GOOD NEWS: IMPROVED TOMATOES HAVE THEIR PLACE

 Deseret News, September 7, 1994

They call it genetic engineering. I called it genetic tampering the first time I bit into one of those so-called scientifically improved tomatoes—the kind long on shelf life and short on taste.

Like Adam of biblical fame, my husband deferred to me when it came to taking the first bite.

“Well, what’s the verdict?” he asked, while I was still chewing.   Actually, ruminating would have been a better word for the act of masticating a vegetable (or is it a fruit?) with a texture somewhere between an inner tube and a rubber ball.

“I say we’ve got a definite case of counterfeiting here, and whoever‘s behind it should be sentenced to Life.”

“Life in prison?”

“Life in Joe Albertson’s Supermarket playing tennis with a genetically engineered tomato.”

“I take it you’re not impressed.”

“Depressed would be a better word for the way I’m feeling at the moment.  If they can do this to a tomato, what chance do bananas have?  Next thing you know, we’ll need a chain saw to slice fruit for our Kellogg’s Corn Flakes.

“And what about pears?  If scientists keep on this way, they’ll soon be hollowing out genetically improved Bartletts to make children’s shoes—narrow heel, plenty of room in the toe box…available in bushels for families with a lot of kids.”

“Come on!” my spouse interrupted.  “I’ll bet those newfangled fruits (or are they veggies?) aren’t all that bad!”

“Oh yeah?”  I lost all patience.  “I think it’s time you put your mouth where your money is.”

“Okay!” he agreed.  “Just throw one of those babies over here and I will.”

Unfortunately, he missed the toss.

 

HOW TO PREPARE, EAT A MURDERED FOWL

Preparing fresh poultry with a 5-year-old kid in the kitchen is almost enough to make you become a vegetarian.

"What's that," my wide-eyed son asks just as I begin to disjoint a whole-bodied fryer."

"A chicken."

"A chicken, like the Little Red Hen?"

"Well, not exactly.  This chicken didn't know how to bake bread, so it couldn't possibly be the Little Red Hen."

"Then, why is it bleeding?"

"Because it's dead."

"Did you murder it?"

"No, the butcher killed it." 

"Killed it like on television shows?  Did he blow its brains out with a big black gun?"

"I don't think so."

"How about a hand grenade?"

"Not hardly."

"Then how?  How did he murder it?"

"He probably chopped its head off."

"That's why it doesn't have a head?"

"That's why."

"What about its feet.  Where did the Little Red Hen's feet go?"

"I tell you it's not the Little Red Hen.  This chicken was probably white."

"How do you know?  Its feathers are all gone.  Where did its feathers go?"

"I don't know.  Maybe in some pillow."

"You mean the Little Red Hen's feathers are in my pillow?"

"No, your pillow is made of foam."

"But you and Dad have feather pillows.  If you've got the feathers, no wonder the Little Red Hen has goose pimples on its skin!"

"This chicken does not have goose pimples."

"Chicken pimples?"

"No pimples.  I tell you this chicken is dead."

"So, what are you doing with the dead chicken now?"

"Dipping it in flour."

"Won't that clog its pores?"

"Do you really think this chicken cares?"

"I guess not.  But what are you doing now?"

"Frying the chicken."

"Frying it?  Is that what smells so good?"

"That's what you smell."

"Yum!  I like the way it smells... Mom?"

"Now what?"

"I think when I get done with my first piece of the Little Red Hen, I'm going to want seconds."

"Good.  If you want seconds, you can have my firsts.  Somehow, I don't feel hungry anymore!"

 

KIDS' TOYS HAVE FIRST DUBS ON THE BATHTUB

LAKESIDE REVIEW, March 7, 1984

One of the things they don't tell you in those parenthood preparation courses is that if you're going to have children, you're going to have to share your bathtub with their toys.

"What are you doing?"  I asked my husband one afternoon, as he headed for the bathroom with a thick Turkish towel draped over one arm.

"Getting ready for a bath," he said in the tone of voice that means if you'd only open your eyes, you wouldn't have to ask!

"Uh, uh,"  I tried to let him down gently.  He had come home from work with tired circles under his eyes and the kind of look that says I need a couple of hours to soak and meditate. 

"You'll have to go downstairs and take a quick shower.  Barbie and Ken have first dubs on the tub for their afternoon swim."

"Afternoon swim?  Can't those two swim in the sink?"

"I don't think so.  It's not big enough to accommodate all their beach toys.  Besides, Barbie's little sister Skipper has already set up her Jacuzzi in the sink."

"Jacuzzi?  I suppose you're going to tell me that our daughters have contrived a working whirlpool for a doll in our bathroom washbowl!"

"Yes, they use my eggbeater to create the bubbles."

"Great," was all he could muster.  I could see from the way his shoulders drooped that my worn-out spouse had resigned himself to taking a quick shower in the downstairs bathroom.

"By the way," I hardly dared break the news.  "I don't think there's much hot water left in the tank.  Rub-a-Dub Doggie just got finished with his shower-powered sauna!"

 

WHATEVER MOM SAYS COMES BACK TO HAUNT HER

8 November 1985, "Lakeside Review"

You've got to be careful what you say in front of preschoolers.  Kids that age have a way of taking everything you say quite literally.  According to my four-year-old, every word that proceedeth from the mouth of her mother is gospel. 

If I tell her the cow jumped over the moon, she's gonna' be running outside in her PJ's to watch it come down.

Quite frankly, though, I'm not ready to have either my personal opinions or chance remarks canonized.

I'll never forget the time one of our older children was drilling for a science test.

"Now what makes an animal a mammal instead of a reptile or amphibian?" he asked at the dinner table in the presence of his little sister.

"Well," I said between spoonfuls of macaroni and cheese, "for the females, it's if they give live birth to their young and feed them milk.  For the males, it's just if they have warm blood and hair."

"I see," my son replied.

Apparently, his little sis saw, too.  The next time went went grocery shopping she stared intently at the male grocer, who bent his head down low to scan a bag of frozen corn.

"Mommy," she exclaimed in a stage whisper loud enough to wake the dead, "that man isn't a mammal!"

"Why not?" I made the mistake of asking before we were out of earshot.

"Because," she shouted knowledgeably while pointing to the poor guy's shiny pate.  "He hasn't got no hair!

   

  

 

WANNA BE "COOL"? FORGET COMFORT, COMMON SENSE

Deseret News, October 19, 1994

As I edited this old newspaper column, I thought and noted how much times have changed.  The only thing that hasn't change is that at age 72 I still ride my bike.  But now it's my grandkids who think I look dorky.

"Mom, you look funny on your bike," my thirteen-year-old daughter said as I returned home from a recent attempt to shed unwanted pounds of cellulite along a country road.

"What do you mean?"  I gasped, swinging one thunder thigh unsteadily across my bicycle seat to land with quivering muscles on both feet.

 "Well, like it seems kind of nerdy for a woman your age to go around on a Schwinn!" she decreed.

A middle-aged mom on two wheels is not the only person who seems totally gross me out and gag me with a spoon to my sophisticated 8th grader.  I've always expected she was a card carrying member of KASM (Kids against Spastic Moms), but her running commentary on what is and is not cool has never been limited to protecting her mom from dorkiness.  That girl is a self-proclaimed expert on acceptable behavior for any human being who gets into her line of vision.

For example, granny glasses are in, backpacks are not.  Shaved necklines are in; pigtails are out.  Baggy pants are rad.  Pants that fit are only worn by dweebs.  Suspenders are OK, as long as they're strictly ornamental.  Heaven help the guy who actually uses them to keep his trousers up.  (Note: The definition of "dorkiness" has been almost totally in 2021.)

Heaven help the mom who calls pants trousers or slacks and nylon stockings hose (Heaven help the mom who even wears nylon stockings or pantyhose in 2021). 

Ditto for handbag--call it a purse, but don't actually carry it.  According to my daughter, the only thing worse than carrying a backpack is having a purse on your arm.  Only geeks actually worry about having a safe place to stow their handkerchiefs.  Actually, only geeks use anything but Kleenex tucked in pockets or bras for wiping their noses.

In other words, if you're gonna' rock, you've got to give everything that smacks of common sense or convenience, including umbrellas, portable stadium seats, long pants or winter coats in sub-zero weather, shoes that can be purchased without a monthly payment plan, and anything that keeps your hair out of your eyes--except a totally cool sideways wedging of the head ten thousand times a day.

          I wonder what she'd think about me rollerblading!