As the cold weather approaches, one’s thoughts generally turn to the holidays and traditional foods. We had a few staples at our holiday meals. Homemade cherry cheesecake, green beans with a jar of spaghetti sauce poured over them, and a three bean salad.
The cheesecake was surprisingly good, despite being homemade. And I’m not really sure what the green beans in red sauce were all about; perhaps my mother thought it was some sort of traditional Italian dish? But it was the three bean salad that was my absolute favorite. And what’s not to love - - fiber, protein, vegetables, omega-3s? Perfection.
I can still vividly recall the last time I ate three bean salad. I wasn’t much older than four or maybe five. I had helped myself to a post-dinner snack of the favored salad and was happily munching away on it huddled in front of the stove for warmth, when the screaming started. Sibling #1 and Sibling #2 were killing each other in the front room. I have no idea what they were fighting over. I think I was too young to remember much more than the trauma of the pounding feet chasing each other through the house and the shrieks. And the spitting and the blood.
But I do remember Sibling #2 flying into the kitchen with big brother Sibling #1 hot on her heels. Or maybe it was the other way around. Either way, more pounding feet, more screaming, more disgusting hockers being spat at each other. And then blood. Sibling #1 had given Sibling #2 a bloody nose and a few drops of that blood fell almost on top of where I was crouching in terror, trying to protect my precious bowl of bean salad from their vile bodily secretions. Of course, I couldn’t be sure if any of the spilled blood had actually landed in my bean salad, so that was it. In my tender four year old mind, bean salad was now equated with blood and screaming and terror. I haven’t touched it since. But then we all have our issues.
I would like to say that was the end of the trauma, but it was really only the beginning. Sibling #4 soon grew old enough to join in. I’m not sure what it was about the dark haired demon siblings, but they were the only ones that seemed to relish the fight. We light haired siblings were far more civilized.
I dare say I never got in a single fight over a Nutty Buddy. Sibling #1, the oldest so the first to have a job and money, would buy himself Nutty Buddys or some other treat meant only for him. Of course, with little other treats in the house, some of his Nutty Buddys would go missing. And then the battles began. “Who ate my Nutty Buddy?” could be heard echoing throughout the house. Then pounding feet, then the sound of hockers being dragged from the filthy depths of their throats before being shot out at each other. Sibling #1 and #2 fought primarily over food if I recall. Yet, when they would see on the news that a pair of brothers had shot each other over a steak, they would make derisive comments.
Siblings #2 and #4, the blood-thirsty as Vikings dark-haired sisters, liked to fight over the use of the car. This must have been after Sibling #3 luckily escaped injury after attempting to drive the brand new car on ice covered roads to the local Dunkin Donuts for her “large coffee, black” and bran muffin and ended up almost totaling it. Sibling #3 learned quickly that Sibling #2 was probably not the best person to call for help after smashing up the new family car. (Which, incidentally, Mother actually won at a race she ran down on the Magnificent Mile. Only you had to be a licensed driver in order to win the car and she didn’t have a license and had to learn how to drive in a matter of hours. Fortunately, that was back before the License for Bribes scandal that resulted in the governor going to jail.) And of course, this fighting was prior to Sibling #4 getting the now damaged goods new car stolen while out on an illicit date with a non-Catholic that Mother secretly purified by sprinkling with holy water. Oh, and they liked to fight over whose fault it was that Sibling #2’s cat, that seemed to make a habit of disappearing in severe weather, was, surprise, surprise, out lost in a raging thunderstorm.
Sibling #4 also liked to mix it up with big brother Sibling #1. Although, really, who didn’t Sibling #4 like to mix it up with? And while I’m sure that Sibling #1 and Sibling #4 fought over more than the corner chair, the chair is what I primarily remember as being the source of many hocker-fests. I can still picture Sibling #4, always shorter than the rest of us, desperately clinging with all of her limbs to the skuzzy, corner chair that our big brother believed was his birthright to occupy. He would attempt to pull her out of it and she would cling so tightly that when he pulled, both she and the chair to which she had attached herself would lift off the floor. Eventually, after lots of screaming, he would just pick the chair up and hold it upside down until she lost her grip. To her credit, this usually took a while. Then she would pick herself up off the floor and spit a giant hocker on him before fleeing to the stairs with Sibling #1 in hot pursuit. Then they would stand in the stairwell, spitting hockers up and down at each other.
After one such episode, all of which likely had a lot to do with the stroke Mother suffered many years later, Mother threw Sibling #1 out of the house. It was during a particularly hot summer and he was simply hell bent on being the anti-Christ. For two blissful days, peace reigned. Then my father actually went to Sibling #1’s friend’s house, where Sibling #1 had himself holed up, and, inconceivably, asked Sibling #1 to come home. And so the first born and only male child, returned to reclaim his corner chair throne. I’d hate to think of what Sibling #4 might have rubbed on it when he returned.
And so it is that I have been depriving myself of a favorite holiday dish. I think, though, that just maybe I’ll find a recipe and make a batch to bring to our next family gathering. After all, the physical fighting has long since stopped. Granted, it has been replaced by a variety of other neurotic behaviors such as twitching, obsessive dishwashing, wearing protective tin foil hats, and the like, but at least the bean salad should remain blood free.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Monday, November 2, 2009
Rat Girl
At the age of about thirteen, I had an Irish boyfriend that the locals all seemed to think looked like Roland Rat, a popular cartoon character. As I looked like a q-tip, I was undaunted by the rat characterization. Since then, I’ve noticed that rodents seem to have a natural affinity to me. Or as the husband would argue, maybe it’s the other way around.
While I was still in my q-tip stage of development, I was out walking one afternoon with Sibling #4, after a soaking summer thunderstorm. We both looked down when we heard the rather sickening sound of squishhh coming from under my foot. That sickening sound, for me, was accompanied by the even more sickening, yet familiar, sensation of having an object actually squishhh under my foot. I can tell you there is nothing quite like the sensation of a soft, yet rubbery, water laden dead rodent squishing under one’s weight.
My first, thought, upon hearing that squeamish squishhh? Not, as you might suspect, Holy Mother of God, what was that? But rather, Oh, no, not again! Yes, this was the second, not the first, mouse that I inadvertently squished under my foot while out for a walk with Sibling #4. Not on the same day, of course, but within a fairly close time span. And while she has no substantial proof, Sibling #4 counters my contention that the mice were already dead when I came upon them. She seems to recall motion out of the corner of her eye prior to hearing that soggy squishhh. And to this day, is just delighted, her big Gollum eyes all aglow, whenever a rodent opportunity presents itself for her to make that sound in my presence. Which, one would think, wouldn’t be very often. Like I said, though, I seem to have an affinity to rodents.
When I was pregnant with Child #1, the husband came in from the yard and said nonchalantly, ‘you know, you’re feeding a rat out there under your bird feeder?’ He went on to describe how fat it was, feasting on birdseed in the middle of the day, as if I was intentionally trying to fatten up part of the neighborhood rat population. Brazen bastard. The rodent, that is, not the husband. At least in this case.
So began the rather tricky task of ridding one’s yard of an emboldened fat rat. The city came out with rat poison in tow. But when they asked if dogs ever frequented my yard, and the neighbors’ dogs often came to visit, they recommended against baiting the yard. They wished me luck and drove off in their big, city blue truck with a friendly wave, as if it was normal to have a rat problem in one's yard. At this point, I was feeling a bit guilty for killing the thing outright so a no-kill trap was obtained from the Bug Stop, on Halsted. But the rat was too wily and I managed only to capture a couple of its rather dim-witted squirrel cousins which I then had to release without them clawing my face to pieces in their post-release terror.
Did I mention that while the rat saga ran its course outside, a squirrel was terrorizing me in the basement? I was washing lots of tiny little outfits in preparation for the imminent arrival of Child #1 when something with a bushy tail scurried by on the pipes just over my head. Perhaps out of some sort of innate loyalty to its rat cousin, a squirrel had somehow found its way into my house. I didn’t care to dwell on the omen implications of a rat and a squirrel suddenly appearing shortly before the birth of the child. If I wanted to be terror stricken by future possibilities, all I had to do was consider the child’s gene pool for a moment.
I brought the no kill trap inside and caught exactly zero squirrels. I finally left the basement door open, created a peanut trail leading out the door, went upstairs and made as much noise as possible. Then I realized that the peanut trail might just invite in some of his squirrely friends. However, I am pleased to report that when I went back to remove the peanut trail, some of the peanuts were gone, and I never caught sight of the squirrel again. The same can’t be said for the rat which continued to hang around under the now empty bird feeder.
The no kill trap was brought back outside, along with a nice hunk of cheese, but to no avail. I finally gave up on the no kill trap when I read on the Internet that rats were very territorial and if a strange rat was introduced into a new territory, the existing resident rats would rip it to shreds. That seemed a bit cruel. And I just couldn’t visualize driving to the Dan Ryan Woods with a rat in a cage in the back of the old Volvo. So, despite my feeling more than a little guilty, we found the fat rat’s rather sizable hole and I made the husband stick a hose down it. The husband laughed that my guilt in doing this was because I am part rat. Shouldn’t a husband be nurturing their nine month pregnant wife instead of telling her she has a “rat-like countenance”?
But then, I suppose most husbands don’t affectionately refer to their wives on occasion as “Rat Girl”. If the husband catches me rummaging through a hidden stash of truffles that I greedily don’t want to share, he’ll say with a knowing grin, “What ya doing, Rat Girl?” The knowing grin is because he thinks that I am merely exhibiting the rat trait of hoarding. If I am freezing cold and all hunched over in a futile attempt to conserve body warmth, a posture honed to perfection growing up in the arctic family abode, the husband, rather than offer me his toasty warm Patagonia fleece, will scrunch up his upper lip and make rat noises. The son has even picked up on this enough to make snarky comments about his mother’s relatives being on TV when he sees a rat on the screen. And he is not referring to his aunts or grandparents or any actual relatives, but some vast rodent network of which I am apparently a part.
It seems I cannot shake this rodent connection. Just the other day, I was running hills. The hill was covered in a beautiful tapestry of fallen leaves and the weather was just perfect for running - - cool and misty. Everything was going great, I even like to think I looked like I was running fast, and then suddenly, there it was. A dead mouse lying right where my foot was about to strike the sidewalk. All I could hear was a giant squishhh as I quickly lengthened my step to clear the dead rodent. Ugh. I made it to the top, squishhh-free and then tiptoed back down the hill slowly, eyes on full alert for the dead mouse masquerading as a colorful fall leaf. I didn’t want to look at it, but I didn’t want to step on it, either. And when I came upon it on my downward jog, it was very clear that someone else had stepped on it. It was sprawled out, flattened, bloody, and slightly water logged.
I ran up the next hill, my stride now choppy as I picked my steps over the dead mouse looking leaves, on the lookout for the squashed rodent and its friends. I no longer looked like I was running fast, but had the posture of a runner defeated by the hill, though it was that damned mouse that had done me in. I managed two more hills before I thought I might gag as I couldn’t get the image of that bloody, water logged mouse, nor get the perceived squishhh sound it had made when some other poor sucker stepped on it, out of my head. I finally gave up and left the hill for Mr. Squishy and his friends.
I did manage to run a few more miles. When I got home, I was starving, but couldn’t bear the thought of eating anything once living. So, I settled on my favorite lunch. Ironically, a cheese sandwich. With each bite I had to try to keep the image of that flattened body out of my head as I seem to have an overly active gag reflex. Noting my obvious discomfort, the nurturing husband asked with good humored concern in his voice, “What are you looking all ratty about now?” Clearly, I needed to work on making better choices.
While I was still in my q-tip stage of development, I was out walking one afternoon with Sibling #4, after a soaking summer thunderstorm. We both looked down when we heard the rather sickening sound of squishhh coming from under my foot. That sickening sound, for me, was accompanied by the even more sickening, yet familiar, sensation of having an object actually squishhh under my foot. I can tell you there is nothing quite like the sensation of a soft, yet rubbery, water laden dead rodent squishing under one’s weight.
My first, thought, upon hearing that squeamish squishhh? Not, as you might suspect, Holy Mother of God, what was that? But rather, Oh, no, not again! Yes, this was the second, not the first, mouse that I inadvertently squished under my foot while out for a walk with Sibling #4. Not on the same day, of course, but within a fairly close time span. And while she has no substantial proof, Sibling #4 counters my contention that the mice were already dead when I came upon them. She seems to recall motion out of the corner of her eye prior to hearing that soggy squishhh. And to this day, is just delighted, her big Gollum eyes all aglow, whenever a rodent opportunity presents itself for her to make that sound in my presence. Which, one would think, wouldn’t be very often. Like I said, though, I seem to have an affinity to rodents.
When I was pregnant with Child #1, the husband came in from the yard and said nonchalantly, ‘you know, you’re feeding a rat out there under your bird feeder?’ He went on to describe how fat it was, feasting on birdseed in the middle of the day, as if I was intentionally trying to fatten up part of the neighborhood rat population. Brazen bastard. The rodent, that is, not the husband. At least in this case.
So began the rather tricky task of ridding one’s yard of an emboldened fat rat. The city came out with rat poison in tow. But when they asked if dogs ever frequented my yard, and the neighbors’ dogs often came to visit, they recommended against baiting the yard. They wished me luck and drove off in their big, city blue truck with a friendly wave, as if it was normal to have a rat problem in one's yard. At this point, I was feeling a bit guilty for killing the thing outright so a no-kill trap was obtained from the Bug Stop, on Halsted. But the rat was too wily and I managed only to capture a couple of its rather dim-witted squirrel cousins which I then had to release without them clawing my face to pieces in their post-release terror.
Did I mention that while the rat saga ran its course outside, a squirrel was terrorizing me in the basement? I was washing lots of tiny little outfits in preparation for the imminent arrival of Child #1 when something with a bushy tail scurried by on the pipes just over my head. Perhaps out of some sort of innate loyalty to its rat cousin, a squirrel had somehow found its way into my house. I didn’t care to dwell on the omen implications of a rat and a squirrel suddenly appearing shortly before the birth of the child. If I wanted to be terror stricken by future possibilities, all I had to do was consider the child’s gene pool for a moment.
I brought the no kill trap inside and caught exactly zero squirrels. I finally left the basement door open, created a peanut trail leading out the door, went upstairs and made as much noise as possible. Then I realized that the peanut trail might just invite in some of his squirrely friends. However, I am pleased to report that when I went back to remove the peanut trail, some of the peanuts were gone, and I never caught sight of the squirrel again. The same can’t be said for the rat which continued to hang around under the now empty bird feeder.
The no kill trap was brought back outside, along with a nice hunk of cheese, but to no avail. I finally gave up on the no kill trap when I read on the Internet that rats were very territorial and if a strange rat was introduced into a new territory, the existing resident rats would rip it to shreds. That seemed a bit cruel. And I just couldn’t visualize driving to the Dan Ryan Woods with a rat in a cage in the back of the old Volvo. So, despite my feeling more than a little guilty, we found the fat rat’s rather sizable hole and I made the husband stick a hose down it. The husband laughed that my guilt in doing this was because I am part rat. Shouldn’t a husband be nurturing their nine month pregnant wife instead of telling her she has a “rat-like countenance”?
But then, I suppose most husbands don’t affectionately refer to their wives on occasion as “Rat Girl”. If the husband catches me rummaging through a hidden stash of truffles that I greedily don’t want to share, he’ll say with a knowing grin, “What ya doing, Rat Girl?” The knowing grin is because he thinks that I am merely exhibiting the rat trait of hoarding. If I am freezing cold and all hunched over in a futile attempt to conserve body warmth, a posture honed to perfection growing up in the arctic family abode, the husband, rather than offer me his toasty warm Patagonia fleece, will scrunch up his upper lip and make rat noises. The son has even picked up on this enough to make snarky comments about his mother’s relatives being on TV when he sees a rat on the screen. And he is not referring to his aunts or grandparents or any actual relatives, but some vast rodent network of which I am apparently a part.
It seems I cannot shake this rodent connection. Just the other day, I was running hills. The hill was covered in a beautiful tapestry of fallen leaves and the weather was just perfect for running - - cool and misty. Everything was going great, I even like to think I looked like I was running fast, and then suddenly, there it was. A dead mouse lying right where my foot was about to strike the sidewalk. All I could hear was a giant squishhh as I quickly lengthened my step to clear the dead rodent. Ugh. I made it to the top, squishhh-free and then tiptoed back down the hill slowly, eyes on full alert for the dead mouse masquerading as a colorful fall leaf. I didn’t want to look at it, but I didn’t want to step on it, either. And when I came upon it on my downward jog, it was very clear that someone else had stepped on it. It was sprawled out, flattened, bloody, and slightly water logged.
I ran up the next hill, my stride now choppy as I picked my steps over the dead mouse looking leaves, on the lookout for the squashed rodent and its friends. I no longer looked like I was running fast, but had the posture of a runner defeated by the hill, though it was that damned mouse that had done me in. I managed two more hills before I thought I might gag as I couldn’t get the image of that bloody, water logged mouse, nor get the perceived squishhh sound it had made when some other poor sucker stepped on it, out of my head. I finally gave up and left the hill for Mr. Squishy and his friends.
I did manage to run a few more miles. When I got home, I was starving, but couldn’t bear the thought of eating anything once living. So, I settled on my favorite lunch. Ironically, a cheese sandwich. With each bite I had to try to keep the image of that flattened body out of my head as I seem to have an overly active gag reflex. Noting my obvious discomfort, the nurturing husband asked with good humored concern in his voice, “What are you looking all ratty about now?” Clearly, I needed to work on making better choices.
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