Monday, January 12, 2015

Mostocolli Life

I know a lot of dead people.  And by that I mean that I have buried a lot of dead people.  As a matter-of-fact, all of the people I have buried have been dead.  You may assume I take the doctor's word for their passing.  Or the coroner's word.  Uh uh.  Nope.  I have my own test I perform.  I do it when I am in the room all alone with the dearly departed.  I would tell you what the test is but then you would have nothing to look forward to if you should need my services someday.  A poll of those I have buried would show that I provide them with their last surprise before the lid is closed and the dirt is thrown.  So I'll just keep my secret.  For now.

After I present my surprise to the dead person, following the "rememberance celebration" (aka: funeral) and immediately in the wake of the dust being returned to the dust, most dead guys families return to their local church where they tell stories, wash their hands, (always wash your hands after leaving a funeral home.  Do not ask me why.  I studied this stuff.  Just wash your hands and be very glad you read this little article,) and then they sit down and eat mostocolli.  Always mosticolli.  Occasionally chicken is also offered but, think about it, every funeral you have ever attended had mostocolli served at the closing bell.  Right?  See what I mean?

I have spent considerable time delving into the question of the mostocolli.  I have talked to ministers of every denomination, funeral directors, church cooks, as well as the people who do the consuming of the "pasta of death."  All have their thoughts and opinions ... none really know why.  And why at every meal.  Every.  Single.  One.  Honestly, most seemed surprised when it dawned on them that they could not think of a single exception to the rule.  I remember after my grandmother's passing, just being a lad of 12 years, I asked my father if I had to eat the mostocolli.  Grandma's funeral was held in a particularly disgusting funeral home in a particularly disgusting town on a particularly disgusting day.  It was the kind of day grandma's are supposed to be buried on.  Thunder. Lightening. Hail. As if that were not enough all of her children were fighting the fight over who-gets-what.  (A time honored tradition in our brood.)  I did not want any stuff.  I just wanted a pass on the mostocolli.  My dad looked down at me from his superior position in the chair next to mine, his hand came up behind me and cuffed me a good one upside the back of the head as he said, "What?  Didn't you love your grandmother?  Shut up and eat your mostocolli."

We live.  We die.  We eat mostocolli.

Today I was at the gym and I was sweating.  I do not like sweating.  But my doctor tells me that for every minute I sweat I will add a minute to the end of my life.  She is the same doctor that told me that bacon will give you worms.  My doctor is a liar.  I think.  But I'm not sure.  And so I sweat.  I glanced  up at one of the televisions in the gym meant to distract you from the pain. Some kind of daytime drama was on.  Clearly they had all come from a funeral because they were in a large hall eating ... mostocolli.  And then the program ended with one of those montage's where they show you all of these pictures of the dead guys life that are intended to make you weepy.  Except that I did not know the corpse.  I guess it was because I was not emotionally involved that I noticed that this guy ... this unlucky dead guy ... had lived the mother-of-all mostocolli lives.  I mean, if those were the high-lights ... I pity those who had to hang around him on the normal days.  He was, putting it mildly, boring. Bland. Dull. A Ho-hum-human.

And that is when the light came on.  They were eating mostocolli because it was indicative of the type of life they were remembering.  The guy had lived a mostocolli life.


I began running a quick check on the lives of some I had buried.  Not all of them. Certainly not YOUR loved one. But the ones who came to mind?  They had all lived mostocolli lives. Every one of them. Oh man. The implications are enormous. You have to work out your own but here is what it comes down to for me.

My funeral meal? Prime Rib.  I want to live my life now in such a way that the cooks will have to dig out new recipes. I want my kids to have call a family meeting before they put me down because they see the need to hire a chef. I want them to have to put together a guest list because they can't afford to feed everybody who wants to come. And I don't want them to come just for the gourmet meal. Oh, no. No, no, no.  I want them to come because they had a blast watching a life lived out that called for this kind of feast. I haven't come close to attaining that. Not yet. I'm hoping I'm maybe about to rise out of mostocolli into Salsbury Steak. I'm not sure which one tastes less. That means there's a very long way to go. To quote my friend, Nathan, I have a massive frown-ey face over that. But like that guy Paul said one time ... "Not that I have already obtained all this, or have already arrived at my goal, but I press on to take hold of that for which Christ Jesus took hold of me. (Philippians 3:12 NIV) I'm traveling. From mostocolli to holey-moley.

Give me prime rib and/or give me death!