I cook for you people EVERY DAY: A Cautionary Tale

I won’t tell you how old I am but let me just say this: back in my kidhood days, there were no SUVs. There were these things called station wagons: they had a front seat, a back seat and the “way back”, which is where you put your groceries, luggage, coolers and whatnot. There were also pop up/uncomfortable seats that could seat two young children if your mom was doing carpool duty which also is where you sat when you and your sibling were bickering to the point where your mother’s threats of, “I’m going to pull this car over!!!” were no longer effective.

So, while the car was in motion, you or your sibling was ordered to crawl over the back into the way back so you didn’t cause your mother to, “run away as soon as we get home!”, which is frankly not the sort of guilt you want hanging over your head the rest of your life.

While the wagon was chugging along, you would have to scale the back seat (and you always bumped your head in the mad dash to the way back) and you were left, banished to think about your behavior (plot revenge, more like), until you got home. No a/c or heat vents, so you either roasted as if on the face of the sun or froze as if in the Antarctic and it’s frankly surprising more adults of a certain age don’t have long term side effects from suffering mild heat exhaustion or frostbite in their formative years as a direct result of “station wagon time out”.

We had a station wagon. Yellow, with wood paneling. It had brown leather-like seats with banana colored accents. Foxy!

My mom picked us up from school just like usual. My mom had zero issues dropping us off for school in a VERY attractive brown and yellow velour caftan like job (with a hood, she looked a tall 70s gnome) but always picked us up looking fabulous. I recall clearly the outfit she was wearing on this particular day: red dress (fitted with a strange yet cool appliqué on the top) and red espadrilles, courtesy of Anne Klein.

My brother was 6, so that would make me 9. We were on our way home. I do not know what had happened, but evidently it had not been a good day at home. We were in the middle back, where good children were allowed to sit. All was quiet. I asked my mom what was for dinner and she said, “meat loaf”. I will straight up tell you that as an adult, I am willing to beg desperately for just two bites of my mom’s meat loaf. It is delicious.

As a rude child, I did not appreciate it. So when she said, “meat loaf”, I groaned. Not overtly rude but audible enough that her mom ears heard it and it did NOT sit well with her. In one moment of perfect universal synchronicity, she looked over her shoulder at me, gave me “the look”, looked back at the road, said, “I cook for you people EVERY day!”, with her hand slamming onto the steering wheel in perfect time with the EVERY and also punching her espadrilled foot on the gas pedal. Marsha punched it!!

For a moment, the car was as usual. Time stood still. Lives hung in the balance. I immediately regretted my groan of mistreatment; the rudeness of being subjected to a home cooked meal.

Then the wagon leapt forward and some sort of G force knocked my brother and I flat against the seats. The road we were on was fairly long and for 45 seconds, the wagon was screaming, surely taking us to our deaths (and no dinner!). When we got to the light, the brakes screeched us to a safe halt and the three of us rode home in an uncomfortable silence – my brother, myself (remorseful) and my mom, silently giving me a piece of her mind. She didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to; mom thoughts can penetrate your brain without a word being said.

We arrived home and my brother escaped. My mom and I had a talk; she had cooled off to the point that it ended up being a quick rundown on manners and also a reminder that I was free to take over the responsibility of cooking dinner (something I am still unable to do; feel free to drop by if you’d like some Bagel Bites). I never asked what was for dinner again unless I was prepared to be enthusiastic about it.

Moral of this story: if someone is nice enough to cook you dinner, keep your groans to yourself unless it is yellow summer squash, in which case, you are allowed one gagging sound only, regardless of your age.