Laundry. Saturday night entertainment

And each of the eight brothers had a sister . . .

My Mom had eight brothers.

And each of them had a sister.

My Mom.

Most of the time, this was a good thing.

They played together.

Worked together.

And when someone put a banana peel down Mom's back at school, they 'protected' her.

It was a good balance.

Being the only other female on the farm meant work, however.

Besides helping with things outdoors, she had indoor chores.

Cooking, cleaning, dishes.

Laundry.

Those 'invisible' things that go unnoticed until they don't get done.

Of all of them, the most entertaining was always the laundry.

You never knew what you would find . . .

There was one very firm rule in the Berg household.

You cleaned your plate at mealtime.

Much of the food was produced on the farm and Grandpa Berg took a very dim view of any of it being wasted.

Each of the sons, and the daughter, had to show an empty plate before they were allowed to leave.

If they had been served something they didn't like, they had to eat it anyways.

Or get creative.

Uncle Leif, the youngest of the brothers, got creative.

He knew that those vegetables and potatoes he had been staring at had to go somewhere.

He just didn't want them inside of him.

What to do?

Hmmm.

No dog or pet was allowed inside the house, so one couldn't slip food to them under the table.

His parents would notice any significant quantity of food simply thrown on the floor.

His options were definitely limited.

But he would think of something . . .

When Mom and Grandma Berg were doing the laundry, it was Mom's responsibility to turn out the pockets on the boy's trousers.

Inevitably, it was an entertaining enterprize.

Especially when they got to Uncle Leif's.

Because that was when they discovered what had been done with those unwanted and totally unnecessary vegetables and potatoes.

While he had been sitting there, contemplating, he had come up with the most ingenius and inventive method of making them disappear.

He was wearing trousers.

And they had . . . pockets.

What followed was inevitable. And a no-brainer.

Back in the laundry, Mom turned out each pocket to discover little, dried up memories of yesterday's dinner.

Clever.

And, as I said, entertaining.

And that's just the laundry.

Imagine what he could do with such things as . . . bedrooms. Chores.

Livestock.

But that is another story.

An Attitude of Gratitude

Admit it, you'd love for someone
to make this for you !

I'm weird.

I do weird things.

I've accepted it.

Moving on . . .

I had taken my three-year-old granddaughter to The Mall.

The big mall. The one that covers many city blocks and holds many, many stores and attractions.

And several hundreds of thousands of people.

It is bright. Entertaining. Noisy.

And, at times, crowded.

Kids love it there.

Parents tolerate it.

Older people ignore the enticement of 'modern shopping gone mad' and use it as an indoor track.

'People-dodging' has become an accepted, even sought for work-out.

With all these people and attractions vying (real word) for our attention, it is only understandable that some . . . gentility might get lost.

Let me explain . . .

My granddaughter and I were waiting for my son to finish an interview.

We were hungry.

The choices were, truly, endless.

She chose McDonald's.

Because.

We ordered from a smiling young man. Chicken pieces for her.

Salad for me.

We found a booth and started eating.

Now, I should point out here that, for the most part, I like McDonald's food.

Not gourmet, but tasty and satisfying.

Even with those expectations, my salad was a very pleasant surprise.

It was good.

Really good.

In fact, probably one of the best salads I had ever eaten.

Crisp where it should be crisp. Cheesy where it should be cheesy. Olive-y where it should . . . you get the picture.

I looked at the brightly illustrated billboard to recall what I had ordered.

Ah. Mediterranean salad.

Huh.

I finished.

And licked the bowl.

Okay, not quite, but I have to admit that I was certainly tempted.

My granddaughter finished her meal.

"Come with me, Sweetie." I took her hand and walked back to the counter.

A young woman was standing there, smiling brightly.

I went up to her. "Hello. May I please speak to the manager?"

Her smile . . . slipped . . . somewhat.

"Umm . . . yes?" She started to slide down the counter away from me.

I followed. Finally, "Are you the manager?"

She nodded hesitantly, by now, her smile all but gone.

"Oh, good. Well I have to tell you that I just ordered your Mediterranean salad," I pointed, "and it is probably the best salad I've tasted in my life. Thank you."

She stared at me. Finally, my words must have sunk in, because, suddenly, her face lit up.

Really. With the biggest smile I had ever seen.

"Oh, thank you!" she said, rather breathlessly.

The boy who had served us our meal suddenly appeared from the 'food' part of the establishment, where it would seem he had been hiding, and presented me with an equally large smile.

"Thank you!" he said.

I smiled at them and left.

I have to tell you that this isn't an unusual thing for me to do.

It started when I saw the movie, "Heaven Can Wait", with Warren Beatty.

In one scene, he gets up from the very formal meal, served by his army of servants, and pushing open the kitchen door, hollers, "Thanks for dinner!" or something like that.

Now I had been raised to always compliment and thank my mother, or whoever had prepared my food in ours or someone else's home. I had just never taken it to the next level.

Thanking and complimenting someone you haven't even met. 

Or seen.

I decided to try it.

With amazing results.

I've now been doing it for years.

Almost without fail, I receive surprised, but enthusiastic smiles.

And gratitude.

It's a simple thing.

A smile, a compliment, and a thank you.

It might put some much-needed sunshine into someone's day.

I know it did that day, in that crowded mall.

Into mine.

It's All About the Food. And My Mom

The ranch cook. With Chris and Jerry.

Mom could make anything taste good.

And it didn't matter what she had going in her life, meals were always plentiful and on time.

She would serve a full, cooked breakfast of ham, eggs, pancakes and oatmeal, with lunch simmering on the stove and dinner baking in the oven so both meals could be produced quickly as soon as she got done gardening, cleaning or doing chores, got back from driving us kids to school, picking up whatever was needed from the hardware, the feed store, and the grocery, and attended one of her numerous Herefrord club meetings or quilting or sewing bees.

Sometimes I think about the scheduling nightmare that her life must have been.

Thinking about it makes me tired.

I've said it before, I'll say it again . . .

She was a saint.

But back to the food . . .

When Mom was 10 years old, she went with her dad and brothers up to the Berg family's 'other place' to cook while Grandpa and the boys brought in the hay crop.

She often described the little wood stove she used for her meals.

“It had the littlest oven,” she told me, “just big enough to fit in one pie.”

She was making pie???!

At ten years old???!

By herself???!

Okay, 'saint' just doesn't quite cover it.

By the time I was ten, I figured I was doing extremely well because I knew how to eat pie.

But I digress . . .

So, at the age of ten, she was doing all of the cooking for her father and three older brothers.

Well, she certainly learned how to cook.

Mom could open the fridge (that same fridge that one of us kids had just looked into and pronounced, 'empty'), and produce a hearty, rib-sticking meal.

In minutes.

And totally without the aid of a microwave.

Okay, she had all the modern conveniences. Electric stove. Running water.

Toaster.

Cheese Whiz. (But that is another story . . .)

But still, the meals she could produce.

Mmmm.

Her roasts were works of gustatory art.

Her pastries and pies had to be tasted to be believed.

Even her vegetables were unsurpassed by anything available in the vast dining world.

Mom could take cauliflower that she had grown and preserved (freezer – another story). Cook and serve it in such a manner that not a scrap was left over.

I tried it with my kids.

Somehow, when I prepared frozen caluiflower, it just came out . . . soggy.

And disgusting.

Oh, Mother, where art thou?

I did learn how to make her pies.

But that was all.

To this day, my siblings and I contact eachother regularly, asking if anyone knows the recipe for . . .

No one does.

When I cross over to the other side, it will be with a pen and paper in hand.

The first thing I will ask Mom will be, “What the heck is your recipe for your angel food cake topping?”

Notice I said 'heck'. That's because you can't use anything stronger in Heaven.

Where I know Mom is.

Probably cooking.

Sigh.

Fresh Bread - Part Crust, Part Yummy Stuff

My Mom. World's Best Bread Maker

I love bread.

Freshly baked or cooled. Whole Wheat. White. Multi-grain. Potato. Sourdough. Soda. Banana. Rye. Leavened. Unleavened.
Have I mentioned that I love bread?
I could have lived on it.
Fortunately, my Mom made the best bread on the planet.
And I knew this how . . .?
Okay, the best bread in my four-year-old world.
Twice a week, Mom would drag out her large, white ceramic bowl and start adding the magical ingredients. She would add, then stir. Add, then stir. I especially loved it when she would make potato bread because it was so much fun watching her force the cooked, cooled potatoes through the colander.
Finally, the best part, when the mixture had turned into a ball of dough.
Then, Mom would punch and turn. Punch and turn.
And she would always give me a little piece to play with.
Dutifully, I would wash my hands, then reach, with eager fingers, for my piece.
I probably should mention that my little white ball of dough usually changed quite quickly to a little grey ball of dough. Obviously, four-year-old hand washing left much to be desired. And Mom must have noticed, because my tiny, little loaf never went into the oven . . .
In no time, six huge, beautifully golden-brown, perfectly shaped loaves emerged magically from the oven. And took their place of honour on the cupboard to cool.
And they smelled like Heaven.
And I knew that how . . .?
Alright. Alright. They smelled like my four-year-old version of Heaven.
Sigh.
And they were just asking to be sliced and eaten with some freshly-churned butter.
Impatiently, I would follow my Mom around the kitchen, begging for a piece.
Now. While it was still warm.
And always, she would say, patiently, “In a minute, Diane. They have to cool a bit so they don't make you sick.”
Mom had told me many times about the little boy who had eaten a whole loaf of hot bread and who had to go to the hospital because the bread turned to a hard lump in his stomach.
And I believed her.
I did.
My stomach didn't, though, and it had to be re-convinced every time.
“But Mom . . .”
Finally, she would sigh and relent, grabbing the big bread knife and carefully cutting through the crusty outside and into the wondrous middle.
Soon, I was sitting at the big kitchen table, happily munching my way through a large slice of fresh bread and butter.
This had to be done right.
I had tried on numerous occasions, to convince my Mom that crusts were simply to keep the yummy centre from drying out. But she had a thing about 'wasting food'. So, the crust was removed and quickly eaten, to get it out of the way. Then I could eagerly dive into the best part. The wonderfully soft centre.
It isn't possible to be happier.
I would lick my fingers carefully and then stab at any crumbs that might have fallen, collecting them on one fingertip. More licking.
When I had eaten everything possible, I would get to my feet and start following my Mom around the kitchen again.
“Mo-om . . .”
The most I ever conned her out of were two pieces.
Even if I didn't believe the 'little boy' story, Mom did.
Another sigh.
But I outsmarted her.
Sort of.
One afternoon, Mom had given my siblings and I our quota of fresh bread.
Then she, and they, all headed for the garden.
I was alone in the kitchen. With half a loaf of fresh bread. I can only imagine what my smile must have looked like.
It certainly felt good to me.
I should probably point out, here, that I had tried, on numerous occasions, to slice fresh bread properly.
Each attempt was a dismal failure.
I would start out all right, then the knife would turn one way or the other and I would end up, not with a slice, but a wedge.
Which still tasted fine, just looked funny.
And made my Mom mad . . .
So, slicing was out.
I glanced around. The coast was still clear.
How could I get that yummy bread from the cupboard into me?
I reached up and touched the soft, white centre. Pressed it, slightly.
It sprang back so invitingly.
I pinched at it and managed to pull off a small piece.
Hmmm.
I stuck it into my mouth.
Good.
I pinched off another piece. Bigger this time.
Better.
I dug at the loaf.
A really big piece.
Perfect.
And, quite suddenly, I realized that all I needed to get at the wonderful, soft, white interior, was two little hands.
And ten handy little fingers.
Which I just happened to bring along with me.
In the next few minutes, I scooped out every crumb of soft, white goodness, leaving just the outside, crusty shell.
Okay. Now. How to hide the evidence.
I stared at the shell of a loaf. Huh. Maybe if I just turn it.
I flipped it over on its face.
Perfect!
Mom will never know!
Have I mentioned that Mom always . . .
Okay, I'll move on . . .
The first thing Mom did when she came into the kitchen was tip the loaf back up.
Rats.
Moms do those things. What's with that?
“What happened here?”
I stared at her mutely. How could I get out of this one . . .?
“It looks like we have a little mouse.”
Genius! Why didn't I think of that? I smiled and nodded. Yep. Mouse. Moms are so smart.
“Diane. Don't eat all the bread.”
I stared at her. What about the mouse?
She put her hand on my head. “It's not good for you to eat so much bread, Honey.”
Oh, yeah. The hospital thing.
“Promise me you won't do it again.”
I nodded, my eyes on the bread-shell on the cupboard.
“Good girl.”
I didn't get sick, like the little boy. But I also didn't ever dig at a loaf of bread again. I learned to eat the whole thing a slice at a time. By cutting it with a knife.
Like civilized people.
But there is a codicil . . .
Years later, after I married, I discovered that my husband came from a family of bread-lovers, just like me. Except that his family had fought, not for the soft, yummy centre, but for the crusty outside of his Mother's delicious bread.
Often, if one end crust had been taken, the other was cut off. If both ends were gone, the next logical choice was the top. Then the bottom.. Then the sides.
It wasn't unusual for my Mother-in-law to find a bread centre, lying naked on the cutting board.
Why couldn't I have been raised in that family?
Everyone would have been happy.