THE UBIQUITOUS SECRET
By
Charles Sarlanis
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011 Charles Sarlanis
Smashwords Edition – License Notes.
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To
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THE UBIQUITOUS SECRET
US Patent Number: US1000000TP. Big secret, you say. Every man, woman, dog and cat in America knows that patent number if they know any patent number at all. It is historical common knowledge having been in the court news for what seems like a lifetime ─ or at least from the time it was issued. What of any possible interest to anyone could I add at this late date? Plenty, Jocko, plenty; and then some.
Most people think pharmaceutical companies and banks are the most crooked, immoral and avaricious scavengers on earth. Well, they’re close, but they don’t hold the top spot although they give it their best shot. Who, or what, is Number One? Dear innocents, it is the baking conglomerates, the sugar and flour Mafia. I am not entirely foolhardy so I take the legal precaution of stating without ambiguity that the names Sarah Lee and Betty Crocker will nowhere appear in this expose.
Back in those dim ages of baking, cake success was a hit-and-miss proposition; pretty much like what Greek cake recipes are today. There is no current record of the number of ruined birthday and wedding events spoiled because of defective cakes; huge disappointment for the bride but no surprise to the bakers. It was a problem, and the bakers’ best minds were working on it, but progress was slow what with all that flour in their ears. Secretly they knew that no solution was possible; the baking process was simply too exotic; it required the hands of a sculptor, the eyes of a painter and the heart of a poet.
And yet, there was an answer out there – way beyond their technical reach obviously – but out there nevertheless. You do them no service by laughing at their apparent failure over a problem you have never had to face unarmed. Ever tried to bake a cake from scratch? Build a moon rocket? Swim the Hellespont? Take your pick; they are about equal in level of difficulty. The repeated failures broke many a cook’s spirit, forcing him to give up cake baking and go into pie panning.
Who cares, you mock? I do, hence this revealing report. Today you benefit, undeservedly, from their sacrifice. Only the most inept or poor cannot buy an imperfect cake anywhere in the US, if consumed before the recommended expiration date. So, how did it happen? Where from the secret? It’s a fairly long story, longer than it is interesting, but still worth knowing. If you care to learn the ugly facts of life; those covered by the frosting of bakery deceit, then follow on.
It started in Cleveland, Ohio, home to a Greek immigrant, railroad roustabout; and, one-day-to-become pot-melted USA citizen. He, along with a varying number of co-workers, lived in a train’s track repair appendage – the caboose. It had all the amenities of a log cabin but none of the latter’s comforts. Spiro was his name, and of course, Spike his railroad nickname. America drew Spiro to her bosom with her promise of unlimited opportunity and riches within easy reach of the industrious and the talented. Ah, but there the hitch. What Spiro had on offer: big smile, good pleasant company and hearty appetite were not then currently in great demand unless bolstered by education.
Spiro was adept at many things but intense daily labor was not one of them. The streets were not paved with gold as he had been told. He found this laborers’ job but also found it hard, dirty and unrewarding both in cash and pride. Quickly he slid into depression and refused to leave the caboose with the work parties. While the others were out humping ties, pounding spikes and rearranging road beds, he stayed put cooking meals and playing poker. As in so many other things, he was not so hot in those departments either, but being Greek, he knew how to survive using his head and not his hands.
To pass the lonely hours of work time he practiced making the cakes he had watched mama cry over in her kitchen back there in Kalamata. He also had his brother send him Greek books on poker and card tricks. The refusal to work while still pulling down a paycheck is something Greeks accept as a natural right. It therefore came to Spiro as a cultural shock to receive a pink slip along with a caboose eviction notice. Faced with this problem he did the only thing he could do – he continued doing what he had been doing.
What saved Spiro, and the cake making discovery, was God’s-sent unions. The union steward threatened the RR with a strike if any attempt were made to discharge one of its members without adequately documented cause. He had done “absolutely nothing” he countered. Faced with such overpowering union logic, the RR execs went speechless; and with a “Holy Debs,” gave up the fight. Spiro accepted the ruling in good grace and held no grudges against the impolite actions of his employers.
Long study and practice brought results for Spiro. His cakes got better and his poker hands stronger. His cakes became very popular with the caboose crews and station staff. At first he never baked more than two cakes a day, but demand forced him into large-scale production; finally reaching twenty on pre-holidays. Spiro early gave up his dream, and did not try to rip off his coworkers; very unGreek, I agree. His only requirement was that the eaters provide the cake ingredients, stove charcoal and leave a tip.
The march of time put finish to this Greek son’s American dream. The caboose along with the passenger train went into the railroad museum and into retirement pasture by reason of obsolescence or ineconomy of operation. The RR execs gave a sigh of relief at finally being able to shuck both passengers and this leech ─ this immigrant free-loading tick. Sarcastically, which is never the right approach, they wrote Spiro asking if he would like to buy the caboose. I will, replied Spiro, if the price is right, and you throw in a piece of siding where I can park it. Laughing they sent him a bill of sale for both totaling out at $50,000; unsmiling they received a certified check by hand delivery the next day concluding the purchase.
Education is a good thing, as is experience; and it proved true of Spiro’s poker and card massaging studies as well. Over the years of practice and playing he had learned to ply the cards, losing only small amounts, whenever he felt it was in his best interests to lose – otherwise, he won. Ungreedily, very unGreekily, he kept his winnings small but steady; and so wound up with a bundle. Living frugally off his tips, the pots and his salary going untouched and directly into savings left him with a notice-of-termination-of-employment and almost $80,000.
Financially secure but socially frightened to death, he feared having to step off the caboose and actually enter Cleveland. His only previous sorties had been at noon to the nearby grocery store and bank branch; both less than fifty yards from the caboose siding. Even so it made him nervous out there under the open sky, unwalled and with strangers all around.
Out of sight, but not out of mind, his old buddies returned for cakes and a hand of poker. Spiro continued to operate under the old rules – life returned to normal with the only change being a retirement check rather than a salary envelope. The cake baking resumed under the BYOI, bring your own ingredients, rule. For Spike the transition was smooth and painless; he baked cakes, played poker, and received RR money owed him for life. It was what you could call a realistic Greek’s coming to terms with the American dream.
One person in the A&P took note of the traffic entering and leaving the caboose. This was the floor sweeper who dumped her trash in the bins close to the parked caboose. She wondered at the goings on in there and her mouth watered from the aromas drifting out of its smoke stack. Being uncommonly sly and devious, female in other words, she dressed in RR worker’s overalls and paid a visit.
She lied to Spiro claiming she was a gandy dancer, fired by an uncaring RR. This was something Spiro could understand. She asked if she could hang around for a meal or two while she looked for work. Greek-hearted Spiro could not refuse. In no time at all she was skinning the visitors of their cash at the poker table and was given the boot. She dusted herself off and smiled good bye.
Little Sarie, let’s call her, was sharp at cards and equally sharp of eye and disposition. She watched Spiro’s every move and caught out the secret right under Spike’s nose you could say, and you would be 100% accurate both figuratively and anatomically. She hit the patent office where a clerk named Betty filled out her patent for her. Sarie had one weakness; she could neither read nor write and her signature was a wavy ‘X’.
Sarie Xed a sheaf of printed pages; Bet signed just the one – that with the patent registering the toothpick cake tester. The magic answer to a cake’s done test. Spike never knew. The ubiquitous splinter, ever in his mouth, he absent-mindedly, if unsanitarily, stuck in his cakes to park before removal from the hot oven. Accidentally, he found or learned that a clean toothpick meant well-baked inside. He had solved the mystery but lacked the imagination to push it to profit.
Sarie did not share that shortcoming although her other weakness did her in. So, although she done Spiro; Bet did her one better. Sad ending for Spike. He deserved riches and fame; a true realization of the American dream. For Sarie it was not so bad. Discouraged she returned to Fargo, North Dakota, finding work as a driver for Leo’s unfrozen pies; which, given the Dakota’s climate, was actually quite clever. Lousy work once more for Sarie but it gave her the idea, and surrounded by all that all-season, free refrigeration, she made it big in the frozen pie racket. Bet went directly from clerking to bake sales and is now loaded.
Everyone who eats sweets knows both Sari and Bet. Ask around if anyone outside of Cleveland ever heard of Spiro, aka Spike. Sweet Street Crime pays, Twinkie – don’t forget it for a minute.
End
Copyright 2011 Charles Sarlanis
charles_sarlanis@yahoo.com