Growing up as a child, I can remember my mother getting very annoyed with herself when no matter how careful she tried to be, a morsel of food, a drop of sauce or a spatter of dressing inevitably would find its path to the front of her blouse. These small culinary traces were like homing pigeons coming back to roost. We would all snicker, much to her dismay, at the sudden realization that the mystery of what to get her on the next gift giving occasion had simply solved itself!
Call it fate, divine providence or simply genetics, but as I’ve gotten older, I have found myself suffering from the same malady as my mother. I swear to you that if you went into my closet, more than 60% of my blouses would have the telltale signs of those culinary homing pigeons.
I have tried a multitude of stain removal products on the market, but all of them combined have not been able to restore more than 2% of my garments to the point that I can wear them in public.
It isn't that I don't try to eat carefully. In fact, there have been times my menu choices are made by the viscosity of the sauces and the ability of the food to remain on the fork until it is delivered safely behind the toothy cage beyond my lips. There have been times I've accomplished this successfully...that is… until my last forkful. Etiquette dictates that you should leave some food on the plate which signifies to the host that you have been satisfied, but I propose it is more likely a civilized warning that to finish to the last bite is simply testing fate and challenging the odds of successful delivery. I have tested this theory multiple times and indeed, there have been times that I have gotten through nearly the entire dinner feeling quite proud of myself that nothing found its way to my chest. Then it happens-- when I glance down at the plate, feeling so full I don't think I could swallow another bite, my conscience replays Sister Joseph Patrice’s' lecture on the sin of wasting food and visions of starving children in Biafra pass through my mind. I watch helplessly as my hand lifts the fork to impale the last morsel of food on the plate. And as I raise the final bite to my mouth, I detect a barely discernible weight change on the utensil and watch in embarrassment as the tasty little pigeon returns to roost on my chest.
So there it is. The more we try to climb out of the gene pool, the deeper that pool becomes.
Culinary Homing Pigeons are not the only thing I have inherited from my parents. Like my mother, I am overweight and sometimes grapple with a lack of self-esteem. I developed her bad habit of biting dry cuticles until my fingers become raw. I have my father's easy going nature, and like him, it takes a lot to set me off- but I have a short fuse and once it’s lit, it should come with a siren to caution anyone in the vicinity to keep clear or suffer the fallout. Allergies, soft fingernails, and arthritis are among the other not so desirable inherited traits. But I don't believe I only inherited the negative. I think I learned compassion, and understanding, and a fierce sense of loyalty. However, the trait I inherited from both mom and dad that I am most proud of would have to be a sense of humor. Both had a wonderful sense of humor, and if I learned one thing from my mom, it’s how to laugh at myself and how humor can get you through an uncomfortable situation. This humor helped me through an uncomfortable situation last Tuesday.
It has been a very busy couple of months at the campground, and we were running low on some things needed for the upcoming weekend which warranted a trip to Walmart and BJ's. When I got to route 80, I noticed the backup of cars heading west toward the bridge, so I did an immediate U-turn and headed for the Portland Bridge so that I could avoid the traffic and drive up the PA side of the Delaware River. Entering Walmart, I did a quick recon of the department headings and made a beeline for the items on my list. As I backed out of my parking spot, it suddenly hit me that I had not eaten breakfast, and it was already past the lunch hour. I was feeling a little shaky and lightheaded and knew I needed to make a quick detour on my way to BJ’s. Arby's was the closest fast food establishment, and I quickly ordered a roast beef sandwich with bacon. Pulling away from the drive thru, I hastily unwrapped the sandwich and took a bite. The sandwich immediately began to disassemble and pieces of lettuce, bread, beef and bacon were showering down the front of me while I held onto the driver’s wheel.
I quickly ate the remainder of what was left in my hand and shook the debris from my blouse, as I slid into a parking space at BJ’s Wholesale club. I hurried inside with my list in hand and quickly began to go about my shopping when I noticed an elderly couple standing in front of me. The gentleman had an air of gentility about him, and he was making a discrete attempt at getting my attention. “Excuse me miss,” he said softly, “you seem to have dropped something” and he shyly pointed at me.
I glanced down and was mortified to see a chunk of bacon wedged in my cleavage! Flicking it out with one quick motion and falling back on my mother’s advice and humor, I rolled my eyes at him and said “what can I say, my husband enjoys treasure hunts, and he loves bacon!” The man’s wife burst into laughter as did I, and we watched the man turn various shades of red. Even his gray hair seemed to get a tinge of pink. “I’m sorry,” I chuckled, “but I thought if you were as embarrassed as I, it would help level the playing field.”
“You certainly accomplished that” his wife said laughing uncontrollably.
I shrugged my shoulders and smiled, “I guess I’ll have to tell him the treasure has already been found,” and turned and wheeled my shopping cart around the corner into the next aisle.
Upon returning home, I told my husband what had happened on my shopping trip. That night he found a new treasure under his pillow. It was a bag of bacon flavored jerky. I winked at him and said “in case you miss me while I’m gone.” We both laughed as I grabbed my cell phone and walked out the door to spend the night with my granddaughter.
