The Gland Men

sweet·bread
ˈswētˌbred/
noun
plural noun: sweetbreads
The thymus gland (or, rarely, the pancreas) of an animal, especially as used for food.

“Hey, Raggio, try this …” Joe is positioned over a vast tray of barbequed meats. He has stabbed a small bite and has extended it to me in front of a small audience seated around his kitchen counter. Quiet has taken over the room and faces turn to me with raised eyebrows and curiosity. The pride on Joe’s face is second only to his reassuring nod.

1954 
My mother has inserted her fork into an alien object that looks suspiciously like the broccoli she attempted to foist on me the week before, only this one looks like white broccoli. She’s wearing the same reassuring smile and I’m wearing the same suspicious one. My mouth reluctantly opens and I crunch down on what my mother proudly announces is something called cauliflower. Second crunch and my face has turned to stone, my wince has started, and my mother’s face is now all threat; I’m going to have to finish this … this thing in my mouth. I’m scarred for life; broccoli, cauliflower, lentils, liver, lima beans … the list is long and it grows.  I am to stodgy what an Oreo is to milk. Seven decades haven’t changed the boy or the man.


All I see in Joe’s hand is the familiar fork. The four-tined devil holds a dare that appears to look perfectly innocent, disguised as a meat entrée.  I open my mouth to accommodate the small offering and note that the flavor is familiar but the texture (and that is the rub with every listed no-no my mouth has ever revolted from) is not familiar. The alarm in my mouth has begun its code-3 scream, and somehow, some way, I have maintained my almost smile and found myself able to nod in false approval.

“So, Joe…  That was different.”

“You like sweetbreads?” Joe says.  
I can’t answer; I only smile and wonder what my teeth, esophagus, and stomach are thinking. I grab a deviled egg (no, two) and shove them both in my mouth as I walk to the patio in near panic. Seated next to Lyle, I’m eager to share my experience when he says, “Joe makes the best sweetbreads on the planet.” Suddenly I realize neither one of them is from this planet! I nod, still chewing and wondering if a Drano mouthwash would kill me. They’re not from the planet, they’re Gland Men. I did some research that revealed Santa Maria as the capital of sweetbread consumption—no coincidence, both men grew up in Santa Maria.


Playing golf with Lyle (The Hat) today, and sweetbreads came up about 100 times. He can’t even say it without his eyes rolling back in their sockets. Three golfers were completely destroyed today thanks to those sweetbreads.  Laughter was completely out of bounds on nearly every hole. Score didn’t matter. The “sweetbread” conversation was like verbal laughing gas. Poor Coach kept pointing out, “You realize how shitty we’re all playing—looks like we’re going backwards again.” (We all break up.) “And by the by, I’d rather eat sand than a gland!”

By the tenth hole all was lost. Oh, Coach doesn’t own any quit, so we smiled and nodded at his verbal cheerleading and then fell back into unnecessary sweetbread ridicule—all but Lyle, that is, who at least admitted it was an “acquired” taste. I truly love Joe and Lyle, but clearly they fell off the same skateboard! Horrible round today, but likely the most enjoyable four hours I’ve spent golfing in years.

Bulletin:  Dick was seen in Von’s produce section interrupting female shoppers with: “Hi, my name’s Dick. I’m new in town—sure like to have you for a friend.”  

                                                                       Is that Greg??