Completing the Circle

Still on a ‘licking the bowl’ kick...

The source of all that was delicious.

Mom was in the kitchen.

Baking.

My favourite thing.

I was in my usual spot. On the cupboard beside her Sunbeam mixer.

That maker of all things delicious.

She added something to the mixture already in the bowl and turned on the beaters.

Mmmmm. Could anything look better?

I leaned closer.

“Mom? Can I have a taste?”

“Honey, it’s just sugar and butter.”

“But it looks so good!”

“Okay.”

She stuck the tip of the spatula into the batter and held it up for me.

I leaned in and licked.

It was delicious!

Mom just shook her head, rinsed the spatula and continued adding ingredients.

“Mom? Can I have another taste?”

“In a moment, dear. It’s almost ready.”

I sighed and fidgeted impatiently.

Finally, she added one last ingredient.

Vanilla.

I should mention here that vanilla smells much better than it tastes.

Just FYI.

Then she got a spoon and gave me a dollop of batter.

Mmmmm. Even better than the last taste.

“What is it?” I asked as I licked the spoon.

“White cake.”

“I like white cake.”

“I know.” Mom scraped the batter into a cake pan and shoved the pan into the oven.

I looked around.

Usually, by this time, the sound of the mixer had attracted all the youngsters in the vicinity.

And some of the adults as well.

But there was no one.

The world was mine!

“Mom? Can I lick the bowl?”

Licking the bowl.

That ultimate in rewards.

That oft hoped-for and seldom granted treat of treats.

I should point out that it didn’t actually involve ‘licking’ the bowl.

Mostly it consisted of running a spatula around the inner surfaces, catching every minute spec of deliciousness.

Okay and there was some licking involved.

Mom set me on the floor and handed me the bowl and spatula.

I sat where I landed and started in.

Could life possibly offer anything better?

Moving ahead . . .

I was making banana bread this morning.

My fourth granddaughter was seated on the cupboard beside me, mouth sticky from ‘tastes’.

I spooned the batter into pans and put them into the oven.

“Grandma? Can I lick the bowl?”

The circle is complete.

And That's Lunch, Everyone!

When one lives in the country, and rides the bus to school, one learns to take lunch.

I did.
Live in the country, take the bus and pack a lunch, I mean.
Lunch time was the high point of my school day.
The bell would ring.
The scramble for our various lunch boxes would be completed.
The inevitable question, "Whatd'ja get?" would be asked.
And serious eating would begin.
My Mom took extra pains to make our lunches varied and delicious.
With mixed results.
There was always the sandwich.
Which was the mainstay of ninety percent of our lunches.
Thick slices of homemade bread containing one of the following:
Tinned tuna salad. Yum.
Chicken Salad. Yum.
Ground Beef and pickle. Yum.
Peanut butter and honey. Double yum, as long as peanut butter had been liberally smeared on both slices of bread before the honey was added, because otherwise, the honey seeped into the bread and made a sort of . . . crust.
Not yum.
Peanut butter and jam. Easily exchanged for my neighbour's cold hamburger patty and mayo stuffed into a homemade bun. Yum.
Tinned salmon salad. Not in my lifetime. And not easily traded, either.
Sigh.
Hot dogs. The best. The very best.
I should mention, here, that microwaves existed only on Star Trek. And pre-packaged meals, like Lunchables, hadn't even been thought of.

Mom's hot dogs were an amazing feat.
She would cook the hot dogs while we were eating breakfast, then put two of them into our thermoses with a small quantity of the hot water.
Then seal it up.
Add a couple of hot dog buns wrapped in waxed paper, and a packet or two of ketchup and mustard and lunchtime couldn't come fast enough.
She always included some extras as well.
There was the inevitable sadly-bruised banana.
Which had looked perfectly good when it was put in.
Or the un-eat-able apple.
I've decided that the idea of gifting a teacher with an apple came from a student who simply didn't want to eat theirs. And had been taught that wasting food was unacceptable.
But I digress . . .
Mom also included a treat.
Usually something homemade and yummy.
Like squares.
Or her famous butterhorns.

Mmmm . . .
Occasionally, she would change things up a little.
When my thermos wasn't filled with hot dog deliciousness, she would usually put in chocolate milk or hot chocolate.
Either of which just nicely rounded out a lovely lunch.
Once, she put in something different.
But didn't tell me.
I saw the sandwiches, so I knew that hot dogs were out of the question.
So I did what I always did. Grabbed my thermos and shook up what was supposed to be milk and chocolate in some form.
Then I unscrewed the lid.
Pop!
It hit the ceiling hard enough to bounce clear over to the door.
And brought students from every room down the hall to see who was opening champagne in the grade nine classroom.
I looked up from my fizzing-over thermos and grinned.
Sheepishly.
Umm . . . Mom had filled it with Seven-Up.
The first and only time.
Another attempt at variety.
A good one, but wasted on me.
Alas.
Later, when I started making my own lunches, they included fresh tomato sandwiches.
Made from tomatoes that I sliced at school so the bread wouldn't get soggy.
And packages of cellophane-wrapped goodies.
The sandwiches were good.
Though they were made with store-bought bread.
But the treats never quite measured up.
To this day, when I hear someone mention lunch, I think of my Mom's homemade bread sandwiches, home-baked goodies, hot chocolate and my one experience with Seven-Up.
I miss those days.