I Hope You Have One Just Like You!

My daughter lent me her copy of the book, Food Rules (Michael Pollan, 2009, Penguin Books) to peruse. It’s easy reading, in fact, I started and finished it during my 45 minute commute one evening. I felt exonerated when I read this book because it provided some evidence that I had the right idea about food as a kid. Here’s a sample from the book:

• If it came from a plant, eat it. If it was made in a plant, don’t.
• Buy your snacks at the farmer’s market.
• Eat mostly plants.

Given my choice as a child, my daily menu would have been:

• Raw carrots & celery, cucumbers, radishes
• Cooked carrots, corn, green or yellow beans
• Fruit – all fruit – any fruit, though berries preferred
• Nuts, self-extracted from the shell

Add to that my grandmother’s homemade plump noodle soup (my name for her wide-noodle chicken soup), my mother’s cookies, and popsicles, and I was in safe food territory. 

And here’s a partial list of what I would not put in my mouth:

• Anything made wet by the addition of another substance, i.e. milk on cereal, syrup on pancakes, gravy on meat
• Anything slippery, i.e. butter or mayo on bread 
• Anything mushy, i.e. oatmeal, beans other than green or yellow
• Anything with fat stuck to it, i.e. most meats, especially ham (which could also qualify as slippery)
• Anything gross-smelling, i.e. tuna fish

 I hope you are laughing by now because I am, although I still refuse to eat tuna fish. I acknowledge that my food preferences and phobias (for lack of a better term) drove my fairly tolerant mother nutty. I grew up hearing, “I hope you have one just like you,” slip regularly from her exasperated mouth, mostly in reference to what I would and wouldn’t put in mine. She didn’t mean it kindly. She meant that I should get back from my future progeny what I gave out to her.

Here’s a glimpse….

I am 6 years old and in the first grade. I take bus # 17 to school. Smoky is the driver – he’s nice and friendly. My teacher’s name is Mrs. Bateman and I don’t like her at all – she is mean. Every day I wish I had the other first grade teacher, Mrs. Penna, who is pretty and nice, from what I can tell.

Today is Tuesday and I am standing in the front entry way of my house, right in front of the steps leading to our scary upstairs. The front door is open because I am waiting for the bus which should be here any minute. I look at the little brown table next to the door for my red plaid lunch box but it is not there. My heart starts to beat louder and faster and my tummy does a somersault. I need my lunch box.

“Mommy,” I call to my mother. “Where’s my lunch?” My mother appears in the doorway to the kitchen and tells me that I will be eating school lunch today. Even though I have on my boots because it is winter, I race through the dining room to the kitchen where the lunch calendar is taped to the wall next to the stove. I know how to read so I can tell what is for school lunch.  I have a good memory too and I don’t remember that there was anything at all this week on the menu that I wanted to eat. I look at the menu. It says

Hamburger chili

American cheese sandwich

Dish of mixed fruit

White milk

“NO!” I wail to my mother. “I can’t eat chili. I hate chili!” My mother tries to reason with me. “But you like cheese sandwiches and fruit,” she says. That does not matter. “She’ll make me eat the chili,” I wail again, “she” being Mrs. Bateman, my mean teacher.

My mother truly can not imagine anyone making me eat anything. She doesn’t know Mrs. Bateman. Last week, Scott, who always buys his lunch, had to eat tomato soup even though he doesn’t like it. I heard him tell Mrs. Ketcham, the cook, that he didn’t want any when she put the bowl on his tray. I wondered if he was going to get away with it. When Mrs. Bateman saw that he didn’t have any soup, she went and got Mrs. Ketcham and told her to bring it back. Mrs. Bateman walks around the room making sure everyone eats everything on their tray and drinks all their milk.  That’s why I keep a close watch on the school lunch menu and mark off the days I want to take my lunch, which is most of them. Sure enough, there is a check mark on today because I will not eat chili. I don’t quite believe my mother has done this to me.

We both turn as we hear Smoky honking the horn outside my house. “I can’t go to school without my lunch!” I cry. My mother hurries me through the dining room into the front hallway. “I’ll bring you your lunch,” she promises. “Don’t miss the bus.” “Do you promise?” I am very close to crying, which is how scared I am at the thought of having to swallow chili. “I promise,” she says. I run out the door and across the front yard where Smoky is waiting patiently for me. But I spend all morning in school worrying that my mother will not keep her promise.

We have our reading group first. I am in the Bluebirds because I’m a good reader. Sometimes I skip ahead and then Mrs. Bateman gets mad because I don’t know where we are when it’s my turn to read. My mother is not here yet. Then we work on telling time which is really easy. I don’t see why we have to keep doing it.  My mother is still not here. Now we do some writing. We are working on the letter N. We have to use thick pencils that are way bigger than what I use at home, and we have to make our letters really big too. Mrs. Bateman always tells me to write slower so my letters touch the top and the bottom of the lines on the green paper. Where is my mother? 

F i n a l l y at 11:30, my mother appears at the door to my classroom. I am so glad to see her but I know better than to jump up from my chair. Mrs. Bateman goes to the door where my mother is holding my beautiful red plaid lunch box. She waves at me before she turns to go. Mrs. Bateman puts my lunch box in the cloak room. I let out my breath and tell my tummy it is okay to stop jumping.

We are now both safe from Mrs. Bateman.*   

* I try not to say anything bad about people who are still alive (notwithstanding, possibly, political figures who deserve it). I assume Mrs. Bateman, who later became Mrs. Maxim, and then Mrs. Jones is now deceased. If she is not, I’m sorry but she was mean. Honest.