Food Fight

Every time I make a cake from scratch, I betray my mother. Every biscuit that does not come from a box of Bisquick is a personal affront to her. Not to mention non-Pillsbury piecrusts.

My mother was a modern lady, carefully schooled on shortcuts and prepackaged foods to feed her family beautifully while allowing herself maximum free time.

She could not believe that, I, her daughter, a working mother refused to learn from her. “I am just trying to save you time, honey,” she lamented as she asked why I didn’t use Betty Crocker’s Potatoes Au Gratin instead of peeling and slicing and cooking. “What you are really saying, Mama, is that the packaged stuff tastes as good as my homemade.”

“Let’s not go there,” she replied, in the hippest jargon imaginable.

Mama was trained by Betty Crocker and Peg Bracken. She loved chicken baked with canned cream of chicken soup, pancakes from Bisquick and especially boxed potatoes au gratin. The likes of Julia Child and Alice Waters could never loosen her alliances. She was loyal. I was not.

Her mistake was to let me cook. She was in a crummy situation when I was teenager. Her mother, the formidable German haus frau that she was, moved in with us. My father was Italian and Gramma never did trust foreigners. I don’t think I heard her address a single sentence directly to him.

His extreme patience stopped at the dinner table. No wonder Mama wanted to get dinner over with. Someone was going to be annoyed no matter what she made. An Italian dish and Daddy would be all smiles. Gramma would look like was being asked to eat Martian food.

Daddy would eat most America dishes as long as there was bread and Romano cheese on the table. But after Gramma moved in, he seemed to get a bit testy on the subject of American cooking.

Mama discovered that if she let me cook, her two critics would be on their best behavior. I wanted to try out things I had discovered in my new devotion to all things French. These required a great deal of cutting and chopping, but as long as there was no grousing at the table she was fine with any recipe I wanted to try.

It wasn’t until after I was married, working, and had a family who ate whatever I put in front of them that her incredulity showed itself.

At first she would suggest I could save time by using prepackaged cake mixes. I really couldn’t tell her that they had a chemical taste because she would have been insulted, so I took the easy way and said they were too expensive, which they were. I said they didn't save enough labor to make them worth the money.

The only difference in actual preparation as far as I could see was that the mixes left out baking powder, salt and shortening. You still had to dirty a mixing bowl and beat in eggs and milk. So what was so darn easy about that?

Mama said it was a matter of having confidence in knowing the dish would turn out well.

“Well,” I told her, “if someone didn't like the cake I baked for him or her, he or she could keep his or her mouth shut about it because there probably wouldn't be any more cakes baked from scratch or from mixes if people started complaining about it.”

“Ok, ok,” She said, “Don't get so steamed up about it, it was just a suggestion. I thought I was helping you and now you go off on me about it.”

As Mama aged she changed tactics. She gave up on cake mixes and switched to side dishes. She would bring up potatoes au gratin every time we saw each other as if it were for the first time.

“Did you ever hear of Betty Crocker’s Potatoes Au Gratin?” She would innocently inquire.

I would narrow my eyes and wonder just how much of this was age and how much was Mama.

”Yes,” I would answer, "Every time I talk to you.”

She would, in turn, narrow her eyes and remind me not to get sassy.

She suffered from Macular Degeneration and was told to eat more green vegetables and salads, a prescription she did mot much care for. I don't think she ever met a vegetable she really liked. Maybe canned white asparagus, but then that certainly didn't meet the green standard.

I prepared fresh vegetables and salads for her but she could only stomach them drowned in bottled dressings. She particularly disliked fancy salad makings like mesculin. Iceberg was as far as she would venture.

She called me a few years ago to say she was having a recurring nightmare in which she was lost in a field of arugula.

As she neared ninety we came to a truce. I would not serve her salad if she would quit bringing giant bottles of strange salad dressing with her to New York.

We visited each other frequently. She never failed to ask if I had tried Betty Crocker’s Potatoes Au Gratin yet.

Mama is gone now, but on her birthday I never fail to buy a package of those potatoes. I make a meatloaf with Lipton Onion Soup mix and for a vegetable I buy canned creamy corn.

I serve it with a nice arugula salad.

Fish on Friday

                           

         When I was growing up in the 40s and 50s, most Catholics religiously kept the no meat on Friday law. It was a Mortal Sin to eat meat on Friday. You could actually go to hell if you flaunted Canon Law.

        

I guess it didn’t seem worth risking damnation for a hamburger.

        

This meant that after six days of meat meals mothers faced the question what to make on Friday.  Fish seemed like the obvious answer and maybe it was for people who lived near the sea or even a lake.

But for us in Dayton, Ohio, unless you knew someone who actually fished in the Miami River, the fish selection was meager. You could go downtown to the Arcade and buy halibut, a bland rather tasteless fish by the time it traveled to Ohio, but most other seafood never reached our tables in those days before flash freezing.

        

This left us with cans of tuna, salmon or cod. The infamous tuna and mushroom soup casserole was a frequent offering.  A cold meal of salmon salad was another. The one I liked was canned codfish mixed with egg and mashed potatoes and fried in patties. Mama served them with fried noodles and stewed tomatoes. That was a ‘gooder’.

        

We ate plenty of vegetarian meals too even though the word was not in our vocabulary. There was macaroni and cheese, made from scratch before Kraft took over. With ketchup, maybe some canned peas and applesauce.  

        

German potato pancakes were a treat. Mama would joke that they didn’t quite qualify as non-meat since she always scraped her knuckles on the grater.

        

Another thing my family loved was noodles, butter and cheese. We didn’t know this was Fettuccini Al Fredo, we thought it just something my Italian dad would whip up when he was home to save us from another dinner of tuna fish casserole.

        

It came as a surprise - call it a shock - when sometime in the sixties the Church actually reversed the law and it was no longer a Mortal Sin to eat meat on Fridays.

        

I think this must be the reason why so many people of my generation left the church. Our confidence was shaken. If meat could just arbitrarily be taken off the table, so to speak, as a deal breaker on Judgment Day, what else could be changed? We asked ourselves why going to Mass on Sunday was so important? It didn’t seem like much of a sin to miss a time or two.  We began taking birth control pills and forgot to mention it in Confession.

        

The whole question of who decided right and wrong was up for grabs. There was no longer any logic to it. If the Church could so cavalierly change the rules, why accept the rules at all?

        

Anyway, that was a long time ago. The fish on Friday rule gave us something to fuss about. And maybe we did get a few points with God for the effort.

Full Service

                                         

                                                                      

        I guess I am a full service person.

         I thought I had gotten over my fear of self service gasoline stations. After all, it has been years since I splattered gasoline over the car or myself. I know now that I must never to try to ’top off’.  This must be a guy thing or just beyond me; I can never seem to get a nice round number.

         I haven’t gotten the credit card stuck in the slot for a long time either.

         Our latest car has a nice little chain that keeps the gas cap permanently attached, so I don’t leave it on the roof of the car anymore.

         And I really have come to terms with the issue of self service as a way for the gasoline companies to save labor costs by shifting the labor off onto me.

         I don’t drive endlessly in search of full service stations anymore either.

         And yet it still doesn’t always go well.

         Take this weekend in Cold Spring. Driving with my two grandsons, I realized I really needed to fill up the tank of my 2002 Mazda Protégé - that old fashioned car, as grandson Jamie calls it. The last car without automatic power windows, according to him. I think he is, as usual, correct about this.

         Anyway, I needed gas and without even hesitating I pulled into a station and went straight for the self service pumps. I ordered - or to be truthful, I begged - the boys ages 3 and 6 not to fight while I filled the tank.

         I pushed the correct lever to open the gas tank after popping the trunk only once, which was OK since my passengers thought this was funny. I turned off the engine and left ”Car Talk” on, who knows why, because I couldn’t hear it anyway.

         I injected the credit car with the little black thing facing in the required direction.  I typed my zip code and entered my secret code.

         “No, no, no!” the machine said. “See the cashier.”

         My card was rejected. I was being sent to the gasoline station version of the Principal’s office.

         I got both boys out of the car, ignoring the large SUV behind me in line waiting to gas up. I was on the way to the cashier ready to confess to anything during interrogation, when I realized I had used my credit card and entered the code for the debit card. So I could just re-do the process correctly.

         We went inside anyway to pick up a few snacks since neither Nick nor Jamie are ignorant of the law requiring grandparents to buy treats in any store selling same.

         Back to car, we politely ignored two additional cars behind SUV. I didn’t know so many people needed gas in the country at 10:30 on a Saturday morning.

         I reinstalled the boys, who were being wonderfully cooperative.

         Asked them to eat quickly so I could dispose of the evidence of snacks before returning to the sugar police - AKA their parents.

         I re-entered the card and pushed credit not debit and read "Begin pumping.” Well, that was encouraging.

         I removed the nozzle and placed it in the correct receptacle but the little numbers didn't start going so I jiggled it and went back to look at flashing lights and re-pushed the number for least expensive gas.

         Jamie suggested I kick the pump like his Daddy does. Great advice. It began working.

         Now I am cooking. Got the gas, replaced gas cap and cover, even got the receipt. Into the car I jumped, checked on seat belts, checked kids who weren’t even fighting and started engine with the correct key and sped away.

         I drove for two whole blocks feeling truly masterful before I recalled this feeling usually spelled disaster and vaguely remembered not replacing credit card in my wallet. It wasn’t in my pocket or on the seat.

         I pulled into the driveway of a nice lady who gaily waved at us for the entire time it took me to go through the contents of purse. No credit card.

         Drove back to station, sighted credit card lying under that same SUV, crawled under while apologizing profusely, refusing both Jamie and SUV driver’s offers to go under the car for me.

         I was in need of a bit of help to crawl back out, but without damage to knees or dignity, I went on my way.

         I think I saw the SUV driver wave goodbye.

         Friendly people here in Cold Spring.

         Jamie and Nick finished their berry blasters, which unfortunately made their tongues blue. So I gave up on the idea of concealing the crime.

         “Well boys” I said,” We got through that OK, right?”

         “Yeah, grandma, but maybe the next time you need gas you should just go to one of the stations with guys to help you.”

         That means full service, I think.

Watching

I wandered into Straus Park today
To read
I found a bench
Near an old man in rolled pants and sandals.
I checked out the flowers
Took in the sounds of the fountain
Saw birds watching children
Seeking an opening to splash
They soared and zoomed overhead
A lot
There were two parents
Talking
And two kids three or four years old running faster than the birds could soar
Around and around the fountain.
They crouched low
To remove shoes and socks
I waited to hear what the parents would say
I wanted drama
I didn't get
A peep
Except for the birds.
Those kids treated that fountain like Orchard Beach
And it wasn't even warm
They got all soaked and wet
I wondered if I would have allowed my own two such leeway
Forty years ago in this same park
When it was run down and overrun
But
Weren’t we all the same?
The old man
The birds
The kids
The over sixty ladies with hats and magazines
Watching

Returning

So many returning veterans of Viet Nam, the Gulf War and the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan suffered horribly from their experiences.

I remember my father returning home from his service in World War II. He and all my uncles had to cope with what they went through. Mostly they didn't seem to say much about it at all.

Uncle Larry was killed in the War. His death was a fact, a gaping hole in our family. Uncle Don chose to stay in England with his new English wife - which had something to do with an old American wife. But not a whole lot was said about either of these losses - at least not in front of us kids.

My other uncles, Joe, Philip and Raymond and especially my dad, just seemed awfully happy to be home.

My parents moved into a government housing project we called Happy Homes. It was offered to ex GIs and their families. Barracks on Wright Patterson Air Force base were converted into apartments. They were small, cheerful and cheap. The idea was to enable veterans to get restarted, go to school on the GI bill or save enough to buy a house

We watched our dads and uncles pack away their dog tags and their medals. We children got to play with the souvenirs they brought home. We wore their caps at jaunty angles. The boys staged battles, happily killing Japs and Krauts.

We especially loved the parachutes. We made tents or cut them up for costumes for Halloween. Uncle Raymond had souvenirs from the Germans. One was a Luger pistol. No one asked how he got it.

Each of my uncles had his own particular story to tell. We were warned not to ask Uncle Philip any questions because he had been among the first Americans to enter the camps. “He doesn't want to talk about it,” Daddy said.

Did they get together after we went to bed? Did they gather in bars or at the track to really talk over their experiences?

All I can remember of Daddy's stories was his often repeated account of jumping into the Pacific after his troop ship was hit by a kamikaze plane.

"You should have seen it,” he said. “That guy hit us square in the middle. He knew where he would do the most damage. I was eating lunch and before I knew it I was in the water.”

“Was it cold?”

“Oh no, not cold, it was summer in the Pacific, but the water was choppy and we had to keep swimming. We couldn't just float.”

He would stop at this point in his story to say to Mama, “I’m sorry. The watch you gave me when I left was ruined. It was a Bulova and really good.” He never missed this straight line.

And she always responded. “Why didn't you put it in your pocket?”

She would remind us that she actually did say this and we would all laugh before he got to the part about how he was glad he had played hooky from school to go swimming a lot. He and a lot of other guys were in the water a long time and the weak swimmers didn't make it.

“Sharks Daddy - did you see sharks?”

“No sweetie. We knew about them and we were scared they would show up, but as I said the water was choppy and I guess they were busy somewhere else. We were mostly scared because we were hit in the afternoon and we knew rescue operations stopped at sundown. We didn't have anything to hold onto. No rafts, no debris. We just doggie paddled and prayed.”

“I think the guys I was with were the last bunch to be picked up. A rescue boat finally appeared just as the sun was setting. We were dragged on board and we thought everything was ok. We were saved. But then it pulled in really near to another big troop ship. We could see it heaving up and down in the waves. A huge net was lowered down and we were told to jump for the net. There was only one chance. The sea was so full of swells.  A lot of guys missed. I watched them miss. And then it was my turn. You can see I made it.”

“Yeah, Daddy, I sure am glad you made it.”

And that was about it. We learned he was in the Philippines on Mindanao. He manned an ack-ack, an anti-aircraft gun. I looked up the Battle of Mindanao. It was a very long, dirty episode. That was in 1945 so he only spent about two years total in the war. And when it was over, somehow it became known he could cook so he got that job. For a while.

He came home through San Francisco. He loved San Francisco. Mama wanted to meet him there, but it didn't work out.

She would frequently ask him if the Philippino girls were pretty and he would always just laugh.

In his last years when he had Alzheimer’s, he would brighten up at any young woman who looked a bit South East Asian. He would approach and say, “Are you Philippino? You Philippino girls were awfully good to us GIs in the war.”

We would apologize for how it must have sounded. But most of the young women would laugh and pat his arm. People are kind.

Mama said, “I guess it was a long time ago.”

Waking up the first day after heart surgery, he thought he was on a troop ship again in the Philippines. The next day his ship passed by Hawaii. The third day the ship was nearing San Francisco.

Mama said, “At least he’s returning home again.”