My mom had a litany
of food rules. Cereal had to contain 100% whole-grains, more than three grams
of protein per serving and less than five grams of sugar; any beverage we
wanted had to have at least 70% juice; no artificial flavors or colors; no MSG;
no pop or white bread. My brother and I were well aware of the requirements
that governed our trips to the grocery store. We quickly became literate in
nutrition labels and food-packaging claims and spent a lot of time in the
cereal aisle attempting to find new varieties that fit into complied with the
restrictions. We were sick of
Cheerios.
I
commend my mom for her keep-them-busy-in-the-grocery-store tactic. I think she
made up many of the requirements on the spot, needing an explanation for not
allowing Kix, Cinnamon Toast Crunch, or even Honey Nut Cheerios into the house.
“But mom, the Murray’s always have
this kind, and Mrs. Murray says she eats healthy!”
She stuck to her rules, and at least
the specificity made it feel like we had some choice in what ended up in our
cart. I spent less time blindly requesting the packages of ‘extreme’ chips and
‘very berry’ fruit snacks that I saw in my best friend’s pantry - always
followed by a curt “No” (or a ‘did-you-really-just-ask-me-that’ eyebrow raise)
- and more time with my head bent over nutrition labels. I had some
understanding of why we could buy
cinnamon raisin bagels, but not blueberry (blue dye number 2), not that it made
me much happier about it.
Every
single restriction went, or rather, was forcibly thrown, out the window at Grandma’s. Being besieged by artificial
colors, flavors, sweeteners, preservatives, and empty carbohydrates was
arguably the best part of our weekly sleepovers at her condo. In the morning I
laid in bed, staring at the caricatures of my mom and her two brothers on the
wall and dreamily anticipating my grandma’s special toast: Pepperidge Farm
cinnamon raisin bread smeared with Jif Creamy peanut butter.
My grandma was always awake, in her
blue floral chair watching a morning talk show or AMC, when I wandered
downstairs. Her face broke into a huge smile, lips already coated in Maybelline’s
‘Sienna’, as I crossed the baby blue carpet to her chair.
“Ready for me to fix you some
breakfast?”
I helped spread the peanut butter on
the hot toast - the hydrogenated oils and diglycerides making it possible to
get a nice even layer with one stroke of the butter knife. I flipped the toast
upside-down before taking a bite so that the peanut butter wouldn’t stick to
the roof of my mouth. The raisins we still warm and perfectly gooey. A heaping
bowl of Rice Krispies followed, and I did
put my ear close to the bowl, listening for the ‘snap’ ‘crackle’ ‘pop’. I
could only hear the crackle part.
A few
hours later - after playing Chutes and Ladders, counting change from one of the
royal glass dishes on the mantle, pulling 50+ boxes of shoes down from the
shelf in my grandma’s closet, and painting our nails – we were ready for the
lunchtime snack. While my grandma assembled various packets and containers on
the counter and mixed up the French onion dip, I went to the pantry for a fresh
bag of Lays. I poured the chips in the moat around the bowl in my grandma’s
blue pottery chip-and-dip platter and carefully carried it out to the coffee
table.
Once in
a while my mom would come over on her lunch break to join us. The pharmacy my
parents owned was just down the road from the condo, and she had a weak spot
for chips and dip. We sat together on the blue plaid couch in front of the bay
view window, munching away. Why was it so good? There’s something about Lays
potato chips – just thin enough, optimal crunch, and ideal salt content. And
with the creamy tang of the dip…it’s just an unbeatable combination.
This was the food my mom had grown up
with. She had had all the Wonder bread, Fritos, Fruit Cocktail, and Jello a kid
could ask for. And more. She was overweight and uncomfortable for most of her
adolescent years. In Pharmacy school she expanded her knowledge about food and
started to change her habits. By the time my brother and I were born she was a
full-fledged health-food nut boycotting preservatives and MSG.
Sitting on the couch next to my
grandma, my mom wore a long linen dress, her dark hair held back with a
barrette – classic 90s co-op frequenter look. But at her mom’s house it was her
mom’s rules. This was the place where we could all enjoy a freedom from the
restrictions. We could accept offerings of love and respect differences in food
choices. Though very few other exceptions were made (I was once grounded for
coming home from a friends house with gum in my mouth) it was understood that
we could accept everything my grandma spoiled us with. My mom licked a glob of
dip off of her knuckle and took another chip from the moat, “Delicious as
always, Mom.”
I urged
my mom out the door, wanting grandma all to myself. The best came last in our
perfect day of food. After our dinner and baths, my brother and I sat on the
barstools facing the kitchen - kicking our legs, swiveling slightly
side-to-side, already in our pajamas. Grandma shut the freezer door with the
carton in her hand. I studied her gold, silver, and diamond-laden fingers as she
pulled an old-fashioned metal ice cream scoop from the drawer. We used to
compare our hands side-by-side and she admired my ‘young skin’, rubbing and
trying to smooth out her protruding veins.
“Here
you go Dolly.” Breyer’s Neopolitan Ice Cream: three scoops and always the
option for seconds. My grandma knew how to dish up a bowl of ice cream -
generous, rounded, actually scoop-like mounds, (not like the pile of chunks I
ended up with after going at the carton) with equal amounts of strawberry,
chocolate and vanilla. I liked to wait until the ice cream softened, until glossy
puddles began to form around the edges of each scoop. Since I usually wasn’t
patient enough to let it reach this optimal consistency, my first bite was
always a bit of a disappointment – still too cold to taste the full flavor.
As my bowl of Neapolitan melted, the
three flavors came together into a wet-sand colored substance with a fragrance
of cocoa, vanilla, and that not-actually-strawberry flavoring. It was the
perfect consistency; smooth, but not completely melted – like a soupy
milkshake.
At my house, I was sullen as I unloaded
the groceries and helped put them away. It was a reminder of everything that
was banned from our cupboards, refrigerator, and freezer. I wanted peanut
butter that didn’t have a thick layer of oil on top that I could never still in
completely with my butter knife; I wanted cereal that had animated characters
on the box; I wanted chips that would stain my fingertips.
My brother and I made each spoonful of
Neapolitan last, knowing we wouldn’t taste this sticky-sweet artificiality
until our next sleepover at grandma’s.
*
As I got older I started to notice the
way different foods made me feel. After a stealthy Cinnamons Toast Crunch binge
at the Murray’s house that used to satisfy an intense craving, I found my
stomach a confused, bubbly, jumble. I craved fruit more often than candy and
was grossed out by the bright powder flavoring on Doritos. I started putting
whole-wheat pasta, Vruit (vegetable and fruit juice), and bags of spinach in
our cart at the grocery store.
I had internalized most of my mom’s
food rules, end even made a few of my own: don’t eat anything you can’t
pronounce, no ‘juice cocktail’, no more ‘walking tacos’ at volleyball games.
Despite my new self-determined food choices, anything at Grandma’s was still
fair game. Her condo was the vacuum where we could give in to the artificiality
of All-American industrialized foods. Though no longer seduced by bright
packages and intense flavors, following my mom’s lead I continued to partake in
the peanut butter toast, chip-and-dip, and Neapolitan rituals. Participating in
my Grandma’s food culture was more important than staying vigilant to our
health regimens. Plus, it tasted good.
