Your Mom Answers 5 Questions From StinkyLulu

Today I am answering a call to participate in a little bloggish interview process, from my pal StinkyLulu across the holler at StinkyLuluSez. You may view StinkyLu's foray into the 5 Questions model here (and eventually perhaps read Miss Lu's responses to the questions I threw back).


StinkyLulu asks:

1: Pie is always good. What pie is best? Explain.

Rhubarb. And not that sickeningly sweet strawberry-rhubarb nonsense, please -- just gimme the rhubarb. I like the raspberry-peach from Flying Star quite well, too. Mincemeat would be a close third (faux mincemeat, the stuff that's all fruit and no actual meat or beef fat, with apologies to strict traditionalists who apparently loves them some suet). In general, I'm a fruit-pie kind of girl, but I also like pumpkin and sweet potato and key lime. And pecan, though only rarely, as the guilt is almost too much to bear. I can pass on the pudding-in-a-crust pies. What's the point of that? How do you put ice cream on it?

Since pie has been a topic in my extended family this week, it's interesting that you asked about it. My dad didn't like cake of any sort, a trait I did not inherit, so we always had pie for his birthday. After he died five years ago we started referring to his birthday - April 30 - as Pie Day. All of us around the country have a piece of pie in his honor, then share with the rest what our particular choices were. A few years ago we of the NM contingent were in WI on Pie Day and went to Perkins with a few of the midwestern family members, since Perkins has a bakery case full of pies. Someone said they might rather get a whole pie instead of a slice, to which someone else said "a-hole pie? sweet." Now a-hole pie is on the family menu. And so it goes. We are a real sophisticated bunch.



2: You are quite the expert on urban legends, missy. What is your all time favorite urban legend cycle? Why?

I'm not sure I have a favorite, exactly, but I suppose I have a few favorite overarching themes. I enjoy the legends that have prompted policy change, stories so widely accepted that entire communities change their behavior in response. Halloween, for example. Trick or treating was forever changed (though maybe the tide will turn) by the various razor-blade/poison/satanic ritual stories, and "safe" alternatives sprouted all over. Or the incendiary cell phones at gas stations. Most pumps now carry the little warning stickers with the red slash over the cartoon phone, despite it never happening. You can't argue with what people think they know.

I also enjoy the crime warnings that reveal race and gender issues without actually mentioning them, and then there's food. Food stories are always good, from establishing clear boundaries between cultural groups (those people eat what??), to the ever-entertaining fast-food horrors.

The UL cycle that really sparked my interested in the genre was a latter-day spin-off of the red velvet cake story, and as a result I have a special fondness for these stories. I was visiting a friend in IL, sometime in the early 80s, and she unveiled a plate of fudge that was pretty spectacular. Despite my misleading appearance, I'm really not a fudge devotee, but this was some darn good fudge. She offered me the recipe, and told the story of how her Aunt Betty's friend had gone to a Fanny May candy store, sampled the fudge, declared it the best she'd ever had, and asked if she could get the recipe. The clerk said "sure, it's two-fifty," and put the amount on her credit card purchase along with the goodies she was buying. When her credit card bill arrived she noticed that the amount charged had been two hundred and fifty dollars, not 2.50, as assumed. She contacted the store, spoke to a series of managers, ultimately being told by a high-level company rep that the charges would stand. So Aunt Betty's friend was now on a mission to spread the expensive recipe far and wide, to prevent the greedy company from overcharging other unsuspecting customers. My friend then copied the recipe onto an index card for me.

Eight or ten years later I was in the same friend's kitchen, and was offered perhaps the best chocolate chip cookies ever. While I was marveling over their buttery goodness, my friend began to relate the fateful story of how her Aunt Betty's friend had acquired this costly recipe from the Mrs. Fields cookie store... Having a reasonably clear memory back then, I asked her if that was not the very same friend of Aunt Betty's who had ended up in the very same predicament with Fannie May Fudge only a decade earlier. She remarked that Aunt Betty's friend was a real character, always finding herself in the middle of something crazy. But for me, a fascination with contemporary (aka urban) legends was born. And I got a fabulous cookie recipe out of it (really - much better than the Neiman-Marcus version version of the story that's been circulating since the 90s. Write me for a copy.)

3: How'd you start with that fiddlin'?

Thank you for not asking when I would stop with that fiddlin'. Because that would have been sad.

I think my first moments of string band intrigue and fiddle envy happened when I was in high school and saw some folks at a small coffee house playing fiddle, guitar, and upright bass. By the end of high school and thereafter I listened to a lot of music of no set style that featured fiddle -- old-time Appalachian, bluegrass, western swing, early country -- whatever I could find in record stores and the library. I didn't buy my first fiddle until I was 19, when I acquired a clunky old thing from an 80-some-year-old guy in my hometown, who had rebuilt it himself. I never learned to play it, partly because I didn't know anyone who played (I don't think there was a violin teacher of any stripe in my tiny town) and wasn't able to figure out what to do on my own. It was years later before I knew enough to understand that the fiddle hadn't been properly set up, and despite how very proud the old feller I bought it from was of his handiwork, he had essentially made it unplayable. So it sat untouched for many years. Then at parent night for Younger Daughter's first grade class I was chatting with a dad who revealed that he played a bit, and I mentioned my sad saga. He said something on the order of "you've wanted to learn to fiddle for 15 years and haven't done it?"...which prompted me to feel like a complete moron for not having somehow made it happen. But by then I was finally in a place where I was meeting some people who played, and could learn more "naturally" by listening and watching. And that was the turning point. I found a playable fiddle, took about 4 lessons with a good fiddler, then started hanging out with the local old-time crowd and sitting in at jams, letting it all sort of sink in. It's still sinking, but now I even make a little money with it.

Your Mom in action.

4: Imagine that you are guaranteed a millionbazilliongajillion dollars if you agree to participate as a "contestant" on a reality tv program? Which reality tv show do you choose to go on? Why?

It would be a new hybrid show, working title "America's Next Starting Over Shear Runway," wherein Iyanla and Tyra put housemates through elaborate therapy sessions involving the creation of couture jogging suits for the other ladies of the house, and performing fabulous makeovers on all the incoming victims, er, housemates, prior to their backstory reveal on the plasma. Oh yes, it will be good.

5: Detail the menu of a typical Sunday dinner at your house when you were nine years old. Be sure to include your feelings about each item. Photos not necessary but strongly encouraged.

Sunday dinners were usually of two sorts; the dinner with company, since Sunday was the big day for relatives visiting, and the just-the-folks-at-home-watching-Lassie meals. The Lassie meals were simpler, along the lines of grilled cheese sandwiches and soup (canned soup, likely Campbell's vegetable or tomato, and My Mom's special kind of grilled cheese, which consisted of open-faced hamburger buns topped with a slice of American cheese and a strip of bacon, then put under the broiler until the cheese starts to make big brown bubbles). Company dinners were more elaborate, with the wimminfolk cooking up a storm in the kitchen while the men made sure the TV was working properly. Those meals were always built around the ubiquitous meat and potatoes, with a fairly standard array of side dishes.

Here's a basic menu:
Meat, usually roast beef or chicken, piled on a platter.
Potatoes, usually mashed, occasionally boiled.
Gravy.
Canned vegetables, most likely peas, green beans, or corn.
Relish tray, with celery, carrots, and black olives.
Bread, usually white, and
margarine, not butter.
Jello.
Which should not be confused with dessert, altogether different.
See question number one.

A jello mold was a frequent addition, and here's where the midwesternness really goes to town. The jello flavors of choice were most often red (cherry? strawberry?), orange (orange?), or yellow (lemon? disinfectant?), with various things mixed in. One family favorite was "Sunshine Salad," which was lemon jello with grated carrots and crushed pineapple. Red jello molds contained things like chopped apples and nuts. The mold was normally a ring, which would be plopped out onto a plate. The center of the ring would then hold a bowl of ...no, not whipped cream... Miracle Whip. The jello was a salad; Miracle Whip is salad dressing. The salad dressing was to be dolloped on top of the jello as desired, once served to your plate. I have rarely met other folks from outside the midwest who think of this as food. But naturally, on the rare occasions I eat jello as an adult, I feel it is naked with the proper dollop.

I couldn't find a dinner photo from the precise era you requested, but I did come across one from a few years later -- seven, to be exact (making Your Mom a very sweet 16). Some of the decor was a little different at that point, although the table was in the same location. More to the point, however, is the food on the table, which is remarkably similar to a Sunday dinner with relatives throughout my childhood. The photo is actually a holiday meal, Thanksgiving 1970 (the date on the border says Feb 71, but My Mom was always a few months behind in mailing off film). While the menu is specific in some ways to that holiday, the framework remains in place.



Looking around the photo you can see: the platter of sliced turkey (being passed at left side), bowl of stuffing (we called it dressing), some sort of mushy canned vegetable (green beans?), stacks of white bread and a nearby stick of margarine, the gravy boat, a bowl of something I can only assume is beets (blechh), a relish tray, a couple different kinds of cranberry sauce, and a red jello mold with trusty bowl of Miracle Whip in the center (right side). I don't see any yams, which strikes me as an unusual omission. Seems like we would typically have some yams around.

Everything is pale and pasty, except for the red things, most of which are largely sugar (god knows what's actually in beets). The most startling thing to my current eyes is the amount of milk on the table. Milk was the default beverage when I was growing up, being farm country and all, but I was not a fan. Well-intentioned female relatives (who were of course in charge of the food and table prep), my mother included, always poured a glass for everyone, regardless of personal wishes to the contrary. I hope milk was a lot cheaper then, since probably quite a bit was thrown away by those of us who opted out. One thing you can't see in the photo: the adjacent kids' table, where the assorted nieces and nephews (and their moms) were parked (and maybe some yams?).

How did I feel about these foods? Well, I was not a big meat eater, but didn't mind chicken and turkey, especially if there was gravy involved. And what's not to like about potatoes? Especially if there's gravy involved. But the other stuff that passed for veggies at our house was sort of sad. Canned, mushy, mostly colorless. I didn't know what a brussels sprout was until I was 18. The relish tray was my mom's attempt at expanding our contact with veggies a wee bit, although black olives probably shouldn't count. I could leave the white bread on the table without much trouble. But the jello was good. Most of these foods fall into the comfort category, and they do sometimes feel comfortable, although I have altered all my old favorites to incorporate a little flavor. My relatives would not approve.

The food itself doesn't bring out a big emotional response, but those big family dinners were almost always a good time. There were a couple of difficult personalities around occasionally, some weird in-law types we would try not to yell at. Overall, though, my memories of those Sunday (and holiday) dinners are full of love and laughter, despite the bland food.

And here is a photo from the era you requested, of what happened after dinner. Behold Your Mom, age nine (standing on a stool, as she was not yet model-tall and willowy), performing the cowgirl cleanup.



Thanks for the good questions, StinkyLulu! (Even if this did take me FOREVER!) If any others of my three readers have 5 questions, fire away. (Or request some from me.)