You want my mom’s kielbasa recipe? Sorry! No way!

PLYMOUTH — Is that garlic I smell?

Well, not yet, but by the end of this week, you will be sure to get a good whiff of the world’s greatest herb that enhances everything one desires to eat.

And garlic is, perhaps, the key ingredient in every kielbasa recipe ever tried.

The key is finding out just how much to use.

And there lies the rub.

A few years ago, someone from Virginia sent me an email asking for my mother’s kielbasa recipe.

My reaction was — Are you kidding?

Every year, a huge crowd in the thousands arrives in Plymouth, walking up and down Main Street, stuffing their faces with kielbasa sandwiches, kielbasa on a stick and kielbasa treats — fresh and smoked.

Hence, the intoxicating aroma of garlic.

This was my response to the kielbasa recipe-seeking Virginia guy:

“Dear sir:

“As you must know, kielbasa recipes are guarded like corporate trade secrets — unless you are a direct blood relative, you have zero chance of knowing anything about how a family’s kielbasa is made. Good luck with your search for the best recipe.

“As far as the use of mustard seeds in the mix, hardly any of the Kielbasa Contest entrants use mustard seeds anymore — and the quality suffers. I have a friend — again, I cannot reveal his/her name — who still uses mustard seeds in the recipe. It is by far the best kielbasa around these parts — however, the family rarely makes it anymore, but when they do, I always get several rings of both fresh and smoked.

“I suggest you attend the annual Plymouth Kielbasa Festival to do some comprehensive research and taste-testing. You may not get your answers, but you will have fun and certainly find some decent kielbasa.”

End of response.

The 22nd annual Plymouth Alive Kielbasa Festival will be held Friday and Saturday, Aug. 7-8, providing two days of fun, music, and great food. Main Street will be packed with vendors and patrons as my hometown celebrates that wonderful Polish sausage and much more.

Plymouth is where I grew up and learned about life.

Where I learned about success and failure — about love and heartbreak. About the difference between right and wrong. About trust and doubt. About how it takes a village to raise a child.

Yet we have learned to live. We have learned to succeed. We have learned to disappoint and be disappointed.

But for two days in August, I can return to the homeland — to the place I call the center of the universe — and look at buildings, faces, and spaces and remember where I came from and who guided me from there to here, back to there again.

That’s why I love the Kielbasa Festival.

Don’t get me wrong, the kielbasa at the 22nd annual Plymouth Kielbasa Festival will be great. Especially with horseradish.

But for me, it’s being there, in my hometown, and looking around and remembering the way it used to be.

So when I walk up and down Main Street, I travel back in time — seeing the still-remaining buildings as they were when I was a kid.

For instance:

I see Joe’s Pizza — the birthplace of the Grotto Pizza empire. I remember walking in, and the floor was slanted downward, and then it inclined to the counter. A pizza and a Coke cost a buck.

I see Mitchell Plessett’s Men’s Store, where Mr. Plessett displayed shirts and pants on tables in perfectly aligned rows, separated by color and size. And Mr. Plessett was always helpful with a smile.

I see Oscar Hacker’s Market, the fresh produce, and perfectly stocked shelves. We also had an A&P Market on Center Avenue, where, at the end of each checkout lane, was a Five O’Clock Coffee grinder that neatly packed the ground coffee into a bag and sealed it.

I see Cas Matus’ newsstand and pool hall, where we played pool and pinball, grabbed a soda and looked at magazines like Sports Illustrated and Sport and comic books.

I see Al Wasley’s Jewelry Store, an elegant store that always placed fine jewelry and specialty items in beautiful packages and wrapped them with a bow.

I see Shawnee TV, where we purchased our first color TV — an RCA that replaced our 19-inch Admiral black-and-white. We kept the rabbit ears, and I was the remote control that switched between the four channels we had back then.

I see Golden Quality Ice Cream, where we would get a CMP, a banana split, a cone, or a milkshake.

I see Rea & Derick Drug Store, where we sat at the counter or a booth and ordered a cherry or vanilla Coke, and maybe ordered a burger and fries.

I see Ben Franklin 5 & 10, where Mr. & Mrs. B. stocked just about everything. We would walk up and down every aisle until we were told to purchase something or leave.

I see Dwyer’s Lunch, where they had two bowling lanes and pin-boys. Later in life, we would stop for “sober-up soup” — it was delicious. A few doors away was Red’s Subs.

I see Bill Goldstein’s Hardware, which remains open under new ownership. They still have everything you would need to fix anything in your home.

I see the Shawnee Theater, where we watched Saturday matinees and took our first dates, and sometimes tried to sneak up to the balcony.

I see Plymouth Little League, with its hand-painted wooden fence featuring town businesses. Past left field was Bill Sera’s candy story — delicious.

I see Huber Field and its amazing wall. This is where many football games were won and where the band, majorettes, and cheerleaders gave it their all to support the team before an always-capacity crowd.

I see Plymouth High School & Junior High School, two red-brick fortresses connected by a second-story bridge. I see our teachers, wearing suits and ties and dresses, and I see that glorious campus of winding sidewalks and shade trees.

I see —and hear — Coach John “Snoggy” Mergo, the legendary coach of football, basketball, and baseball, who won numerous games and championships. “Next gang!” he would shout. And he taught us health, unless it was a nice, sunny day and we snuck out to the field to play softball. “Boylee, check and see if the Big Boss is coming down the hall.”

This was a hometown with good people, neighborhood schools, plenty of churches, school spirit, red and black school colors, “Shawnee Against the World,” cool cars with engines revving, parking meters to lean on, Friday night football, Saturday night fun, quiet Sundays, neighborhoods with unlocked doors and friendly faces.

All in a town where everybody knew your name.

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