The short drive from work to his brother’s home had been a bit treacherous. As the evening sun glared across the blanket of snow the late afternoon temperatures began to drop, creating a lumpy glaze over the brick side-street.
Stopping in front of the house, the tires slid against the curb sending a small wave of refreezing ice over the snow covered lawn and onto the cleared sidewalk. As Mike stepped out of the car his foot slipped and banged his shin against the door frame. Letting out a groan, he slammed the door closed. Wincing in pain, the nineteen-year-old gingerly limped around the front of the car to the sidewalk.
As he reached for the front door he heard a voice behind him call out, “Hey, Mike!” Turning to see who addressed him, his vision was immediately obscured by the frigid smack of a slush ball in his face. It was the neighbor’s nine-year-old kid, Lance. His laugh was unmistakable, but not infectious. All that could be seen of him was his backside as he gleefully leaped over the drifts toward his house.
Duly exasperated, Mike flicked off the wet icy shards from his coat and, without knocking, walked through the entry door into the safe confines of the cozy living room. His sister-in-law Donna was in the adjoining dining room busily setting the table for the evening meal. She hadn’t noticed him enter the house. “Hi,” he sighed.
Startled, she looked up. “Oh my word, what happened to you?” she asked, laughing.
“Oh, your little next door nuisance gave me a late Christmas present,” Mike retorted.
“Well, it looks like he got you pretty good. What did you do to provoke him?”
“Nothing! I just turned and, smack, there it was.” He slipped off his coat and laid it over the arm of the couch. Wanting to change the subject, he continued apologetically, “Expecting anyone over for supper?” He hoped they had no plans for more than the family; Donna, his older brother Ron, the 4 year old Lisa, and Brent who was just a babe in arms. Mike often invited himself over for a meal when funds were low. Donna always offered good natured hospitality with a forgiving spirit.
With her knowing smile she replied, “I’ll set another plate. We’re having pot roast with potatoes and carrots.”
“Mmmm. Anything for dessert?” he inquired.
Calling from the kitchen, she said, “I made Ron’s favorite, my apple cake. I somehow missed making it over the holidays so it’s by special request.”
“I don’t recall ever having it.”
“Oh, you’ll love it since you like whipped cream.”
Whipped cream! He loved just about anything with whipped cream. His eyes brightened and his mouth began to salivate. The pain of the shin slam and the wrath of the slush ball incident diminished rapidly. Images of sweet delights buried in a blizzard of the creamy confection began to dance through his head. He scurried into the kitchen to assist her in the final meal preparations. Perhaps he could sneak a peek at the cake.
Time passed quickly as small talk was exchanged. Lisa was now up from her nap while Brent continued resting in his crib. Then Ron arrived home.
Entering the kitchen from the back, he gave Donna a kiss. Then he spied Mike and, with a knowing smirk on his face, said “Well, hello. Wasn’t expecting you. I suppose you’re here for supper.” Mike nodded sheepishly. Ron offered a jovial nod and went off to change clothes for the evening.
The meal was excellent with the usual table talk of the day’s workplace activities. Mike spoke of a difficult print job he’d wrestled with at the bindery as well as the ice ball incident. Ron shared the rigors of the current office politics. During the exchange, Mike pushed away his plate anticipating the upcoming dessert.
Donna interrupted the conversation, “I’m sorry but you’ll have to serve yourselves dessert. I need to lie down. I have a headache.” (She was prone to migraines.) Turning to make her retreat to the dark quiet confines of the bedroom, she continued, “The cake is on the counter and the Cool Whip is in the fridge. It’s running a bit low but should be fine for the three of you. Help yourselves.” As she left, she snatched up baby Brent for his evening feeding.
“Are you ready for dessert?” Mike asked eager to sink his teeth into that cake. “I’ll get it if you like.”
“Sure, go ahead,” Ron replied, clearing Lisa’s highchair tray. “The Cool Whip is in the door in an accordion shaped container.”
Mike entered the kitchen. Donna had already cut the cake into squares and served them up on saucers. They just needed topping. He grabbed the saucers and placed a nice helping at his unoccupied spot as guest at the far end of the table nearest the kitchen. A small serving was placed on Lisa’s high chair tray at the side of the table. The final piece was set at the opposite end of the table nearest the living room, Ron’s place. Then he hurried back to the kitchen to retrieve the Cool Whip.
A cursory search of the refrigerator’s interior unearthed nothing. Then he remembered Ron’s description. Suddenly he spied it! It was the new packaging that had thrown him off. What a fascinating design concept. It was about 6” high and 4” around, a white round accordion style plastic container topped with a blue snap-on cap. Just pop the top and squeeze. It would squirt out a fluted shape similar to a soft-serve ice cream cone or of piped icing on a cake.
Beaming, he returned to the dining room clutching the culinary delight and handed it to his brother. Ron covered his and Lisa’s portions, then handed it back to Mike who returned to his place. Hopefully there’d be enough for his piece.
Mike removed the lid, aimed the container downward and began piping the fluffy cream over the moist cake. Then came the inevitable sound, “Ppptttttthhh!” In his mind that seemed to indicate more air than topping in the bellows of the container. It barely covered his piece, more like a spattering than a smothering. Looking up, he saw Ron enjoying his portion while attending to Lisa. Mike conceded any further attempts at milking the container and finished off the tasty tidbit. All had contented, happy tummies.
The shop talk resumed but Mike was distracted. Picking up the bellows-shaped container, he began a closer examination of the construction. Tumbling it around in his hands below the table he thought, I wonder how strong that blue cap is. What would it take to pop it off? He turned and squeezed the bulges on the ribs and seams. Would they hold more applied pressure? Would the cap sail off into the living room? The possibilities seemed endless.
As Ron continued his "monolog," Mike’s attentions continued to drift. He leaned back in his chair aiming the lid toward the distant room applying even more pressure. The lid still gave no hint of budging. He positioned his thumbs firmly on the bottom as his remaining fingers encompassed the top and neck of the container. Just one hard push should do it, he concluded, and gave it a vise-like squeeze. Suddenly,“Phhooopppfffttt!” Like a bullet over the heads of all, the lid shot above the table, ricocheted off the ceiling and disappeared behind the coach. What a feat! Blast off was successful.
The room went silent. You could have heard a pin drop. Everyone must have been in awe of that marvelous in-home launch. Then, Lisa burst into laughter. As Mike looked up from the container, there, at the opposite end of the table sat a whipped cream covered brother, and his daughter. A look of total sheer disbelief etched Ron’s cream-coated countenance. Then slowly, like an erupting volcano, he thundered, “I can’t believe you did that!”
Awakened by the commotion of contagious laughter, with baby in one arm and the other hand pressed to her forehead to deflect the light, Donna reentered the dining room. With eyes squinting and jaw dropping, she groggily spoke, “What’s going on? . . . Oh my word!”
Her eyes widened as her gaze traced the entire area. The former dining and living rooms had turned into a make-shift launch zone from table level to ceiling. Whipped cream had spattered everything in sight. On the one end, Ron and Lisa, two ghost-like figures seated at the table, were dappled in the white cream. On the other end, the homey comforts and furnishings had been transformed to resemble a poorly blown popcorn ceiling. Soberly, she turned and, shuffling back to the bedroom, said, “You can clean it up!”
By Michael Alumbaugh, © February, 2017
Saturday, January 21, 2017
"You Love Oatmeal!"
Stepping from the bathroom, he grabbed his shirt and headed for the kitchen. The light over the dining room table gave renewed illumination as he tucked in his shirt tail and adjusted the belt in his slacks. He was ready for the day, save gulping down his breakfast and hitting the street for work.
As he entered the cramped simple dining area he spied her; the love of his life, his fair skinned auburn haired beauty, his Bride of over 4 years. She stood near the stove stirring something over a burner. A warm smile crept to his face as he seated himself at the table. She was always up mornings to see him off. He adored watching her moving around the duplex, whether it was straightening up, cleaning, reading a book, or cooking. And for meals, well, he anxiously anticipated her next culinary creation.
He pondered, “What will breakfast be this time? Maybe she’ll have pancakes, or waffles, or even bacon and eggs?” but there were no frying smells emanating from the stove. “Must be something in the oven.” he thought, but the small confinement of the preparation area wasn’t stuffy. With her back toward him, her robe clad slender physique hid what was being prepared, but no matter. Whatever it was, it would be worth the wait, as long as he wasn’t late for work!
She was a great cook. She had faithfully served meals since their engagement. Once at her parents’ home before the wedding, he recalled, she’d asked him if he liked potato cakes. Star-struck and clueless, he ignorantly responded, “I guess so.”
She followed up with, “What do you like with them?”
Continuing in blissful ignorance, he replied, “With maple syrup I guess, if you have it.”
Without another word, and a questioning glance over her shoulder, she returned to the kitchen. He found out as the dishes were passed around the table that potato cakes were butter fried mashed potato patties.
His daydream was suddenly interrupted. “Are you ready for breakfast?” she asked in her lilting voice.
“Sure! Always.” he remarked with a big grin.
His eyes looked over the table. His Bible lay a short distance from him. Perhaps he could get in a quick read for inspiration before heading for the door.
“Toast is coming too,” she added.
As he reached for the book, she walked to where he was seated, quickly placed a bowl in front of him, and hurriedly returned to the toaster. She made the best homemade bread he’d ever tasted. His mouth began to water. He watched as she cut the slices from the loaf and placed them in the slots. His gaze returned to the bowl and book as he heard her press the handle down and the spring catch.
His eager eyes set on the coveted prize as his tummy shouted, “Breakfast at last!” But it wasn’t what he had anticipated; not even close. As he studied the contents of the bowl, conciliatory thoughts raced through his mind. “She sacrifices so much for me. She could sleep in and make me fix my own breakfast, but she doesn’t. And she’s made my sack lunches every day since our honeymoon, always with a little note hidden somewhere inside announcing the number of days we’ve been married. What a wonderful wife! But . . .”
Time seemed to stand still as his suspicions solidified. Yep, it was the same thing in the bowl; oatmeal. She had fixed oatmeal so many times before and he never said a word. He just dutifully ate it and thanked her. He recalled his Mom fixing a big pot of oatmeal on cold winter days for her five hungry children. It was quick, easy, and economical for a family with a limited income. He had never liked it. Even then the slimy gelatinous mass was hard to swallow, but if he loaded it with raisins and sugar he could survive.
As she put the finishing touches to his lunch, he knew he had to tell her, but how? His thoughts turned to dread. With a dish towel in one hand, she turned and placed the mid-day meal in the usual spot at the end of the counter. He could easily spot and grab it as he ran out the door. Now might just be a good time.
She casually looked over at him. She noticed he hadn’t touched his spoon, not to mention the offering she’d placed before him. The steam from the old fashioned cooked oats was now barely visible as it continued to cool. Growing concerned, she asked, “Honey, are you alright?”
Still deep in thought, he continued to stare down at the bowl. The mass occupying the vessel seemed to have taken on a life of its own. It appeared to be staring back at him in bold defiance as if daring him to take a bite.
Fighting to maintain some semblance of composure, he opened his mouth, but instead of words, his gag reflex took over. A strained gulp erupted! “Hhuupp . . . I’m fine.” he burbled sheepishly.
“Is there something wrong? Do you need something else?” she queried. With a perplexed look, she stepped closer to the table. Generously, she offered, “I can put on a bit more honey if you want some.”
Those four years of hypocrisy had caught up with him. Desiring only to be a loving, considerate husband, he NEVER complained when she served him anything, even oatmeal. He truly loved the birthday oatmeal cakes with the creamy coconut-pecan frosting she made and her chewy pecan-raisin oatmeal cookies were a delight. In fact, he enjoyed almost anything else made with oats, but NOT cooked oatmeal. She desired only to please her husband. She continually sacrificed her desires for his, and he knew it.
The culinary confrontation between those dreaded oats and his knotting stomach climaxed. With all the compassion and courage he could muster, he exclaimed, “Darling, I know how much you love me and love cooking for me, and I appreciate ALL you do. And I know how much you love oatmeal.” Hesitating, he confessed, “But I HATE oatmeal!”
She froze in place. Her tender hands clasped the dish towel and slowly began wringing it. Then, she kindly but firmly spoke, “I love oatmeal? I don’t even like oatmeal, but YOU do! You always eat oatmeal.”
He now felt pangs of guilt for never communicating his dislike. In a penitent tone he spoke, “Well, I ate it because you fixed it, not because I liked it,” and then added, “and because I love you.”
With an understanding smile, she turned toward the stove once more, and with some resignation in her voice, offered an alternative, “I’ll fry you an egg to go with your toast and I’ll eat the oatmeal.”
Humbled, he looked down at his formidable foe, grabbed the spoon and attacked the gelatinous glob, as he conceded “No, honey, I’ll eat it.” . . . and so he did.
By Michael L. Alumbaugh, © 2017 January
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