My dad’s nick name was Smokie. He was my cub, scout and rover leader as a kid and he was dubbed Smokie for his amazing breakfasts by the campfire. He was first to rise to get the fire going and to have everything ready when he blew his bull’s horn to rally the troops. Being a Geordie from north eastern England he had all these crazy concoctions that he liked to make just to get us all to pull faces and dare us to eat. Spotted Dick, Toad in the Hole, Bangers and Mash, Blood Pudding and fried Kippers. He would often dawn a fish or chicken’s head from a leather thong necklace and put feathers in his hair to make himself appear as a witch doctor or shaman making up his devil’s breakfast. He started his life as a theatre man.
Later on in my early twenties it meant fishing trips with my buddies and Dad up at the crack in front of the wood cook stove making eggs, bacon, pancakes, beans and all to be washed down with a Newcastle Brown Ale. He never forgot his ancestry and neither do I.
August makes me think of him some 30 years later.
I got the name Smokie because when I make dinner everyone knows it's ready when the smoke detector goes off.
We’re off to our pub tonight for the pub fare. It ain’t British but is just about as greasy and bad for you as my dad’s culinary delights. We’re celebrating getting orders for 26 dinner services this weekend. This economy is weak but when you’re in this game for the long haul you take what work ya can get. Hey Smokie, what’s for breaky?