners madefrom leftovers during the Gold Rush. Who cares which checkered past isaccurate? Any one of them beats that candy-ass three-fingered Hamburger Helperglove.
Every slumgullionrecipe is different. People add cheese, tomato sauce, bacon, frozen peas,macaroni--name your poison. I've heard of people using (help) canned cornedbeef. Others use condensed soup to tie it all together. (Admittedly, Ipractically deify a can of Campbell's cream of mushroom. If you can't turn oneof those into dinner in 20 minutes, you're no housewife in my book. But if youtransform a can of Campbell's cream of whatever into a platter of CompanyChicken Supreme in a wink, you're in).
So what wouldEringullion look like? Surely I could do better than that Betty Crocker broadand her boxed Cheeseburger Macaroni. Recreating mom's recipe was no fun. Ineeded to update and modernize the slumgullion concept while keeping it firmlyentrenched in its ground-beef-and-ingredients-on-hand birthright. Even if Ididn't have any leftovers, the slumgullion should feel leftovery: refrigeratorround-up in a pan.
I chose onion, greenpepper, a can of creamed corn, one of RoTel's original tomato concoctions,three old potatoes, (each with a host of gnarly eyes), some Worchester sauce,and a mysterious seasoning called "Rich Brown" that costs 50 centsfor a box of eight packets at the discount grocery. This darling concoction ofMSG, maltodextrin, onion powder, caramel color, spices, disodium guanylate anddisodium inosinate was, according to the package, "a delicious broth and aseasoning that brings out the best in food flavors." I am all over that, I thought.
Unlike the HamburgerHelper experience, as soon as I started making the slumgullion, familiaritywashed over me. You're home, assureda soft voice inside my head as I doused the diced onion with Mazola. Why, thiswas innate. Even the creamed corn that I had included as a mandatory"yuck" ingredient formed a beautiful golden pool when I poured itatop the beef. The slumgullion terrors of my childhood were all but gone, aharmless wisp. By the time I added the canned tomatoes and chiles, I wasgrinning from ear to ear and singing "Slum-gull-yon.Slum-slum-slum-gull-yon" to the tune of "Girl from Ipanema." Isprinkled a packet of Rich Brown over it all and sighed contentedly.
Ten minutes beforedinner, I moved through the house like an old-fashioned hotel page."Slumgullion minus ten," I lilted. "That's slumgullion minusten."
If I thought theHamburger Helper instilled fear in my kid, the slumgullion was sheer terror ona plate. She stared at it wordlessly.
I transformed into mymother. "Eat your slumgullion," I said. She wrinkled her nose andtook a bite, swallowing over a gag.
"Oh, comeon," I said, "it's delicious!"
"Not bad,"said my dearly beloved before taking a sip of Matthew Fox cabernet($3.29/bottle at the discount grocery). "It's nothing special, but it'snot bad."
I let his shockingassessment settle for a moment while blinking at him in disbelief.
"Nothing special?" I said indignantly as Irose to get another helping. "What do you mean 'nothing special'?" Iturned from the stove to see my daughter quickly set down her plate, from whichshe'd dumped three-quarters of her slumgullion onto my husband's dish. "Itbeats the hell of that miserable Hamburger Helper!" I said.
Silence.
"Well?" Isaid, "doesn't it?" My eyes shifted between my husband and daughter."Beat the Hamburger Helper?"
My kid cowered beforemy arched eyebrows. "Um ... " she peeped. I glared in disapprovalthen turned to my splendid king with pursed lips.
"The leftoverHamburger Helper was better the next day," he said in a conciliatory tone."Maybe the slumgullion will be better tomorrow."
I let "bettertomorrow" float in the air for a handful of beats as my chest pumped shortangry breaths and I glowered at him.
"Well. You.Miserable. Goat." I finally said, pronouncing each word in a lowdeliberate voice. Then I stood.
"Honey?"said the Goat. "I didn't mean anything." He paused, waiting."Honey?"
"Nevermind,"I said in a high thin voice, then sniffed and retrieved my shoes from thesteps.
"What are youdoing?" he said.
"Nothing."
"Mom?"
"Forgetit." I tied my shoes with force and stood, set my jaw and squared myshoulders. As my family asked after me, I stepped out the front door and beganwalking the earth, never more alone.
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