Tomatoes OK, But Hold the Mayo

 "Mom, we've got to talk," my 13-year-old daughter cried the day I was asked to plan a hoagie sandwich bar for her girls softball team.  I knew from her voice--sort of a cross between Lassie's and Katherine Hepburn's--that she was afraid I'd embarrass her by selecting the wrong ingredients.

"Like I'd die if you came home with a shopping bag full of liverwurst," she exclaimed.

"Who said anything about liverwurst?  I don't even like liverwurst.

"OK," she said.  "But whatever you do, don't make things look too healthy."

"Too healthy?"

"What I mean is, go easy on the rabbit food.  None of my friends have big teeth and long ears, you know.  Most of them are just normal kids like me."

"And what do normal kids like you eat on their sandwiches, besides peanut butter and honey?"  I couldn't resist asking.

"Miracle Whip.  Lots and lots of Miracle Whip, but no mustard or real mayonnaise, please, unless you want to kill us all off with the first bite"

"Miracle Whip; hold the mustard and the mayo.  What else?'

"Turkey, ham, and roast beef.  Some kids will choose just one kind of meat.  Others will want all three.  But don't get mystery meat.  These are softball players, not detectives."

"And just what do softball players classify as mystery meat? 

"Bologna, sausage, and breaded patties of any kind.  Almost everyone suspects what those things are made of, but most don't really wanna know."

"Anything else?"

"Cheese.  But not that white cheese with little blue things growing in it.  My friends only eat orange cheese."

"Orange cheese."

"And white bread. Soft, white bread, not that cardboard stuff with all the vitamins."

"I should have known.  If there's anything teenagers can't stand, it's vitamins."

"Or onions.

"Or peppers.

"Or alfalfa sprouts.

"Or pickles, lettuce, and tomatoes?"  I asked. 

"Pickles, no.  Lettuce, maybe.  Tomatoes, YES!"

"Great!"  I couldn't help exclaiming.  Now my daughter was finally being sensible.  "How many tomatoes do you think we'll need?"

"At least 60," she said.  "That way everyone will have plenty of ammunition."

"Ammunition?"

"Sure!  I don't know a single softball player who actually likes to eat tomatoes.  But as for throwing them..." 

Published in the "Deseret News,"  August 24, 1994

OUTSIDE WATER FAUCET PROVES GREAT ATTRACTION TO CHILDREN

Ah, the joys of summer.  Skies are blue. Grass is green.  The perfume of a thousand flowers fills the air.  

And everywhere we hear the sound of mothers screaming, "You kids turn that water off!"

Few sounds are more nerve wracking than the intermittent whine of an outside water tap that's been commandeered by a bunch of children too young to water the lawn, wash the car, or hose down the driveway, let alone worry about water conservation.

Bare fingernails rasping on a blackboard seem downright musical compared to the thunder water makes as it rushes through a house's plumbing at the whim of any child.

But what's most aggravating about the racket of running water has nothing to do with pitch, volume, or variations in the way it vibrates through the pipes.  What really does the average mother in are the potential disasters she faces each time her children twist the handle on the water valve:

1. Passageways to China gouged out by the hose nozzle thrust deep into the soil
2. Mud puddles formed outside and subsequently moved inside to the living room
3. Wet towels and clothing stuffed everywhere but in the drier where they belong
4. And last but not least, the heart-stopping size of the family water bill at the end of every month.

Of course, mom can put her foot down (hopefully not in the middle of some kid's mud pie) and forbid anyone under the age of 30 to lay one pinky on the water tap.  But what kind of parent is she then, making her offspring go thirsty when it's 100 degrees in the shade and even her own tongue feels like #3 sandpaper every time she swallows hard? 

Mother better be more practical:  Say her kids can turn the water on long enough to wet their whistles, but the first one who aims even one drop of H20 anywhere but in his mouth will be sentenced to five hours of Chinese water torture!

But perhaps the only really humane solution is to have a backyard swimming pool installed with maybe a tiny little refrigerated water fountain on the side.  After all, if a mom could thus get the kids to leave the outside water tap alone, she might be able to save enough on the monthly water bill to make pool payments.

--July 10, 1985  

 

 

MY MOTHER'S LOVE WAS IN THE DRESS

When I was a child, in those days when most moms made their children's clothing, my mother could sew as fine a seam as any woman on the block.  Every Christmas, Easter, and "back-to-school" season for as long as I could remember, she had painstakingly transformed lengths of dotted Swiss, cotton calico, or gingham checks into frilly dresses just my size.

Once she even made my winter jacket.  It was a kind of nubby blue and tan tweed cut down from one of her coats, and the hood was lined with velveteen.  For untold hours Mama stitched through thick layers of fabric with her ancient black Singer sewing machine--a permanent fixture in our living room.

Mom often sewed, while we kids played "pickup sticks” or "jacks" on the hardwood floor.  But even after we had been tucked snugly into our beds, she would return to the machine, bending her head over the rhythmically pumping needle while gently guiding pinned and basted seams over the feed dogs.

I never minded the homemade clothes.  Mama always looked for lace remnants and novelty buttons to make them special for me.  But two weeks before I graduated from junior high school, my mother unplugged the sewing machine, put away her spools and scissors, and drove me thirty miles to Salt Lake City.

For an entire day we searched through the teen departments of stores with names like "The Paris," "Auerbachs," and "ZCMI" for the perfect graduation dress.

At noon we paused for lunch in the basement of ZCMI.  Egg salad sandwiches and ice cold buttermilk never tasted better. (Yes, I loved buttermilk even then!)  

After we had eaten, it was back to the fitting rooms to try on what seemed like every dress in the store.  When at last we found the one, no words could describe how special I felt in the cloud-like creation of white taffeta and flocked organza that billowed out beneath a pale blue satin cummerbund.  The saleslady put our purchase in a clear plastic zipper bag, and Mother let me carry it to the car.  I held my breath all the way. 

"Can we really afford it?"  I dared ask only when the expensive gown was safely hanging on a hook above one back window.

Mom turned her face.  The pale brown flecks in her deep-set, gray-green eyes seemed to grow a little brighter.  "Your grandmother brought me to Salt Lake when I graduated."

"All the way from where you lived in Spanish Fork?" I asked, wondering why Mama had changed the subject.

"On the train."  She smiled and patted my hand.  "Your grandma saved her egg money for an awfully long time."

I thought about that.  Back home in the family picture album was a portrait of my mother a as a teenager--so beautiful in a cascade of costly, pink lace.

Mom started the car.  I lay my head back against the seat and listened to the steady thrumming of the tires.  From the corner of my eye, I could see my mother--still pretty in the same turquoise suit she always wore to church.

"Grandma must have loved you very, very much," I finally whispered to my mom.

--Lakeside Review, May 9, 1984

My beautiful mother in her junior high school graduation dress

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!