Booyah! Solid As Barack!

With Sarah Palin sharing a podium with Amy Poehler, and my dad’s Cadillac sprouting  yellow-dog dem bumper stickers, politics are on my mind. I’m lazy about politics and leave it to my family to follow closely. They will and they do. Baaaa, I follow along. Don’t tell anybody. This year I’m a bit gripped by the suspense. Solid As Barack? Could it be true?

When I was a kid, a real little kid, free all day every day, we lived in Appleton, Wisconsin, about 100 miles north of Madison, the capital. Twice a week my mother drove down there in her red VW bug, to “headquarters”, a storefront office, smelling of typewriter ribbon and filled with bustling, rumpled Democrats. Since I was free and all, and loved to type, I got to go along. Once a man gave me a rabbit. Mostly I typed and pulled stuck keys apart.

My mother was vice-chair of the party. Don’t know when exactly, or for how long, but I do know she was a delegate in ’64 cause the family went to the convention in Atlantic City. As an important person she needed to be at headquarters. And we needed to go out (out!) to lunch. At home we ate lunch at home. Strictly.

Across the street from headquarters was a restaurant with a name I would love to use on an establishment of my own (and pretend I made it up). The Soupçon. Spelled like that. Course it could be Soup’s On in plain old American English. What they had, well, what they had was so perfect. A plain cafeteria line with very few choices. Like, you know, from the olden days. Sandwiches. Sold by the half. By the half! And then soup. That’s all. Half a sandwich and soup. Ideal for a child. Or a former child.

Daily specials, all made up, not wrapped, half sandwiches, triangular. Broth and cream soups. Nice solid, old-fashioned fair. The scent fell centrally on the continuum between home kitchen and canned goods. The exotic world of dining out. Two politicos, taller and not so tall.

Driving home after dark my mother snapped gum to stay awake. I stood on the floor behind the driver’s seat, rubbing her shoulders, inhaling the plastic VW smell.

Just heard from Dry-Witted Correspondent John in Green Bay (a Madisonian by birth). Our mothers knew each other through politics way back when.

I’ve got talk soup on the brain. He’s got soup on the brain. Sorta soup – Booyah, a Green Bay thing.

I just bought $15.00 worth of Booyah (1/2 gallon) at the high school. It is a fund raiser for the dance team. Booyah is a Green Bay original. It is a chicken vegetable soup or stew cooked in big caudrons outside over a wood or gas fire. It has been around forever and is probably Belgian in origin but I am not certain. There are different secret recipes all over town so sometimes the organization selling it will call theirs “Herman’s Booyah” or “Larry’s Recipe Booyah”.This booyah was generic but very good. Even Karin ate it and raved about it. I like it when the soup does not have skin, bones or feathers in it.

Rubbing my temples over Booyah last night, trying to get a mental handle on my recollections, and sent this response:

I think soup without skin, bones or feathers is a good thing too, although I am willing to suffer through small bits of skin if the soup is cooked over live fire. Booyah must come from bouillir, like in bouillabaise, from “to boil”, doncha think? Belgian or French or French Canadian I would venture.

Although I may sit corrected. Yannick Bauthière of Gembloux, Belgium, has this to say about it:

In history, Walloons spoke Walloon. Only the most educated people (counts, dukes, scholars, monks, etc.) spoke French as a second language. Our people started to learn French when Belgium was created, in 1830. And even then, Walloon remained our main language until World War II. My grand father spoke Walloon much better than French. So, most settlers coming from Wallonia hardly spoke much French. That’s why, in my humble opinion, “booyah” doesn’t come from French “bouillon” or “bouillir” but from Walloon “bouyon” or “bouyu”. But that’s just my opinion !!!!

As the days get shorter and cooler, moving towards the solstice in December, the election will pass, the talk soup will wane, and the steam rising over our bowls will wax. I do like a soup and sandwich supper, with the shades up and the kitchen windows damp against the black night.