The art of eating peanuts and my uncle Paul

Everyone is born with a gift or a talent of some sort or, given time, may actually acquire one. Over the years I have perfected the art of eating peanuts. This is an art; at least the way that I do it. It is also a rather satisfying accomplishment since I love peanuts. I love to eat nuts of any sort but especially peanuts. And, yes I do know that peanuts are not technically nuts they are legumes, but who cares. The technique should be the same, except for Brazil nuts which I will come to eventually. There are rules and an etiquette of public drinking and peanut eating that should be heeded for the enhanced experience. To eat peanuts correctly, a beer is required. This must be cold and light and of the sparkling kind, Corona or Peroni comes to mind. Though real ales have their own virtues, they are not appropriate for artistic peanut eating. The beer must be consumed out of the bottle. No glass is required and to use one is looked down upon by real peanut eaters. To use a glass seems to cheapen the whole process. Further, each expert peanut eater will choose a different grip of the bottle. He or she (though this is more of a male pursuit) can choose to drink the chosen beer by holding on to the lower part of the bottle with a basic, beer drinking, four fingered grip with the thumb just about opposite the joints of the fingers. A real peanut expert will never grip the whole of the bottle completely as this will make the beer warm. Or, one can chose to use the ‘between the first two fingers of the hand, towards the top of the neck of the bottle’ approach as well. This one certainly appears to those watching to be more cool and requires that the drinker be wearing old jeans and a t-shirt which probably also imposes a certain age and paunch limit. Otherwise, sitting with someone dressed this way who just should not try the look due to a protruding lower abdomen, is just plain unpleasant. But those who can pull off this technique and look, do. But, remember, the latter, hipper grip is certainly more appropeau on sunny days when the imbiber is outside and sitting in some sort of out of doors chair. Now on to the important part, the peanuts.
The drinker/peanut eater should take a small hand full of peanuts, preferably 8 to 12 - preferably roasted - preferably Planters from the can (careful not to scrape your fingers on the rim of the can). The hand should then be closed in a way that creates a pocket surrounding the peanuts. The thumb is positioned on the index finger in a way that creates a small opening. This opening should be about the same size as one used to blow into the hand to create a whistling noise that some people do when bird watching or when evading capture in war movies. Once this is done and the peanuts are secure, the subject should nonchalantly, shake the hand back and forth in a way that causes the peanut cargo to move around the enclosure. Then, in a deliberate manner and with some force (not enough to cause the hand to hit the eater’s face) the hand is thrust towards the head, stopping after about 7 inches and ending up at about 5 to 6 inches from the face aimed directly at the mouth. The mouth should by then be opened to a sufficient size as to allow one peanut to pass through (too large an opening simply makes the eater look like a putz) and, if the move has been calculated correctly, one peanut should swiftly pass out of the hand enclosure and into the eater’s mouth. Delight and surprise awaits the one who causes the peanut to actually end up in the mouth. This may take a couple of tries but when success happens the feeling is one of euphoria and sheer delight. The sense of accomplishment rivals any that the subject will have experienced up to that moment in their lives, perhaps save one – even the most ardent peanut eating expert knows the limits of satisfaction of his (or her) trade.
Over the years I have become very good at this. It works for me with peanuts, cashews, almonds, hazelnuts and other things (like pine nuts or seeds) that are of a uniform and smaller size. Seeds often come out of the hand in twos or threes, but the technique is the same. To take up the subject mentioned above, it really does not work with Brazil nuts because they are too large, nor with walnuts because of their texture. Sometimes smaller walnut pieces can work for those of us who are professionals but I would not advise amateurs to try this without supervision. However, as with anything, constant practice will help increase your accuracy and hone your skills.
My first experience that set me on the road to becoming a professional at peanut eating came through observing my Uncle Paul. He was the master. I knew early on, I too would give anything to learn and maybe one day be a grand master at peanut chucking like him. Paul was just the sort of man you would imagine to be good at peanut skills. One reason was probably because he was an avid beer drinker and he must have acquired and perfected the art as something to accompany his drink. Like myself, he loved peanuts, but his personality meant that other than an occasional foray into smoked almonds, he never managed to graduate to more exotic nuts. He was a simple man who loved simple pleasures and peanuts were fine for him.
Paul was married to my mother’s sister Eula. They lived in a small bungalow built in the late 1950’s. It was a poorer section of a middle-middle class neighbourhood where houses just one street beyond were larger and more expensive. Paul’s area of the subdivision in this fast growing Lebanon, Ohio neighbourhood had two streets, one winding and one straight and there were about 35 houses in his part. All were just alike and all were small. The houses themselves were no more than 500 square feet with a tiny front garden and a larger garden in the back. They were all squarish boxes, living examples of ‘ticky tacky’ houses that Pete Seeger satarised in song. Yet despite the potentially soul destroying uniformity, Paul managed to transform his into a unique expression of who he was. It became his own Shangri-La where he could sit outside, drink beer and hone his peanut eating skills.
Paul and Eula, along with my their two daughters Paige and Shelly, lived in the last one on the straight street just before the houses increased in size and variety and price, and the neighbourhood became seriously middle class. Paul’s was on the edge, and because it backed on to a farm field, the property boasted a good back garden. Paul loved this garden and used it grow vegetables near the back fence so that he and all Eula’s family always had plenty of green beans, tomatoes and other vegetables that he would give us. He also planted trees and I believe at least two of them were apple trees and perhaps a pear as well. One was definitely a maple tree. Some were there for the fruit but the maple was there for its shade. Paul cultivated both with equal and exacting care, and as a result the apple tree regularly produced a bumper crop of delicious apples and the maple tree grew large over time, providing welcomed shade in the summer. He lovingly cared for them all assuring they grew tall and straight and were always properly pruned. Once it was tall enough, Paul sat out under his maple tree in the summertime or whenever the weather permitted, ate peanuts in his stylish way and drank Wiedemann or Burger beer, mostly Burger. Both brews were brewed in Cincinnati, Ohio. He needed these for energy to care for his garden properly, or so I always assumed.
The general perception among some members of the family was that Paul drank too much beer. It was true that when we visited them he generally had an opened beer to hand. Yet for me, his garden seemed too tidy and cared for to conclude that he had too much to drink. He never seemed to me to be any worse for the wear. My uncle Ford, Eula’s brother, had a similar idea. He always said that Paul did not really drink too much beer and his theory was that each time you saw Paul he would ‘nurse’ - Ford’s term - each bottle to the point that it would take him forever to drink it. Most Americans don’t like warm beer but he must have not minded. A 12 ounce Weidemann, for example, could take him 45 minutes or more to consume. Thus, he would never go through more than a couple in the same time that someone else might consume 4 or 5. I was aware from listening to family gossip that Paul would occasionally visit the local war veteran’s club called the VFW and emerge drunk. Perhaps he drank faster and thus consumed more when there. But at his house, I never saw him drunk and he was never a nuisance or embarrassing the way drunks such as some of my other uncles could be. He was always interested in me and my life at the moment. His questions were about what I might have been interested in and he listened and responded. Drunk people don’t usually do that.
On one evening’s visit, Paul, who was fairly adept at woodworking, managed to help me ‘fix’ my disaster of a sewing bird that I was supposed to be making as project for woodshop class. I could sense that he truly thought it was hideous and maybe the worst example of wood work that he had ever seen but his comments were kind and the way he said things made me think I was in there with a chance. Paul patiently and with out laughing helped me salvage what remained of this tragedy; and he managed this miracle while nursing a Burger and eating a can of Planters which he duly shared with me; the peanuts, not the beer.
Like many men of his age, he had served in WWII and was proud of it. However, other than the times he would go to the VFW or wear his old uniform in parades and march and proudly carry the flag, he never really spoke of anything he did in the war. The only thing he would say was, that he was in a platoon that followed along after battles and picked up wounded and dead soldiers. I always thought that this might have meant he never really saw action and perhaps got off light. Only years later did I realise that he probably never really got over the effect of seeing his friends sprawled dead on a battlefield, having not fought along side them, having to collect their lifeless bodies to bury them without ever being able to help them or be there with them when they died. Maybe it was this experience that made him the quiet person that he was. Perhaps that is why he drank.
Paul loved the Cincinnati Reds baseball team, or Redlegs as he called them. Often when I visited his house in the summer, he would be sitting in front of the television watching the game while drinking a beer and eating peanuts. But, once I was given two very nice tickets for a Sunday afternoon game. I had my pick of friends or relatives that I could take, but I knew that I wanted to take Paul. He never really could afford the expense of going to a game and was a bit shy of travel on the motorways, so this was the perfect opportunity. I was sixteen and had my driver’s license. I was not afraid of the motorways and knew Cincinnati pretty well. So, I took him to the game. He was from Cincinnati and knew it as well, so there was little chance of us getting lost. It was just the two of us and, in Paul’s own low key and somewhat retiring manner, he showed that he was delighted. I let him know that if he wanted to have a beer when we were there, that he could feel free. Paul listened and just smiled without giving an answer and, for some unknown reason, he declined the invitation. I never knew why, but he didn’t want to drink a beer in the ballpark in front of me. He wouldn’t have needed to worry. He was not a father figure to me, Ford fulfilled that role. Paul was just a good uncle. It was also not because I hadn’t seen him drink at home, I had. So, I’ll never know why, but he was content on that occasion to drink soft drinks. Yet, even beerless, he and I had a very nice time and he actually talked some.
Paul worked as some sort of non-skilled labourer at the General Electric plant in Cincinnati. I’m not sure what he did there but he stayed at it until he was in his 50’s, when he began to have heart problems. It was always apparent that given the choice of going off to work or staying home, Paul would chose the latter every time. Three of his brother’s in law held very high positions at G.E. and I often wondered whether this made him uncomfortable, especially at family gatherings when they all would talk shoppe. My aunt Eva’s husband was the plant director and a genuine big shot. My uncle Cossie was the director of transport and logistics and on his way to a vice presidency. My uncle Ford was a non-destructive testing specialist who had clawed his way to the top of a very technical field and was known internationally for his skill, despite leaving school at age 15. Each one earned much more than Paul, all were higher up in the company. When these three did ‘talk shop’, Paul never joined in. I used to pretend to be busy with something else when the family was together and these conversations started, but I was really observing them and watching Paul, wondering and worrying about how he felt. It always seemed painful for him and it was apparent that he did not want to talk of his experiences since he either viewed them as not worthy of mention when compared to the others or disliked his job too much. I suspect the latter was more true.
Eventually my uncle Paul’s heart problems became severe enough that he was able to secure an early retirement. With many men, this might have meant boredom and a wish to go back to work. This was not the case for Paul. I remember that it seemed to give him a new lease on life. He relished every moment at home. His garden thrived, he added a porch on the back of his house, repainted and fixed up an old playhouse that he had bought at the county fair for his daughter Shelly. She was now grown and rather than get rid of it, Paul turned it into a shed for his tools. He cultivated his trees and enjoyed a simple, predictable life in his retirement. My aunt Eula also enjoyed a bit more freedom, but decided to supplement her income by getting paid through the Ohio Worker’s Compensation office to help care for my mother who by this time was an invalid. Paul was happy to be at home all day and occasionally take a trip to the VFW.
Money was never an issue for either Paul or Eula, though they never had buckets of the stuff. He never thought of leaving this tiny house of his and upgrading. All my other GE working uncles had upgraded several times. But Paul had nearly paid for his house by the time he retired, and at only $35 per month in a payment, he wanted or needed nothing grander. His cars, likewise, were not grand, were always well used but paid for and he had no desire for anything brand new. Paul and Eula had no bills other than utilities and the like and his taxes were minimal. He needed little more than basic necessities, food, clothing, plants for the garden, beer and peanuts. Holidays were never really something he cared much for.
Once before he retired, he did take my mother and I, along with his family to Washington, D.C.. The year before, my mother had borrowed the money for us to go on a holiday, a trip that she had always dreamed of. It was to the nation’s capital Washington, D.C. and while there she learned well how to get around the city. So, we went by invitation the next year with Paul and Eula and family and were there to help them to get around. It was a great trip except for the one time Paul got lost looking for the wax museum. In those days there were areas that we probably shouldn’t have gone into and Paul had steered us right to the middle of one, to a part of D.C. where black people predominately lived. There were no other white people around us when we stopped and Paul got out of the car to ask directions, without success. We were rather conspicuous and our presence was duly noted by the locals and Paul duly noted our being noticed. Things seemed a bit precarious for a moment, but presently there arrived a police car which escorted us to our destination and gave Paul a good set of directions to our intended destination and back to our hotel. That night, relieved that all gone well in the end, he quietly slipped out of the room and downstairs to the hotel bar, where he allowed himself to pay an outrageous price for a beer and sat on the stool, enjoying the evening, drinking and eating peanuts - they were free.
The time came when Paul’s heart condition worsened and finally got the best of him. This caused some of my aunts and uncles embarrassment since, in their gossip, they had mostly assumed that Paul’s quiet and contented demeanor was really a disguise for laziness and a lack of ambition. I knew they were mistaken, profoundly mistaken. Paul didn’t need ambition. He had everything he needed or wanted and this is what they never understood. Paul never wished that his life was anything other than what it was. He saw life, good and bad, and had what he wanted of it. He chose to enjoy happiness and contentment. My other aunts and uncles owned much more than Paul, but none of them, really knew contentment the way he did. My uncle Ford came closest, but never had children and regretted that I’m sure.
Paul eventually died much in same way as he lived. He was sitting in his back garden, dressed in khaki’s, work boots, blue button-down oxford shirt with the collar buttons loose, a gray non-descript sweat shirt, all topped off with a Cincinnati Reds baseball cap. He was sitting there in one of the decades old, metal garden chairs he had and cared for. They were the kind where the back looks like a scallop shell and the base is made to flex to allow you to rock. Paul bought them brand new and had cared for and painted these chairs time and time again over the years, and thought them better than anything now new. And, while sitting there on a warm summer’s evening, without fuss or commotion of any sort, he just passed away with a heart attack sitting in that chair where I’m sure he had been rocking just before breathing his last breath. No one knew he was dead for some time. He just sat quietly, as he often did, situated right under the maple tree. That evening it was full of leaves that provided an ample canopy of shade. Even Eula thought nothing strange of this until nearly supper time. She was alerted when Paul failed to move when she called to him to come in to eat.
I am sure that Paul died contented. No one really knew what happened before hand since he had been dead a while before he was discovered. But, as the one to whom he passed on his peanut eating skills and even helped me graduate to nuts grander than just Planters, I think I have some idea. I imagine him before he died surveying that back garden that was his kingdom. He probably felt a fleeting but certain sense of contentment. He then began drinking one last beer and effortlessly executing one more perfectly controlled bite of peanuts in his masterful style. And I’m sure as Paul was looking out on his garden, under the shade of that enormous maple tree, he was happy with what he took in.