This morning while I was putting caramels into my oatmeal, it occurred to me that the schmedlets would think it was gross. Not that I would care, nor would I be really anxious to serve it up to ‘em on a regular basis, but I got to thinking that my chids often make snide comments on what I eat that they perceive as odd combinations.
Some of my little combinations aren’t really all that odd, but the mere fact that Food Item No. 1 is intentionally mixed with Food Item No. 2 and/or 3 seems to cheese them. I don’t think it’s weird or gross to scoop some peas into my mashed potatoes and gravy and eat a nice, integrated bite of the good dinner provided to me by my Dear Sweet Wife. It sure is easier than chasing those roly-poly little green guys all over the plate. Cheesing the chirrens is a bonus.
I also like Brussel Sprouts, which is only a weird combination of words. I prefer them with a cheese sauce, but plain sprouts are quite tolerable. I even corrupted Gladys, one of the more cuisine-diverse schmedlets with ‘em, but cheese is an essential ingredient for her.
Living where we do, in south Louisiana, seafood places abound. A family fave in Baton Rouge is Mike Anderson’s, and my personal fave is their fried spiders. No, really – when the chids were little-bitty, we went there one day after a dance recital and the waitress comes to take everybody’s orders, so I announce “I’d like the FRIED SPIDERS please” as I’m pointing to the fried softshell crab platter. While I’m getting the OUTDONE STARE OF DEATH from my DSW, the schmedlets immediately start the incredulous “are you really?” business. “Yep” I affirm “I just love fried spiders, especially the big, hairy ones they serve here. I like to eat their legs first…” You have to be quick to eat 3 or 4 legs off the crabs, because the chids can count to 8.
We also do many different things with crawfish – tasty little critters some outside Louisiana regard as unappealing - ditch bugs or fish-bait. Their loss. But one thing for which crawfish aren’t suited is sweet’n’sour chinese. I learned that the hard way, though I considered rinsing them off to try something else. The critical mass of that culinary catastrophe dictated the drastic action of dumping ‘em. I think we had pancakes that night.
Sometimes you cheese people and you don’t know it. I like to pour chocolate milk into my coffee on occasion. It’s especially useful when the coffee isn’t that good to begin with, like the stuff they used to percolate to hell and back in these huge 2-3 gallon urns at work. So I plop down to resume conversation with some co-workers, one of whom is small with child and hasn’t told anyone yet. She sees me pour the brown bovine bounty into my jilted java and politely excuses herself. Some weeks later, after she had announced her impending stork visit, she told me that she was so cheesed that she’d excused herself to go be morningsick. Thanks for sharing.
Chocolate applications are pretty tame, but it’s fun to put Ovaltine or Nestle’s or even Sam’s Chocolate Syrup (in the 5-gallon drum) on Rice Chex or Rice Krispies to choclafy ‘em. The schmedlets picked up on that really quickly. You can also sprinkle a little cinnamon powder on Frosted Mini-Wheats, but with Wheaties, Cornflakes and anything with heavy-duty bran in it – stick with fruit.
I think I come by all this honestly. My Old Man was a consummate kidder and legendary leg-puller, so maybe that explains the fried spiders. He once told the annoying little next-door kid to go fetch the mustard for the popcorn just to get rid of him for a while. Thought that up off the top of his head, but that irritating little dork dipped his kernels for a long time after that – we still laugh.
Dad also taught me how to make “Hobo’s Delight,” which entails peanut butter on toast with Steen’s Syrup (a high-sulfur, blackstrap type of molasses readily found in the cane-growing region of south Louisiana). It’s a great way to get rid of stale bread. You can use crunchy or smooth – either way, but I like to sprinkle wheat germ on it too (Kretchmer’s – the name just sounds wheat germy, don’ it?) and wash it down with chocolate milk. For some reason, the chids think all that’s gross.
Another of his tricks was to buy the most bizarre types of ice-cream from the K&B Drugstore, like San Francisco Cable Car Crunch (which is apparently how they dispose of those multi-layered, multi-colored hard candies that little old ladies keep in ornate crystal jars in their sacrosanct living rooms). Another classic was some kind of tutti-frutti ice-cream. He did this for one key reason – he could count on having ice-cream in the house at all times. “Hey Dad! Let’s get some ice-cream” we’d wheedle in the store. “Nope – we already have some at home.” (Great grim groans of grief – he got us again.)
My grandfather may have been the foil in all this, but he played a great straight-man one day. We were at this restaurant downtown and he’d ordered a half-dozen oysters on the half shell. I was about 6, so he thought he’d be funny and asked if I’d like one (ha ha ha). The joke was on him – I think I ate most of ‘em, and the cronies of his we were with never let him hear the end of it. Later, as a teenrager, I’d watch these old guys belly-laugh when they connected me with that story. Y’just gotta love yer Paw-Paw.
Now, there are a few things even I can’t quite tolerate. It’s probably a Freudian thing, but I simply can’t abide the sight of a hot dog with catsup on it – mayonnaise either for that matter. I’ll slather Tabasco and catsup all over my Tater-Tots, but only mustard (the yellower the better) goes on the wiener. The schmedlets put everything BUT mustard on theirs – right in front of me too. ICK.
I hate pickled beets. I think they taste like potting soil soaked in vinegar. Guess you figured the chids like ‘em. Their grandmother delights in waltzing in the door with a quart jar of those despicable red blobs.
And my Old Man holds the title of King of the Cheesers for one of his stunts I’ve never been able to bring myself to emulate. Back in the B&W days, we’d pop out of bed bright and early on a Saturday, eat cereal and watch the cartoons. Much later, Dad would stump into the den, (much like I do now) with his hair quite frightful (much like mine is now) and he’d give us a very brief lecture on the evils of television (much like I gave up doing). Then, he would notice the half-eaten bowls of cereal on the table, but instead of chastising us severely for wasting perfectly good food, he would walk over, pick up the bowls and EAT THE WARM, SOGGY CEREAL!
Da winna, an’ still CHAMPEEN!!
You got it, Pop.
if such descriptions were acceptable in scientific circles.
Recent Comments