Angie is the perfect wife/mother for our unique family. She does, however, have a few slight phobias that make life more interesting. One of her biggest fears is food spoiling. This, combined with her pack rat habit of never throwing anything away, makes for some interesting situations.
Angie’s theory as to when to clean out the refrigerator is when you see a small revolution going on inside the fridge between the veggies and the meats. Your first clue that maybe it was that time is when you open the door and find a moldy peach holding a gun on the brown lettuce. This is a perfect indication that your food has gone bad.
One year, when our daughter Marisa was in elementary school, Angie had made a bag lunch as usual for her to take to school. When it was lunch time, Angie was making a sandwich for Ben who was still at home when she noticed that there might be a problem with the lunch meat she had used. Her first clue was when she went to grab it in the fridge it ran over to the other side and hid behind the gallon of half solidified milk. Her second clue was when she finally caught it it had slipped through her fingers from the heavy coating of slime it had developed. It was then that she realized that Marisa’s lunch was potentially fatal, or at the least, she would never have to get penicillin shots again in her life. She snatched up Ben and ran three blocks down to the school and burst into the lunchroom screaming
“Marisa! Bad Bologna! Don’t eat that!”
Normally, this kind of abrupt interruption to the lunch room of a school would result in pandemonium and panic. Not so for this little school as all the children and teachers knew of the wonderful world of Angie. Years later Marisa finally figured out why none of her classmates would trade their lunches with her.
Meal time has always been an adventure in our home. Usually the conversation starts with an objection from one of the kids about what was being served. Angie is a first class cook, the envy of many a Jewish grandmother, but there was always one or more of our offspring that would offer their culinary critics about the quality of the food. It usually started with ,
“Ewww! What’s that stuff?”
This would be accompanied by a face resembling a 3000 year old mummy recently exhumed from their crypt after a particularly gruesome death.
“It’s your dinner, eat it.” would be my reply.
Sensing a possible revolt and an opportunity to maybe get something they really liked such as pizza, McDonalds, or anything else that kids consider gourmet dining, the other children would join in voicing their dislike of the healthy, balanced meal set before them.
“It looks gross!” another child would offer.
“I don’t like that stuff, it’s got red sauce on it!” adds another.
Some of Angie’s culinary feats did look rather disgusting but upon tasting the “manna” as we would call the less recognizable dishes (meaning in Hebrew – “What is it?”) one would find it very delicious. The hard part would be getting the kids to try it. I always set the lead and took a good bite. Four pairs of eyes would be locked on me as I chewed the suspicious material. They were surely waiting for me to fall over dead or have a seizure or something. I would inform them,
“It tastes great! Try it”
No takers. They would suspiciously eye the food on their plate, moving it around with their fork in search of something toxic or perhaps worse, something actually good for them.
About this time one of them would say “I’m not hungry.”
At this point of the game, the parents of these wonderfully obnoxious children would then be divided into two camps, just like the little terrorists planned. My camp would say ,
“Great! Go to bed! I could use a night of peace and quiet! And I’ll save your portion for breakfast! See how you like it then!”
Of course my obviously reasonable reply would be met with cries of protest and with tears pouring down their cherub like faces.
It often amazed me how these kids could turn those tears on so easily. Marisa, our first child, could actually do projectile crying and extinguish a small wild fire on command.
Of course, momma bear, the inventor of this mayhem, would chime in,
“Derek! Leave them alone! You’re being mean!”
The children, sensing eminent victory would press home the attack with more tears and anguish while rushing into the open arms of the person who tried to poison them in the first place. Then momma bear would start making grilled cheese sandwiches or whatever else to satisfy her starving brood and keep them from the grips of apparent starvation as the theatrics was now at full power. Of course I would respond with the time tested ,
“When I was your age, I ate what was given me!”
This, of course, was a gross untruth if there ever was one as my brothers and I invented many dubious ways to dispose of unwanted meal portions. Peas would go into your milk and you always left enough milk to cover them. The tricky part was that you had to take your own dishes to the sink or your deception might be discovered just as this one was and our solid colored cups were replaced with clear glass cups to prevent any further smuggling of healthy food to the garbage disposal. Another useful device was the family dog. A hardly noticeable move of the hand and Butch had another healthy serving of liver. Of course there was always the old reliable standby, hide the stuff under a stray piece of lettuce, a potato skin, placemat or seat cushion.
My children would be by now rolling their eyes at the familiar story while at the same time basking in the glow of their victory as their mother would by now be serving the more palatable and less suspicious looking meal to them.