Bone Broth and Belts

Little did I know. He was basically teaching me how to live. I thought he was just showing me how to make soup. Bone broth is all the rage now, but it sure wasn’t that big of a deal back in the 70s and 80s. It was just how my dad made his homemade stock.

“Just save everything, Gretchen, all the onion butts, chicken skin, celery tops and any bones left over from ham, steak, chicken…” and he’d pull out the mangiest ziploc of food parts from the freezer and over the weekend he would transform it into a masterpiece.

I have been making soup this way for more than 25 years. Now I’m teaching my kids how to save kitchen scraps until you’re ready for some bone broth. There’s some on the stove right now. I had no idea it was a traditional, healthy and ancient practice. I just thought my dad was brilliant and I wanted to be Just Like Him. Especially in the kitchen.

The truth is, Dad saved everything. Naked chicken bones, toothbrushes with smashed bristles, scrap paper of all sizes, orphaned socks, bags (before it was cool to save bags), spice jars for storing little things that he’d forget about, random pieces of seemingly worthless wood just in case he needed one exactly that size, used envelopes for seed packets in his garden, metal bits, rope bits, twine bits, wire bits and crooked nails. He would never know when the need would arise for some deformed 2x4s and wire mesh. And just like that, he would mickey-mouse a soil sifter with bad wood, bent screws and crinkly tin. He’d smirk and raise his eyebrows, impressed with himself for not spending a dime. Yes, he’d gouge himself every time he used it and yes, he would get so mad when it didn’t work. But that was all part of the fun he’d have and as a result, he had a more amusing story to tell.

And belts.

There was a rickety old stool that my mother liked to Rest on in the bathroom. Instead of having a proper makeup table, she used this stool when she fluffed and primped. Over the years it became less stable because it constantly got moved out of the way and she’d lean on it all morning and it would topple when the hair dryer cord caught it wrong. It took a beating, but my mother was Particular about almost everything and it was the Perfect Height for her. So, Dad reinforced this stool with belts. It was a bizarre, yet innovative way to secure those legs around the frame without using wood glue, clamps or any tool whatsoever. I can imagine my mother’s complaint, and I can imagine my dad poring over his options in the garage. Old belts were an abundant (and free) commodity in a household with four growing children. He could use any color or material or length and he’d be able to produce a custom cinch. And my mother would be pleased, perched on her high chair, curling her hair.

In early August 2002, the week after my dad died, my three younger siblings and I were back at 86 (the name of our family home), filling a dumpster with all the things he saved and all the things our mother wanted Gone. Worn-out furniture, mismatched tupperware, stacks of yellowed papers, random dishes, musty books, cracked bottles, rancid spices, expired medicine, threadbare sweaters, broken frames, bargain-bin-ugly mugs and basically all of my dad’s Goodwill treasures. Did I mention that he saved everything?

Eighty-six was nestled in the woods of Central Massachusetts. With cathedral ceilings and giant windows, it felt reminiscent of an airy tree house. The open living area of the house was set above the garages. Two sliding glass doors flanked the massive great room fireplace and opened onto a large deck that sat right above the entrances to the garages. Needless to say, the elevation was excellent for hurling things, both big and small, off the deck, into the dumpster below. Not only could you enjoy the sound of the destruction, often the visual was even more satisfying.

“Is anyone ever going to use this hideous gravy boat?!” and we’d literally answer “NO” without even bothering to look at it, because we would rather hear it explode. It was cathartic when something would shatter to pieces in the cavernous dumpster. Man, that really felt good. As much fun as it was, we swore to each other that we’d never keep crap that just needed to be thrown away.

We were at least four hours into the garage-phase of the purge, when my brother Nick came across a white, stained, dented 5-gallon bucket. It had the faded remnants of some sort of brand name on the side of it, in scratched-up red. Even the plastic shield on the wire handle was missing.

While we worked, we would often casually mention an interesting discovery to a sibling, but this time Nick stopped all of us. “You guys. You’ll never guess what’s in this bucket….hey guys, stop,” he was almost smiling, looking curiously into this bucket.

My sister, Anna, my other brother, JohnDavid and I, waded through decades of my dad’s piles, over to Nick, happy for a distraction that would bring us a little break. His eyes begged us to guess, his face mischievous. He tilted the bucket for us to see. It looked like a bucket of snakes. Dozens and dozens of them. Dead snakes? Ropes? Discarded fabric pieces? Some crazy sex contraption? Do I even want to know what this is? We stuck our hands in there to unravel the mess and the mystery. Then, I spotted a neon-green, plastic buckle the shape of a lightning bolt, circa 1983.

Belts.

We howled with laughter as we untangled the misfit belts. This was by far the oddest collection of things our dad saved. None of us had any idea that there were more than just those few belts that held our mother’s makeup stool together.

“He was crazy…who secretly saves all these belts in a bucket?!” Anna said shaking her head. “Who does this?” she wondered aloud.

“He’s totally laughing his ass off right now watching us…nice for him, he never had to clean all this shit up,” JohnDavid said sarcastically.

I remember not knowing how I felt right then. Was I annoyed? In awe? Grief stricken? Frustrated and impressed all at the same time? “There are so many! How many do you think are in here?” I asked while trying to make sense of it all.

“I wonder how long they would stretch end-to-end,” JohnDavid wanted to know.

Nick had been quiet since his morbid, yet amusing discovery. “I bet they would wrap around the whole house…”

Before he even finished his thought, we were stumbling over each other and all the boxes to get outside. It was one of those classic sibling moments where everyone was talking and no one was listening, but it didn’t matter because we were all thinking the same exact thing: let’s get to work buckling these babies up!

It was unnecessary. It was frivolous. It took forever. It was embarrassing when people drove by the house. It was pretty uncomfortable when neighbors stopped by to offer their condolences and we were just hysterically laughing over a 5-gallon bucket. The four of us, adults between 23 and 30 years old, should have been working on something more productive. But nothing could stop us. It was early August, beautiful outside, a lovely day in the woods, at 86. And there we were…buckling decades of belts together, around shrubs and through deck posts and under awnings. We made wagers if we could do it. We yelled at each other if a belt broke. We circumvented damaged belts by tying them together while losing as little length as possible.

And we did it…just barely.

Beaming with peculiar pride and clinking cold beer bottles in an unconventional celebration, we walked around 86. We were in no hurry. We stopped at nearly every belt to tell a story. Who’s belt was that? Did anyone ever wear that thing? Was that for his birthday? I hated that belt! Was that from a Halloween costume? Or prom? I can’t believe he saved these. How old were you? Why did everything have to be personalized? These are so old!

We bent over holding our stomachs in hysterics. We hugged each other when the hot tears came. We were reverent and irreverent at the same time. We lingered and immersed ourselves in our childhood. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt so profoundly connected to my sister and brothers.

Bizarre moments get seared into our minds, especially the rich collective experience of a family. The four of us siblings were fastening belts together around 86, where, just days before, our father had breathed his last breath. This family home, where my dad taught me the art of making bone broth while he was alive, was now literally wrapped up, warmly and sweetly, by memories.

Slow.

Stay.

Sip.

Savor.

Little did I know. He was teaching me a lesson in raw humanity…from the discarded, the broken, the unwanted and the stained, can flow never-ending nourishment, comfort and a father’s deep love.