Nancy’s mom, that’s all I remember calling her,
set our lunch plates in front
of us. There were some potato chips and a pickle, but to my dismay, there sat a tuna fish sandwich with
lettuce. I had never eaten a tuna fish sandwich before. I had never eaten a
tuna fish anything before. Lettuce on a sandwich was also very foreign. I
didn’t know what to do. I was a guest and a guest is always to eat what is
placed in front of her. That’s the polite thing to do. But, tuna fish? Did I
have to go that far to maintain foreign relations? I decided I couldn’t and
resolved I wouldn’t go as far as that.
Meekly, while staring straight at my plate, I
said, “I don’t like tuna fish.” Nancy’s mom turned toward me. I could feel her
do this rather than see her, since I still stared at my plate.
“Have you ever tried tuna fish before?" she
asked. Oh no, now what do I do? She’ll think me a fool if I say I haven’t but
do I dare lie? No, I wouldn’t lie. Not that I couldn’t lie, I was capable. This
situation just didn’t seem worth carrying around the guilt of a lie.
“No . . .”, I answered, my voice trailing off to
barely audible tones. Then she started in on a full blown lecture on manners
and how her children had been exposed to all sorts of different foods. She
named numerous vegetables, fruits, and entrees many of which I’d never heard of
before. She was very proud about how she had taught her children to eat
anything put on their plates without question. Inside my head I wished I could
be at home right now eating FrancoAmerican spaghetti. She concluded by telling
me I had to at least eat half the sandwich.
I remembered when my mother had made my little
sister and me sit at the table and eat some liver. I was willing to sit there
until Doomsday and not touch the stuff, but my sister felt she should give it
try. One bite was all it took and Susan gagged and vomited onto her plate. Was
I going to have to vomit before this lady understood that tuna fish was way
beyond my powers of experimentation?
Lips quivering, I slowly brought the sandwich up
to my mouth and bit off the tiniest bite. You couldn’t even tell I had touched
it. Nancy’s mom looked at me in total disgust and said, “Oh, you are
ridiculous!. Don’t expect to come here for lunch again.” She withdrew my plate
from the table in one fell swoop. I felt so humiliated. I decided on my walk
back home that the next time I ate at someone’s home, I would eat what they
served no matter what.
Several years later, my promise came back to haunt
me when Kathy Anderson invited me for dinner. I accepted. Of course I was much
more mature now (11 instead of 7) and anyway, I reasoned, Kathy’s family had
the same last name as me. They were Swedish, we Norwegian. How different could
things be?
Kathy and I appeared at the doorway between the hall
and the kitchen and in unison we asked Mrs. Anderson, “What’s for dinner?” I really
did my best to maintain an appropriate level of enthusiasm when she replied, “Chicken livers.” The left side of my top lip really wanted to curl up
and my left eye really wanted to squint. But, I bravely kept up appearances. I
kept thinking of Nancy’s mom and that whole experience. I thought of my promise.
Would I be brave or would I make my excuses and run for home? Certainly Kathy
would save the day and ask her mom if we could have peanut butter and jelly
sandwiches instead. To my chagrin, she said, “Oh yum!”
To this day I am puzzled by “Oh yum!”
That night, I ate those chicken livers, not one,
but three of them. I was making up for my past sins. I hated every bite. Each
one was a chore made possible by great quantities of milk. They must have
thought me to possess the healthiest bones in Indiana for the amount of milk I
consumed during that meal. I have never touched chicken livers since nor cow
liver for that matter. But, tuna fish I have learned to really like.
The first time I fixed my own
children tuna fish sandwiches, in an effort to indoctrinate them early, to my
surprise they gobbled them up without a word of complaint. Nancy's mom would be proud of my children.
Copyright DJ Anderson
2005
So funny and so familiar.
ReplyDeleteI know you change the names to protect the innocent, but I kept imagining that Nancy's mom was Mrs. M at Stop 22 or Mrs. E at Stop 20.
Mike
It was a Mrs. M but at Stop 20 just a block from us. I always thought I had the meanest mom in Long Beach until encountering Nancy's mom. I have another story about her that I'll write at a later date. Thank you for commenting . . . and reading!
DeleteReceived this via email from a friend: I could feel the utter disgust and revulsion as I have been there and can recall numerous episodes. My son, on the other hand, who is a very picky eater, eats all sorts of new and experimental foods (and LIKES them) when at others houses. He reports on the great..... that someone served, and when I remind him that we had that last week, he retorts, "Yes, but their's was delicious!" It can be as simple as black beans (from a can) or a casserole, and it always tastes better away from home, seated beside a friend, who is scarfing it down, where at home, he might not make it past the first test bite.
ReplyDeleteOne of our funniest episodes was at my aunt's farm. My sisters and I were there for dinner and we knew that she was terrible cook, concocting terrible looking, smelling, tasting foods with more horrifying names...hash, brains, goulash. We had our own names and ways of making the foods disappear, like slipping it to the dog, stuffing it in our pockets, making trips to the bathroom to dispose, etc. This unlucky day, she stirred together eggs and brains. It was green and the worst we had ever encountered at her table. It wouldn't dare reach our mouths, but we had to take a portion of everything. Long story short, my sister, Donna, ended up wrapping bits in a napkin and stuffing them in her pockets, only to later stuff it into the bed springs. Don't know what led to that desperate act, but of course, the horror was detected a day or two later, when we were long gone.