Food 'Allergies'

The Bean Man . . . and family.

My Dad always claimed to be allergic to onions.

Whenever he ordered any burger, he always asked them to 'hold the onions'.

We just assumed that he really was allergic to onions.

Later in life, we discovered that his reticence was due, not to allergies, but to aversions.

There's a difference.

But what a scheme!

My kids tried to use it, too.

Our eldest, Mark, became quite expert.

His particular nemesis?

Beans.

Harmless, deep-browned, baked beans.

My personal favourite.

And one of the major ingredients in my award-winning chili.

Something that appeared with amazing regularity on the family dinner table.

Mmmmm.

From his very earliest years, Mark exhibited an unparallelled reluctance to put those nasty, evil beans anywhere near his mouth.

Regardless of how many times they might appear on his table.

Once, when he was just learning to say the blessing on the food, his father tried to trick him into 'bean acceptance'.

“Father in Heaven.” Grant.

“Father in Heaven.” Mark. (But imagine it in a little 20 month-old voice.)

“We thank thee for this food.” Grant.

“We thank thee for this food.” Mark.

“Because it's so yum.” Grant.

“Because it's so not yum.” Mark.

Laughter (Grant).

More laughter (Mom).

Grin (Mark).

And so it went.

For 19 years.

At the age of 19, Mark received a mission call for our church to Boston, Massachusetts.

He excitedly prepared to go.

I took him aside. “Mark, you know what they call Boston, don't you?”

“What?”

“Bean Town.”

His face whitened a little. “Bean Town?”

“Yep. Where do you think the term 'Boston Baked Beans' comes from?”

He had to sit down for that one. “Boston Baked Beans,” he said, faintly.

“Yep. So you'd better get used to eating them, because you will probably be getting them morning, noon and night.”

“Oh.”

He went anyways, brave boy that he was.

And returned two years later.

We met him at the airport.

We had sent our little boy.

We brought back an adult.

The first thing I asked him was how he felt about beans now that he had spent two years in the midst of the world's best bean eaters.

His response?

“I just got served beans for the first time yesterday.”

Even the 'Bean Towners' catered to my son . . .

Mark eats beans today.

Mostly to show his children it can be done.

But he doesn't wage much of a battle.

His oldest daughter, Megan's favourite food is Grandma's chili.

Okay, maybe the acorn skipped a generation, but it still landed near the tree.

Parenting 101: Kids and Phones!

My 'Creative Parenting' Prof.

When Dad spoke. We listened.

Most of the time.

But one ignored my father at one's own risk.

He could make his wishes known.

Creatively . . .

I had a boyfriend.

It was a new and exciting experience for me.

We would say good-bye at the school bus stop, get on our respective buses and head for home.

An hour later, we would be on the phone together.

Talking.

For hours.

Literally.

I should point out here that, in the 1960s, we had one phone line to the ranch.

And, because we were ultra-modern and progressive, two phones on that line.

One in the kitchen.

And one in my parents bedroom.

The epitome of modern convenience.

Back to my story . . .

I don't know what we found to talk about. But talk, we did. Until one or both of us was tagged for chores.

Or supper was announced.

Or our parents got annoyed.

My Mom was usually quite predictable, saying such things as, “Diane! Get off the phone! You've been on there for an hour!”

To which I would comply.

Eventually.

And under protest.

My Dad was a little more creative.

He would walk in the door, see me there on the phone, note the time, and leave the room.

That was my cue.

And my only warning.

I had seconds to say my good-byes.

Because Dad wanted me off the phone. And I wasn't going to like his methods.

They were . . . effective.

He would simply walk into his bedroom and turn on the radio.

Loudly.

Then take the phone receiver and lay it down beside said radio.

If I hadn't already ended my conversation, I did so then.

With a shouted good-bye and hastily cradled phone.

Mission accomplished.

Simply and elegantly, without a word being spoken.

Genius.

Summer in a Quonset Part Two

In the summer of 1968, my parents sold our home ranch out on the south fork of the Milk River, and bought another place nearer to town.

There were myriad challenges.

But the most important was that it was bare land.

Absolutely everything needed to be built.

Construction was immediately started on a new home, and at the same time, on several barns, corrals and outbuildings.

The ranch buildings arose much more quickly than the house.

And that left us in a further dilemma.

Where to live.

The people who had purchased the ranch were justifiably anxious to take possession and our new house was far from completion.

My parents decided to move us into the newly-completed, steel-ribbed quonset.

It was an adventure.

And it's told here by my mother, Enes, from her journals.

(If you missed part one, you can find it here.)

Home!

I drove right into the quonset and parked close to the living room area.

My thoughtful husband had already arranged the living room furniture in an orderly manner - complete with end tables on each side of the sectional couch.

It looked . . . inviting.

I wanted to drop my weary bones into the nearest chair!

However, there was no time.

Everything else there was chaos. Packing crates, boxes, and furniture everywhere.

Doc was busy setting up beds and improving bedrooms with dressers and wardrobe cases for partitions.

The electrician had been busy and two deep freezers were already humming their normal tune whilst preserving the family food.

My stove was being set up in the kitchen area east of the living room space, and it was comforting to know that I would be able to use most of the electrical conveniences I enjoyed.

Two tables were set up in the kitchen - one to be used as a work table and the other for eating our meals.

A set of steel shelves had been erected beside the tables for storing dishes, bowls, kettles and all my baking and cooking materials.

We had found an old cutlery drawer and it came in very handy when it came time to sort all the various kitchen tools.

I covered most of the articles on these shelves with tea towels. We discovered, with some annoyance, that the cement dust settled everywhere.

No amount of sweeping seemed to solve this problem.

In fact, I think it aggravated it!

We covered most of our furniture with grey flannelette sheets and old bed spreads. They stood like great, hooded monsters in the fading light.

It was nearly time to have our evening meal and the thought of food was farthest from my mind.

Our children were dancing about the crates and boxes in gleeful abandon and I hated to intrude upon this carefree joy with restrictions.

Luckily, I didn't have to.

A dear, sympathetic neighbour brought in a hot, steaming casserole of peppered steak and a crisp green salad. (I shall always have a soft spot for hot, peppered steak and a thoughtful friend.)

We suddenly discovered that we were not only hungry, but ravenous.

Just to smell this delicious food set our taste buds to dancing. We set the table quickly and all sat down together to share a moment of thankfulness and enjoy this wonderful food.

It had been a long day, this 23 of June. A warm, sunny day after the refreshing rain of the night before.

It was a day full of sound and activity, of confusion and frustration.

A day ending one segment of our lives and beginning a new one in a long chain of segments - each one an event that would shatter, frustrate or console us as we met new challenges.

Bread Heels

Worth fighting for . . .

In the Stringam household of eighty years ago, all food was prepared from scratch.

Processed or instant foods simply didn't exist.

Nothing came packaged from the store.

Bread was something that emerged, nearly every day, from the large oven.

No other option was possible.

No other option was needed.

Grandma's crusty, fresh bread, hot from the oven, was the favourite food of my Dad's family of nine brothers and sisters and their home was nearly always awash in the wonderful smell.

Mmmmmm.

But each large, beautiful loaf only had two ends.

Because bad manners hadn't been invented yet, it never occurred to Dad and his siblings that they could do anything about that.

Side note: My husband and his brothers, the creators of bad manners, would cut off every available surface – sides, top, bottom – after the ends had been claimed.

But I digress . . .

So, as the time drew nearer for the family to assemble for the evening meal, Grandma Stringam would slice one entire loaf of fresh, warm bread.

And place it neatly on a platter to go to the table.

That was about the time that every child in the house would suddenly appear.

And wrestle each other for the privilege of 'helping'.

The only time in the history of the world that that would happen.

Moving on . . .

Carefully, the winner would carry the precious platter of warm deliciousness to the table and park it in the centre.

Then he would quickly snatch one of the two crusty ends and set it on his own plate.

At first, this 'claim' was all that was needed.

But not for long.

Finally, the sacred placing of the bread on an individual's plate wasn't sufficient as a deterrent because as soon as the bread was placed and the claimer gone, someone else would creep in and slide said crusty slice of yumminess to their own plate.

Then the next person would do the same.

And the next.

This would go on until everyone assembled for the actual meal.

Whoever possessed it at that time . . . won.

Sort of like a game of 'hot potato', but better.

As time went by, more and more sneakiness was required.

The bread was placed under the plate.

Under the napkin.

Stabbed with the owner's fork.

The owner's knife.

Finally, in full view of whoever happened to be waiting in the wings for their turn, the possessor would stick out his (or her) tongue and lick the back of the hotly contested piece of bread.

Okay, remember what I said about manners?

Forget it.

Then place the now-thoroughly-claimed prize on their plate.

The entire contest came to a screeching halt.

But only for a while . . .