So we had stuffed Dover sole. Lovely stuff. Firm, mild fish, wonderful seafood-infused dressing studded with crisp pieces of celery. Yum.
We had a lively dinner, the children talked so much I could hardly keep up. We talked of "Super Size Me" and "Fast Food Nation" and so much I had to stop listening to them at points and take it up again when it was more linear. I slept poorly last night, am consumed with how to give up a job I hate that pays so well. A full day at the office under the microscope finished up with two grueling hours at the kitchen watching the last days of chaos consume the lives of the people affected. Knowing that I am leaving the calm security of the corporate world to tame the chaos of the small business world, and tame it I will. I am compelled to. Order comes naturally to me.
Except with my children, one of whom is evidently smarter than I am. He's old. You can tell if you are sensitive. He's ancient. He's Yoda. His twin brother and sister are wonderful children too, but this one is different. He's wiley, he's so clever he sometimes zones out, he's carefree, he's fearless, not in an annoying daredevil way, but in a way that tells the attentive that he's aware of what's really scary and what is only amusingly culturally forbidden. He calls me "nigah" when I act put upon by housework and winks one big round blue eye at me. He will act like he's going to kiss me and then pull away and say, "psyche!" then smother me with kisses and whispers and tell me how much he missed me all day. He plays the ukulele with a passion matched only by his hero, George Harrison. He's pretty open about his embarrassment regarding his "first" girlfriend, Crystal. He currently sees a future rose queen. They take communion together and talk on the phone at 3 am.
Tonight I fussed at Oxo for buying a loaf of white bread, something rude and accusatory, who is that nasty to the man who makes her a stuffed Dover sole? "It was FREE." he protested.
"Free?" Who gives away free white bread?" I'm such a bitch.
"Free with peanut butter and jelly." he gestures toward new jars of Peter Pan and Welch's grape jelly.
"I see. Look here. I don't want you to buy that peanut butter anymore."
"Ok, why?" bewildered look. The children are gathered closely now, listening to their mother, the hormone hostage. An idiot full or rage and fury toward ground nuts and sneaky scientists.
"It's full of hydrogenated fat, sugar and genetically modified peanuts."
Oxo glances at Son Yoda.
"Yea, Oxo, it's full of peanuts grown without beaks."
What else is there to top that? Suddenly I'm as impotent as a mother as George Bush is a president. I stand there watching Yoda wonder off giggling to himself as he picks up his ukulele. "See, Mommie? I was paying attention!" His snickers of self-amusement are food to my starved soul.
one of the hardest things from my past for me to overcome was not the jesus propaganda, nor the small town stasis of fear mongering.
no! those were easy compared to the mousetrap of white bread and kraft macaroni. coke-a-co-la by the liter and 25 cent burritos.
comfort food from my small town proletariat roots. nothing makes me feel more white trash than the size of my ass.
And the funny thing is that I was raised by a macrobiotic-eating hippie Zen Buddhist. We never had Skippy peanut butter. I recall eating white bread at a Pit BBQ on South Lamar once with my very drunk father and when my mother found out she told him, Woody, don't feed the children white bread. Not, Woody, don't drink and smoke with the children in the car, not, Woody, please don't show the children how to cut cocaine and sell it to your cabbie friends; Woody, don't feed them white bread.
We learn priorities from our families.