My Childhood in H-E-Double-Hockey-Sticks

Farm to Factory to Fork

I endured unimaginable abuse as a child. Oh, I don’t blame Mother. She thought she was doing the right thing. And good old Dad? Well, he blithely stood by and allowed it all to happen.

Mom praised my every move. I wasn’t spanked. She encouraged me to excel in school; she invited my friends to stay over; and never use alcohol or drugs (unless you count her belief that Aspirin cured everything from a cough to a complete disembowelment).

Sounds wholesome and nurturing, right? Not so fast.

My mother was one of the worst cooks of the mid-20^th century. She fully embraced the post-WW II industrial manufactured foods industry in all of its preserved, dehydrated, soul-sucking, life-draining glory.

If mashed potatoes are good, boxed potato flakes were better. If fresh green beans are delicious, canned and boiled-to-goo were healthier. If Virginia ham was mouth-watering, spam was, well, at least it was trichinosis-free. She took a cake decorating class one time, and we kids imagined iced goodies and home-made petite-fours. No, sir. That woman used a cardboard cake form as a practice dummy. It was like waving an empty pizza box in front of a college student.

 It was a horror.

Compare my tale of torture to those of other more well known down-and-out children, and mine wins hands-down any day.

·         Oh, sure, Oliver Twist was subject to the filth and squalor of a 19^th century London workhouse, but at least his food was good enough that he held up his bowl to inquire, “May I have more, sir?” You never saw me asking for seconds.

·         Harry Potter was forced to live in a tiny closet under the stairs, but his Aunt Petunia produced a bounty of food to turn Uncle Vernon and slothful cousin Dudley into obese slobs. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t digest that cardboard cake.

·         And let’s not forget Sybil, the young girl with multiple personalities created by her crazy mother. Okay, that’s all bad and everything, but I remember from the movie that Sybil’s mother cooked a sumptuous pot roast dinner, with potatoes and carrots and the whole she-bang. I didn’t even know what a pot roast was until I was an adult. 

Yes, it’s tragic, but my story has a happy ending. Through years and years of intense, daily food therapy (i. e., stuffing my face), I’ve overcome a childhood that was almost beyond belief. I’m a survivor, and a chubby one at that.

 

P.S. – Please don’t tell my mother about this blog post.