Inappropriate Garnish
My mother and I were sitting outside of her house in Ohio talking when she was telling me about how a friend of hers served up a potato casserole no one would try because she had used pimento on the top of it as a garnish.
“You would eat it, wouldn’t you?” my mother asked as if it were a ridiculous notion for me not to. “No I wouldn’t,” I said defiantly, “The pimento would stop me in my tracks.”
“What are you talking about it? That’s ridiculous, you just scrape it off, the rest is fine,” my mom admonished my lack of bravery at trying pimento covered potatoes.
I gave up that argument with my mother as I so often did when I was certain she would have no appreciation for my having my own opinion. The truth is I would avoid those potatoes like the plague. I would take one look at the casserole and desperately wish the cook had not covered it in red squishy things to try and make it look like it was something other than just a potato casserole. Maybe her friend thought plain old potatoes were too boring to serve at the function. Was it a formal function that required a more distinguished dress for the food? Did the casserole complain of being cold so she felt obligated to cover them up? Whatever the circumstances that I was not made aware of, I am certain I would not have partaken of the dish due to its inappropriate garnish.
My grandmother was famous for shoving inappropriate things into Jello. Every family event Grandma would whip up some jello that outwardly looked delicious and refreshing until you took in a mouthful and found yourself chewing some sort of shredded vegetable that she had shoved into the center. It was shocking to my system every time she did it and she did it every time. You would think I would learn to avoid the Jello surprise after several attempts, only to find myself gagging and choking on roughage that had been encased by the jiggling mass. But alas it was not to be. My hopeful childlike nature refused to believe she would ruin every Jello dish with more horrifying and grossly unappetizing vegetable scraps. My feeling is simplicity is often the best garnish for any occasion. Better to serve something recognizable, than to expect one’s guest to scrape something off, or worse still, spit it out in a napkin.
I know why my mom thinks I would try things regardless of the inappropriate garnish that is used to disguise the obvious. She raised me to be polite and sneaky. She would deny the sneaky part and say it is heresy to say I was raised that way, but it is true. I was raised to take “no thank you helpings”, of food that I would never in my right mind eat even in the event of starvation. I was raised that it is better to choke something down than let the hostess know that I am deathly allergic to the main course. All my mother cares about when it comes to food, is good manners. One ambulance ride to the emergency room does not provide a reason to refuse good food that someone else has slaved over. I have had more arguments with my mother about people sticking weird things in food than I care to recount. “Why did they have to put dried mangos and pepperonis in the same salad?” I would look desperately at my mom for any kind of reasonable explanation. “Because it makes it look enticing. Now be quiet and grab a small spoonful so the hostess doesn’t feel bad.” My mom begins to put a tablespoonful on her own plate.
“If I eat that I will feel bad, how about that? Why is it O.K. for me to feel like crap? Can’t we just say I am a vegetarian?” I continue to plead. “With ribs on your plate?”Mom shakes her head at me as if I were an idiot. “I could say I am saving them for Michael”, I explain.
“He’s twelve hundred miles away in Houston Texas! Really, Kellie, it wouldn’t kill you to try something new.” Mom continues down the buffet line putting small dollops of unwanted food on her plate that she has no intention of actually eating. I watch my polite mother as she makes very obvious faces of disgust at some of the things she is “trying”, and I can’t help but wonder if we are doing the hostess any favors. Others in the same line have no problem snubbing the odd combinations that look unappealing, so why do we have to pretend to eat it? “If it’s that bad,” my mother continues, “just spit it in a napkin.” I look again at my mother and say flatly,”My napkin isn’t big enough. I have a question for you; wouldn’t it be easier and nicer to ignore the unrecognizable, so the hostess doesn’t make that mistake again? It seems kinder to quietly let her know that garbage pot pie is not an appropriate dish for any affair.” My mom looks at me with utter disdain, “Well that is just rude. Be quiet and put the salmon stuffed with pickles on your plate.”
I am a foodie, who has great appreciation for new and exciting cuisine, but I cannot reconcile myself to eat things that are far from interesting combinations and more like found table scraps blended together. My family is famous at reunions for having the best and worst dishes at the same table. One can help themselves to the most delectable treats to the disgusting treachery, all on the same paper plate. I do try and be polite, but I think my mom has gone a bit over board trying to not hurt someone’s feelings. There just has to be a middle ground between devouring the delicious and hacking up the inevitable fur ball due to the unknown. There have been buffet lines where I have literally run out of napkins to spit in. As I dive below the surface of the table, I really don’t think I am fooling anyone, as I repeatedly cough and sputter meat and vegetable shreds into an already soggy and disintegrating single ply napkin. I also think people notice that I have as many napkins on my plate as I go to throw it away as I did original food stuff. My family is smart and knows basic math. It doesn’t take a rhubarb and mozzarella pie chart for them to see I haven’t eaten what was on my plate.
My mom tries again to convince me that it is more about my genetic stubborn streak, from my father, of course, than my want to eat what is appetizing and takes a different tack. “You eat weird things all the time. Your father and I can’t eat half the stuff you make when we visit your house.” “It’s called seasoning, Mom, and it’s not weird. People have been seasoning their food since the beginning of time.” I feign interest in the ongoing bullying to eat the brown gravy covered asparagus she has plopped onto my plate. “What exactly is that?” I ask her desperately trying to understand why as a woman in my forties I still have to eat things that smell like my sons dirt covered socks. My mom looks at me and then breaks into a huge fit of giggles. “I have no idea…maybe it’s something they saw in a magazine.” “’Composting Made Easy’?” I garble out, as I double over, trying not to spill the goo covering my drooping paper plate. Both of us look at each other and lose it. Laughing hysterically, we make our way back to our table and begin the spit fest that has become our ritual of “being polite”. If there was a prize handed out for best manners in an awkward social situation, my mom would win, hands down, every year for the rest of her life. It is pure genius watching her “look” as if she has actually eaten half of what is on her plate. She should give speeches and do seminars on how to avoid bad food while maintaining the deliciousness of it, while practically starving because she hasn’t eaten enough of anything to fill the stomach of a starving child. I do know her Achilles heel, though. My mother hates lima beans. I am not sure what horrifying event took place in her past, that has her so up in arms about the little green devils, but I know for certain she would rather die of starvation than eat a lima bean. Sure enough I spot a lima bean casserole on the table and elbow my mother, as I head point to the crusted edges of the dreaded baked lima bean gunge. I notice the sprigs of parsley carefully put on top as if to hide the awful beige mess underneath. “You should try that you, know…” My mother’s face twists in horror as she says without remorse,” I will not put that on my plate. That is just wrong.”
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
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