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Grand Island, New York, is a big place. One bridge on the south end from Buffalo and one on the north end to Niagara Falls.

It is bitter cold today. Twenty below this morning which, even for the Buffalo area, is a bit colder than normal this early in winter. The ice on the bridges last night closed both ends, so I’m stuck here today. And I’m hungry. Been driving from one end of the island to the other... nothing is open. Not because of the weather, but just because of today.

Got up this morning and looked in the frig. Half a case of beer (Heineken), 2-week old container of used Chinese, an almost full jar of Martini olives, three one-month-old eggs and four pats of butter lifted from the Georgian House of Pancakes. The bread has a nice culture started on one end, but I hear if you toast it, it kills the off-taste. Cracked all three eggs into the skillet for a omelet, but the eggs had no separate yokes. They had merged with the white into an even pale yellow. Didn’t think it looked right so I chucked it. No breakfast.

It is cold. Colder weather than I’ve ever been in before. A lot different than when I was in Engineering school, living on the beach near Los Angeles.

Why did I come to Niagara Falls? This is the worst place on earth.

“Because they asked you to. Because we are going to the moon and they want you to help them. And because your draft number is 91 and they offered you a defense job that carries a deferment. You want to be spending this day in Viet Nam?”

Well, it would be warmer, and they’d provide the food, and Bob Hope the entertainment.

“Yeah, and somebody else would provide the bullets.”

No, I’m glad I’m not over there. But, Niagara Falls? Why didn’t I take that job in Florida? Darn.

This place is weird. Three months ago I had an apartment one block off the ‘Strand’ in Manhattan Beach. An apartment. A real apartment. In a real apartment building. Not like around here. In Niagara Falls, an apartment is a third bedroom in someone’s house. Walk through somebody’s living room to get to your place? No. Not for me.

Real apartments haven’t come to Niagara Falls yet. They’re 40 years behind times around here. There are a few apartments down in the middle of Buffalo. Astronomical to rent. Looked a month for one while living in a motel (half rate since the tourist season was over).

The closest to an apartment I could find was this duplex on Grand Island. In the middle of the river, freezing my ass off. And now, the bridges are closed, as well as every eatery on the island. The pancake house I like is over in Niagara Falls, one frozen bridge away.

I’m two thousand miles from family. I’d like to have gone home for this week... but I’m new, no seniority, and no vacation time yet. Someone had to cover the tests. I’m stuck with it. Hope the bridges thaw out before work tomorrow. Hope they thaw out before I starve today.

Why do I keep thinking of food? I have enough beer. That has protein in it. I could live a day on beer. Have the olives for supper.

Boy, a Georgian Western Omelet, even with pancakes, would be good right now.

“What? Pancakes? You hate pancakes.”

Mom fries pancakes in an inch of bacon fat, or lard, or sheep oil, or whatever. ‘Don’t want them to stick,’ she’d say. Of course, the edges were sponges for the grease. Made them all taste the same: Blueberry... bacon fat; Buttermilk... bacon fat; Raspberry Jam on top... bacon fat; tons of Maple syrup... bacon fat.

Other than pancakes, Mom is a great cook. I miss her cooking. She makes bread twice a week. It gives the whole house a smell like... well, home. Right out of the oven, real butter and homemade strawberry jam.

And pies. Oh my, her pies. Crusts from scratch, and fillings from the back yard. Apple trees, peach trees, walnut trees, cherry trees, and pumpkin trees... no, pumpkins grow on vines. Big garden, yeah, we had dozens of pumpkins.

You know, if you make a pie out of fresh pumpkin, you have to get rid of a lot of water. Chopped up and cooked pumpkin has to be dried out, otherwise the pie won’t set. Had some soupy pies a few times in our house.

Dad used to make beer before I went to college. Now days, you can get good stuff to make great beer. But, the beer Dad made back then was, well, homemade. He’d call it, ‘A little green.’

Last night was good at the pub. Most of the college kids weren’t around, so the crowd was smaller and you could at least get a seat at the bar. Closed early though. Too bad I didn’t think to buy a spare ‘Beef on Wick’ for today.

Darn, I’m hungry.