Yuk-M-Aid

Mmm. Candy. The ultimate in gustatory delight for all children.

Well, for most children.

Okay, for me.

That dangled 'apple' that entices obedience. Or commands respect.

And, growing up in the 50's, I had my favourites. Oh, the floors my Mom could get me to sweep, all on the promise of one delicious treat.

The dishes washed the bathrooms scrubbed with the prospect of yet another sweet, tasty . . . something.

And what 'somethings' there were. Chocolate in its myriad forms. Bubble gum. Wax sticks with sweet, tasty juice inside. Suckers.

But nothing quite compared to Lik-M-Aid.

The ads said it all, 'The Candy You Could Pour'.

Eating it was simplicity in itself. You didn't even need utensils. Caveman forebears would have easily been able to figure it out. You ripped open one end. Wet your finger, dipped it in.

And voila!

Tastiness.

The fact that your finger and your tongue ended up the same colour – blue, red, purple – was just a bonus. We connoisseurs could easily spot one another, too, by our discoloured pointer finger.

An added bonus.

It was like a club. (All Lik-M-Aid aficionados point to the sky!)

The only problem was that the end was too near the beginning. Within five minutes of ripping open that wonderful little bag of enjoyment, one was . . . ummm . . . licking the last.

And staring forlornly at the empty wrapper.

Sigh!

But I was undaunted. If the Lik-M-Aid was gone, one simply had to . . . substitute.

Hmm. Mom had packets of Kool-Aid in the cupboard. I had seen them. I had watched her pour them into a pitcher, add water and voila! Deliciousness.

Kool-Aid? Lik-M-Aid? Are we seeing similarities here?

I had a hazy recollection of something else being added to the cool-aid before it was poured out, but paying attention to insignificant details had never been my strong suit.

I headed for the kitchen.

I should probably point out here that finding the kitchen without Mom in residence was . . . tricky, yet I managed it on several occasions.

I was a sneaky little monkey.

I know. I heard Mom say it quite often.

Back to my story . . .

I waited until she headed towards the basement. A-ha! The coast was clear!

I stole into the kitchen, went immediately to her stash of Kool-Aid, and grabbed a purple pouch.

Mmm. Grape. My favourite.

Expertly, I ripped off the top, stuck in my finger and . . . tasted.

Yuck!

What was this stuff?

Someone had poured something different into this pouch. Disguised it as Kool-Aid to fool poor unsuspecting little kids.

The nerve.

I sneaked another one. Cherry this time. Surely it would be better.

Rip. Taste.

Yuck!

Lemon.

Rip . . . you get the picture.

I have no idea how she did it, but Mom was always able to come upon me unexpectedly.

I think she had 'ninja' blood.

“Diane!”

I dropped a packet of strawberry to the floor.

“What are you doing?”

I looked down at the . . . let's just call it 'several' discarded packets of cool-aid, then back at her.

Was that a trick question? “Umm . . . I thought it was Lik-M-Aid.”

“Well, it's not!”

Okay, yeah, I was starting to notice.

“Clean this up!”

I stared in dismay at the mess.

Mom sighed and helped me.

Mom was the soul of frugal. I guess the fact that the powder was slightly used really wasn't important. I watched as she poured all the Kool-Aid powder together into a container and capped it tightly.

It made really neat little lines of colour.

Huh. Kool.

Then she put it away. Out of reach.

I didn't point out to her that her belated caution was unnecessary. That stuff really tasted awful.

Her Kool-Aid was safe with me.

Unless mixed with that delicious 'something' that made it so . . . drinkable.

Hmm. Water. Was that the magic ingredient? Maybe the Kool-Aid was worth another try . . .

I'd like to tell you that that was the last of my experiments.

But I'd be lying.

Candy floss and dust bunnies and I also have a history.

P.S. Several of my grandchildren have also tried this experiment. According to their individual results: It was yukky.

Cookie Monster

 

Daddy was a dessert/sweets aficionado.

Most meals ended with some incarnation of treat—usually homemade and delicious. Or ice cream. Or both.

And…sometimes…those same treats would be re-introduced during whatever evening activity the family was engaged in.

Said introduction was normally preceded by the clearing of a fatherly throat. Followed by, “Blair (or insert name of child), Jerry (insert another child) would like some cake and ice cream and strawberries. And while you’re up, would you be so kind as to bring me some as well?”

Now ‘Jerry’ would not have said a thing prior to this exchange.

Though he/she/they were totally happy to be included.

Spotlighted child would obediently (albeit with some slight verbal remonstrations) rise and fetch treats for the entire family.

Daddy would happily tuck in and all was well.

This went on for the entirety of his life.

Skip a couple of generations…

My second granddaughter (hereinafter called GD2)—bright, red-headed pixie of a girl, was sitting on her grandpa’s knee. Dinner was over and the family had settled in to do what they do best—visit.

Across the room, on the food table, resided a platter of favourite cookies.

Which GD2 had been eying closely.

Finally, the little girl turned to her Grandfather. “Grampa? Would you like a cookie?”

Now she well knew her grandfather’s penchant for all things sweet and delicious. The question was mere flimflam.

Grampa: “Why yes, I would!”

The little girl bounced off his knee and quickly made a return trip. “Here, Grampa.”

She handed him a cookie with a little bite taken out of it.

Her grandfather looked at the cookie, then at his granddaughter. “Umm…thank you?”

She smiled happily. “You’re welcome!”

A few minutes later, she again turned to him. “Grampa? Would you like another cookie?”

He looked at her. “Ye-es.”

Again, she hopped off his knee. Again she ran quickly to the table and returned with a treat.

Again it consisted of just a bit less cookie than when she had plucked it off the platter.

This time, her mother caught the whole operation.

“I told you no more cookies!” she said sternly.

GD2 just grinned.

And suddenly, I was reminded of my dad and his ability to snag treats by getting them for 'someone else’.

Yep. That acorn didn’t fall far…

 

A Fortune-ate Truth

Excuse me, Sir . . .

Census.

That process, every few years, when the Government gets to perform ‘roll call’.

So to speak.

In 1981, Mom applied for, and was awarded, the job of Census supervisor.

The job entailed working closely with a team of women who quickly became her friends.

The work was, for the most part, fairly mundane, as each of the women went door-to-door, collecting information on who lived there.

There were a few ‘hold-outs’.

And one or two downright nasties.

But the group managed to get the work done.

Noses counted.

And reports filled out.

It was time to celebrate.

Mom suggested that they all go out for a commemorative Chinese Food dinner.

Reservations were made.

The women gathered.

Eating and hilarity ensued. Mostly at my Mom’s expense as her co-workers proceeded to ‘roast’ their good-natured and long-suffering boss who had become such a good friend.

The end of the meal approached and fortune cookies were duly delivered to their table.

Each person seated there selected one.

Then they made a game of standing and reading their fortune aloud.

Finally, it was Mom’s turn.

She got to her feet.

There was a breathless pause. (Hey, it’s my story; I’ll tell it how I want . . .)

Mom grinned. “Oh, this is entirely appropriate,” she said. “It’s time to make new friends.”

Who says you can’t find truth in a fortune cookie?

Play(ed)girls

It was HER fault...

College years are for making all sorts of mistakes.

Right?

Well, that's what I tell myself.

But this is one I didn't make.

My roommate, Debbie did.

That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Maybe I should explain . . .

Debbie and I were browsing through the convenience store.

Both of us were suffering from chocolate withdrawal.

We needed a fix.

There was a magazine rack near the checkout line.

Debbie was glancing over the offerings.

“Hey!” she said. “There's a magazine here called 'Playgirl'!

I looked at her. “I thought it was called 'Playboy'.

“Well, there's that one, too.”

“Huh. Weird.”

“What do you suppose 'Playgirl' is?”

The guy behind the counter spoke up. “It's pictures of naked men instead of naked women,” he said.

We stared at him.

Surely not.

I should explain here that both of us were children of the country. The words, 'sheltered', 'naive' and just plain 'dumb' come to mind.

“I've never seen a naked man,” Debbie said.

“Me neither,” I said. Something I was blissfully happy to continue for a good long time.

“Hmm.”

I should mention, here that when Debbie said, 'Hmm' in just that way, anything was possible.

Anything.

“I'm buying it,” she said, reaching for the cellophane-wrapped magazine.

“Ick!” I said. I was ignored.

She shoved it into her bag with her chocolate bars and we headed home.

At this time, we were sharing a two-bedroom basement apartment with two other girls, both as unworldly as we were. And neither of which was at home.

Debbie set her shopping bag on the apartment's only desk, which stood in our roommates' room and pulled out the magazine.

Then she stripped off the cellophane.

“Okay,” she said. “Ready?”

I shook my head. Again, I was ignored.

She flipped back the cover.

The magazine fell open to the centrefold.

Gasp!

I caught a brief glimpse of a handsome young man leaning casually against the doorway of what looked like an abandoned house.

Fortunately, I got no further.

Roommate slapped the book shut.

“Well, that's that,” she said, her face bright pink.

She shoved the magazine under the pillow of the nearest bed.

Episode over, we forgot about it.

Until a couple of days later when our roommate returned from her weekend home and crawled into bed.

We heard a shriek.

Then silence.

“Uh-oh,” Debbie said.

There was a knock at our door.

Debbie answered.

“What is this doing in my bed?” The magazine, held distastefully by finger and thumb, was extended.

“Oh,” Debbie said. “Umm. What makes you think we had anything to do with that?”

Our roommate gave her a 'Nice try, Debbie' look, dropped the magazine at our feet and disappeared.

Debbie picked it up and threw it into the trash.

Episode truly over.

But to this day, I wonder what was happening during the moment of silence after the roommate discovered the magazine . . .

You learn a lot of things during your college years.

One way or another.