Let me start by emphasizing that Mom was a great cook, and we ate very well during our growing up years. She made mouth-watering roast beef every Sunday, and at various other times during the week tender fried chicken that would make Colonel Sanders cry, chicken fried steak, and even spaghetti or pizza, to name a few entries from her menu (in Morocco, where meat was harder to find she could do wonders with Spam).
Her one cooking deficiency sprang from a deeply held philosophical belief that no meal was healthy or complete unless it included something green, preferably something green and gross. "It's good for you," I can hear her say. We (me and Middle child primarily, but later even Youngest) didn't like green things, and ultimately, Mom compromised by inventing the banana salad (dry lettuce covered with sliced bananas). Before that breakthrough, I remember that at least once a week for years, she made one green dish that we all despised: English peas.
Today, I enjoy French cut green beans, broccoli, squash, even asparagus (there's another story), but I still can't stomach English peas. Maybe it's because in my formative years, Mississippi style boiled-until-they-were-mushy, olive-drab English peas were present at every Sunday dinner. I cringe even today at the thought of it.
In the face of this constant barrage, Middle and I maintained a unified front by eating around the peas until the roast beef, crescent rolls, potatoes and banana salad were all gone, and the peas remained alone on the plate (spread out to look like we had eaten some). Maybe Mom and Dad would forget. Maybe they would relent. Maybe we would all have to rush from the table to "duck and cover" (the Russians were just across the border).
Despite our delays, after seconds and even thirds on sweet tea, each Sunday, we ended up negotiating with Mom and Dad about how many of the peas we had to eat before we could have dessert.
"I can eat three."
"No, eat all of these." Mom would move ten or so from their positions scattered on the plate into a distinct grouping.
"Five?"
"No, all of these."
On and on it went. Sometimes Mom and Dad were satisfied with winning on the principle, that is with us eating something green (sometimes extra bites of the salad would suffice). Other times, they would stick with "every single one."
I learned that whatever the required number of peas, so long as it was no more than the amount that could be swallowed whole with one mouthful of sweet tea, I could choke them down (with the requisite amount of drama). I would count out the agreed number (to be sure that I didn't accidentally eat more than necessary), eye them for flaws, compare them for size with those left on the plate (to be sure I had chosen the smallest) and then, line them up on my fork. At that point, with eyes closed and lips pursed to emphasize with a squinched face how horrible they were, I picked up the glass of sweet tea, and with it close at hand, tossed the peas to the back of my mouth and gulped as much tea as possible. Down they went, mission accomplished.
This happened every Sunday, and I thought I had it down to a science until I learned that Middle was "taking it one better."
Like me, she engaged in a spirited and passionate debate over how many and which ones. But, in the end, she happily lined the required number on her fork, rolled them into her mouth and took the big swig without any complaints or sour face. Over and over she preformed and was rewarded with dessert while Mom and Dad praised her and asked me, "Why can't you be more like Middle and eat your peas without making faces." Middle would blush a little, look down at her shoes and smile sheepishly as she dutifully took her plate and glass to the kitchen and begin washing the dishes. I concluded she didn't despise the lowly pea in the same way as I.
I didn't learn the full story until once when I actually "tossed" the peas after trying to swallow them. Because I was unable to eat my allotment, I got to clear the entire table (Middle's dishes and all), and that's when I discovered something interesting down in the bottom of Middle's glass.
Down in the bottom of her glass, under the ice.
Down in the bottom of her glass, under the ice, and deeply embedded in about a half inch of undissolved sugar.
There sat the seven peas she was required to eat that day. Like a flash I realized why she wasn't making faces and why she was so quick to clear the table of her dishes. She was disposing of the evidence. Why can't I be more like Middle, indeed.
Of course, I kept the revelation between the two of us. No need to create dissension, and she reveled in having invented a better way until later, when we discovered Youngest, in a bit of "oneupmanship" was actually pouching her peas in the back of her mouth, disposing of them, sometimes hours later.
©2006 David R. Childress. All Rights Reserved.
Her one cooking deficiency sprang from a deeply held philosophical belief that no meal was healthy or complete unless it included something green, preferably something green and gross. "It's good for you," I can hear her say. We (me and Middle child primarily, but later even Youngest) didn't like green things, and ultimately, Mom compromised by inventing the banana salad (dry lettuce covered with sliced bananas). Before that breakthrough, I remember that at least once a week for years, she made one green dish that we all despised: English peas.
Today, I enjoy French cut green beans, broccoli, squash, even asparagus (there's another story), but I still can't stomach English peas. Maybe it's because in my formative years, Mississippi style boiled-until-they-were-mushy, olive-drab English peas were present at every Sunday dinner. I cringe even today at the thought of it.
In the face of this constant barrage, Middle and I maintained a unified front by eating around the peas until the roast beef, crescent rolls, potatoes and banana salad were all gone, and the peas remained alone on the plate (spread out to look like we had eaten some). Maybe Mom and Dad would forget. Maybe they would relent. Maybe we would all have to rush from the table to "duck and cover" (the Russians were just across the border).
Despite our delays, after seconds and even thirds on sweet tea, each Sunday, we ended up negotiating with Mom and Dad about how many of the peas we had to eat before we could have dessert.
"I can eat three."
"No, eat all of these." Mom would move ten or so from their positions scattered on the plate into a distinct grouping.
"Five?"
"No, all of these."
On and on it went. Sometimes Mom and Dad were satisfied with winning on the principle, that is with us eating something green (sometimes extra bites of the salad would suffice). Other times, they would stick with "every single one."
I learned that whatever the required number of peas, so long as it was no more than the amount that could be swallowed whole with one mouthful of sweet tea, I could choke them down (with the requisite amount of drama). I would count out the agreed number (to be sure that I didn't accidentally eat more than necessary), eye them for flaws, compare them for size with those left on the plate (to be sure I had chosen the smallest) and then, line them up on my fork. At that point, with eyes closed and lips pursed to emphasize with a squinched face how horrible they were, I picked up the glass of sweet tea, and with it close at hand, tossed the peas to the back of my mouth and gulped as much tea as possible. Down they went, mission accomplished.
This happened every Sunday, and I thought I had it down to a science until I learned that Middle was "taking it one better."
Like me, she engaged in a spirited and passionate debate over how many and which ones. But, in the end, she happily lined the required number on her fork, rolled them into her mouth and took the big swig without any complaints or sour face. Over and over she preformed and was rewarded with dessert while Mom and Dad praised her and asked me, "Why can't you be more like Middle and eat your peas without making faces." Middle would blush a little, look down at her shoes and smile sheepishly as she dutifully took her plate and glass to the kitchen and begin washing the dishes. I concluded she didn't despise the lowly pea in the same way as I.
I didn't learn the full story until once when I actually "tossed" the peas after trying to swallow them. Because I was unable to eat my allotment, I got to clear the entire table (Middle's dishes and all), and that's when I discovered something interesting down in the bottom of Middle's glass.
Down in the bottom of her glass, under the ice.
Down in the bottom of her glass, under the ice, and deeply embedded in about a half inch of undissolved sugar.
There sat the seven peas she was required to eat that day. Like a flash I realized why she wasn't making faces and why she was so quick to clear the table of her dishes. She was disposing of the evidence. Why can't I be more like Middle, indeed.
Of course, I kept the revelation between the two of us. No need to create dissension, and she reveled in having invented a better way until later, when we discovered Youngest, in a bit of "oneupmanship" was actually pouching her peas in the back of her mouth, disposing of them, sometimes hours later.
©2006 David R. Childress. All Rights Reserved.
4 comments:
a little artistic license there, I see! But at least some of it is true! I swallowed many of the hated peas; the lima beans were much more challenging! It is true that on occasion, the peas in question made their way into my tea glass. But not always! And I know nothing at all about Youngest and her escapades with peas.
I actually like lima beans now; that is assuming they are the same thing as butter beans.
I always thought I was the only one who spit the detested peas into my tea glass. And the lima beans never even made it into my mouth. Sometimes they were put on my plate, but I think by #3, Mom was tired of fighting.
Our Mississippi cousin wrote:
"WHAT IS THE DEAL WITH ENGLISH PEAS. [My Brother] AND I BOTH DO NOT LIKE ENGLISH PEAS. I HAD TO SIT AT THE TABLE BY MYSELF SOME NIGHTS AFTER EVERYONE HAD EATEN UNTIL I ATE THE REQUIRED QUOTA OF ENGLISH PEAS. I WOULD GAG IF ONE GOT IN MY MOUTH. I FINALLY WON THE BATTLE AND THEY DID NOT ATTEMPT TO MAKE ME EAT THEM HOWEVER THEY SHOW UP IN VEGETABLE SOUP AND FRIED RICE. I ACTUALLY PICK THEM OUT WHEN WE GO TO A HABITICH GRILL AND THEY PUT THEM IN THE RICE. ONE PLACE WE EAT AT WILL SET RICE WITHOUT PEAS ASIDE FOR ME. [My Brother] FEELS THE SAME BUT I WAS THE DRAMA QUEEN SO HE JUST IGNORED THE LITTLE THINGS AND LET ME HANDLE THE WHOLE SITUATION. I AM NOT SURE HOW [my Sister] FEELS ABOUT THEM."
So, the problems stemming from the English Pea extend beyond the immediate family group. Hmmm.
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