One of my three wishes would be to have the kind of lunch I enjoyed as a child. These days I grab whatever is handy when my stomach gurgles and lurches toward my throat as friendly reminder to eat. So often I am either focused on work or stuck in a daydream that I forget to eat until my palms are clammy and the ground beneath my feet begins to spin. That's when I grasp at the nearest bag of Goldfish crackers or gooey Cadbury egg for relief. Once the sugar has had a chance to dissolve and pulse through my veins, I carry on with my day as if my body had not just gone into a small state of shock. Every once in a while, for stretches that last a week or maybe two, I make a point of eating lunch on a regular basis. I pack little brown bags with apples and cashews to go with turkey sandwiches and milk. These spurts of nutritional well being are fleeting, however, and I inevitably go back to shoveling crap into my mouth right before the linoleum floor hurdles toward my forehead.
When I was younger, lunch was a daily appointment that was never missed. Mom would set the table precisely at noon and we would help ourselves to what seemed like a bottomless trough of Campbell's soup. Just like at Tim Horton's today, there was always a variety of soups burbling in various pots on the stove top. One of us liked cream of mushroom, while another favored tomato rice. Chicken noodle was also popular and, depending on those present, beef with barley was not uncommon. All of this was long before Campbell's came up with "reduced sodium" anything, so it's fair to say we were a puffy and bloated bunch. Soda crackers were also plentiful, as were cans of salmon that had been mixed with mayonnaise and transformed into creamy spreads that we slathered on them. I have since deemed salmon salad gross, but I find myself a little bit homesick when the smell of canned fish wafts over from a neighboring apartment.
Once I was old enough to go to school, I began taking my lunch to school in tin boxes adorned with my favorite cartoon characters. For a few years it was Bert and Ernie, then Bumblelion and the rest of the Wuzzles gang. Eventually I graduated to a plain blue insulated bag that signaled my first step toward independence. Inside were lunches packed with care by my mother. She always insisted there was no such thing as "being bored" and reinforced this declaration by keeping my lunch bag full of surprises. The main course rarely varied and was usually a bologna or peanut butter sandwich. Granola bars were another staple of these lunches, as were Ziplock bags filled with cheesy crackers. Where she applied her genius for school lunch making was in the fourth item, which was always an inspired selection that kept me on my toes. I would unravel the top of my lunch bag with anticipation, never quite sure of the wonders in store.
Whenever I'd watch TV shows like Dennis the Menace or The Brady Bunch, there were always story lines about the jealousy lunches could inspire in others. Dennis would long after Joey's candy bar or Bobby trade dish washing duty for Cindy's chocolate milk. I always thought these things only happened on television, but looking back I see that's because I had the best lunch in my class. Had I known this then, I could have cleaned up and traded my goodies for the biggest marbles or completed homework assignments. Among the items that made my lunches great were packages of shelled sunflower seeds, miniature bags of Doritos or slabs of peppered beef jerky. Like I said, mom knew how to keep things exciting. She also had a knack for beverages. Long before it was available in Canada, it was quite a coup to have a pouch of Capri Sun fruit juice. Mom's frequent trips to North Dakota meant that our refrigerator was well stocked with Capri Sun, so they often appeared when the school bell rang at noon. Something about sticking a straw into a silver foil pouch made them infinitely more desirable than one of Dole's ghetto juice boxes. Although I never experienced being a "cool kid," the straw in my pouch was definitely a feather in my cap.
There was a stretch of time in elementary school when my brother and I would walk to my Grandma Davidson's every Tuesday and Thursday for lunch. We would arrive at her cozy suite precisely at noon and burst through the doors, where a pair of TV trays would already be waiting for us. They were flimsy aluminum trays, but I remember thinking they were something special because they had flowers on them that looked like they had been painted by the stout woman who taught Sunday morning art lessons on the CBC. Propped up behind the trays were white pillows that had fringe around the edges and tassels at the corners. I'd sit on mine because I was too short to reach the tray, while Curtis would grab his by a tassel and twirl it around until there was so much pressure on the seam that it would begin to spin the other way in fast motion. As this ritual went on, the clatter of silverware and dishes could be heard coming from the kitchen.
Finally Grandma would appear in her apron and greet us with a warm smile and plate of buttered crackers. She'd set the fancy hors d'oeuvres on my tray before sitting on the rocker across from us. We'd nibble at the crackers while she asked about our day and told us about her morning jaunt to the post office. Then without warning she would stab her feet into the carpet and press her chair back with enough force to propel her forward on the rebound. Back to her feet, she'd flip the TV to channel 7 where The Flintstones was already in progress. For the next twenty minutes we'd sit mesmerized by Fred and Wilma as Grandma shuffled back and forth from the kitchen with bowls full of soup (yes, Campbell's) and sandwiches slathered with butter as thick as the bread. I don't think she ever sat down for a moment and certainly never had anything to eat herself. Every condiment request warranted its own trip to the kitchen, so by the time the credits rolled on The Flintstones, I'm sure she had walked a mile.
Dessert came with a cherry on top. As the news began with either the temperature or current price of grain - whichever was lower - she would present us with canned fruit that had been ladled into her finest crystal bowls. The pears were suspended in syrup and magnified by crisscross shapes cut into the crystal. The coveted cherries had been equally disbursed between them and a ginger cookie was snapped and wedged upright in each bowl. By the time we polished off the fruit it was time to stand in line for a goodbye kiss and head back to school. It did not occur to me until years later that Grandpa Davidson was also present at these lunches. Unfortunately, he was in such poor health that he rarely had much to say, so his role in these memories is small. Yet looking back I admire how he patiently sat through our cartoon as he watched the woman he called his wife for so many years spring to life in a way he no longer could. I don't think I ever spoke to him during these lunches, but perhaps I didn't have to. Surely it's enough that we shared the same love, who always showed up with a bowl full of cherries.
Lunch with my Grandma Hayward is another story entirely. She made batches of brownies in a worn 9x9 pan that looked as though it had survived both World Wars. Perhaps it had, I don't know. Whether it was the pan or her special touch, they were the kind of brownies that could make grown men weep. They were crunchy on the outside, chewy on the inside and saturated with so much sugar that she should have served them with syringes of insulin. In short order, the greatest brownies ever made. The recipe has circulated around the family since her passing, but nobody has quite got it right. Either she left out a vital ingredient or, as I more likely suspect, in order to develop their full flavor they must sit on the counter and absorb copious plumes of Craven A cigarette smoke.
While her brownies were delicious, I never much cared for her depression era dinners. A particular favorite of hers was gummy glops of Campbell's bean with bacon soup spread onto stale slices of Wonder Bread. As much as I loved her, this recipe would have made Laura Ingalls Wilder go to bed hungry. Therefore, I rarely spent my lunch hours away from school eating at her food museum. When I think back on it, I don't think she enjoyed cooking anyway. One time when mom and dad were away, she spent a week with Curtis and I at our farm. When supper rolled around, instead of warming up the oven we would pile into her car and drive 5 miles to the Bow Manor Cafe in town. I was about 12 or 13 years old at the time, so I was surprised on the first day when she tossed her keys in my direction.
"You drive," she said.
The only vehicle I had driven up to this point was my dad's pick-up truck in the middle of a cultivated field, crying hysterically with my eyes clenched shut. I didn't understand why my brother thought driving was fun and could never imagine wanting to do it voluntarily. Yet here I was, face to face with my dear grandmother, who either believed in me or had a death wish.
My bottom lip quivered as I bent down to pick up the keys I had dodged. "Okay," I croaked. Then she took her place in the passenger seat.
Her car was the size of a boat. It had blood red upholstery and the words "Grand Marquis" emblazoned on the starboard side. It was just the kind of car that turns up regularly on 48 Hours Mystery, with stray body parts in the trunk and incriminating DNA on the carpet. I'm not sure how we didn't end up as body parts and DNA ourselves, but with my teeth, fists and butt clenched, I steered the car to our destination. I pulled over into an approach on the outskirts of town and we swapped places in case there were any police men on patrol. I ate my chicken fingers at the Bow Manor in slow motion, postponing the inevitable drive back with me as the chauffeur. Perhaps bean with bacon on bread wasn't so bad after all.
My life changed in the summer of 2001 when I took Grandma Hayward out to lunch. I had planned to pop into her apartment for a brownie or two and then be on my way, but something made it impossible for me to put on my shoes. One hour turned into two and then two into three. She always spoke fondly of her childhood, but this time I listened more closely, as if I would later be quizzed. After going through her photo album in great detail, there was nothing but crumbs left in the brownie pan.
"Are you hungry?" I asked.
She closed the album and said with a smile, "I'll put on my shoes."
Grandma always made a point of mentioning she did not like french fries, yet if you left the table for any reason, the pile on your plate would be mysteriously smaller upon your return. There at the Beefeater Cafe she told me stories about my dad as a boy, stealing french fries when she thought I wasn't looking. After we finished eating and our plates had been cleared, I delivered her back to her door and we said our good-byes. I cried the entire way back to Oxbow, somehow knowing I would never see her again. She died two months later. There's an old adage that's been embroidered on many a pillow that tells us to "live each day as though it were our last." Ever since my lunch date with Grandma, I have made a point to do just the opposite. It would be sad to remember this as the last time I talked to her because, in actuality, it was the first. Now when I see an old friend or cherished family member, I listen to them with the same enthusiasm as if we had never met. A life made of firsts is far more rewarding than one of lasts. Now put that on a pillow.
I crack open a can of Campbell's soup whenever I feel nostalgic, but it's never quite the same. Lunch simply tastes better when it's being prepared behind an unlocked door by someone who never expects you to knock. So I suppose when I close my eyes and wish for a childhood lunch, what I really want is my childhood and the open invitations that came with it. I can still taste the butter on Grandma Davidson's bread, smell the chocolate in Grandma Hayward's pan and see the surprise from mom at the bottom of my bag. Yet it's the bowls of soup I cherish most. So the next time I carve a path around the rim of a tin can, I will unlock my door and set out a couple of bowls. No invitation necessary.
When I was younger, lunch was a daily appointment that was never missed. Mom would set the table precisely at noon and we would help ourselves to what seemed like a bottomless trough of Campbell's soup. Just like at Tim Horton's today, there was always a variety of soups burbling in various pots on the stove top. One of us liked cream of mushroom, while another favored tomato rice. Chicken noodle was also popular and, depending on those present, beef with barley was not uncommon. All of this was long before Campbell's came up with "reduced sodium" anything, so it's fair to say we were a puffy and bloated bunch. Soda crackers were also plentiful, as were cans of salmon that had been mixed with mayonnaise and transformed into creamy spreads that we slathered on them. I have since deemed salmon salad gross, but I find myself a little bit homesick when the smell of canned fish wafts over from a neighboring apartment.
Once I was old enough to go to school, I began taking my lunch to school in tin boxes adorned with my favorite cartoon characters. For a few years it was Bert and Ernie, then Bumblelion and the rest of the Wuzzles gang. Eventually I graduated to a plain blue insulated bag that signaled my first step toward independence. Inside were lunches packed with care by my mother. She always insisted there was no such thing as "being bored" and reinforced this declaration by keeping my lunch bag full of surprises. The main course rarely varied and was usually a bologna or peanut butter sandwich. Granola bars were another staple of these lunches, as were Ziplock bags filled with cheesy crackers. Where she applied her genius for school lunch making was in the fourth item, which was always an inspired selection that kept me on my toes. I would unravel the top of my lunch bag with anticipation, never quite sure of the wonders in store.
Whenever I'd watch TV shows like Dennis the Menace or The Brady Bunch, there were always story lines about the jealousy lunches could inspire in others. Dennis would long after Joey's candy bar or Bobby trade dish washing duty for Cindy's chocolate milk. I always thought these things only happened on television, but looking back I see that's because I had the best lunch in my class. Had I known this then, I could have cleaned up and traded my goodies for the biggest marbles or completed homework assignments. Among the items that made my lunches great were packages of shelled sunflower seeds, miniature bags of Doritos or slabs of peppered beef jerky. Like I said, mom knew how to keep things exciting. She also had a knack for beverages. Long before it was available in Canada, it was quite a coup to have a pouch of Capri Sun fruit juice. Mom's frequent trips to North Dakota meant that our refrigerator was well stocked with Capri Sun, so they often appeared when the school bell rang at noon. Something about sticking a straw into a silver foil pouch made them infinitely more desirable than one of Dole's ghetto juice boxes. Although I never experienced being a "cool kid," the straw in my pouch was definitely a feather in my cap.
There was a stretch of time in elementary school when my brother and I would walk to my Grandma Davidson's every Tuesday and Thursday for lunch. We would arrive at her cozy suite precisely at noon and burst through the doors, where a pair of TV trays would already be waiting for us. They were flimsy aluminum trays, but I remember thinking they were something special because they had flowers on them that looked like they had been painted by the stout woman who taught Sunday morning art lessons on the CBC. Propped up behind the trays were white pillows that had fringe around the edges and tassels at the corners. I'd sit on mine because I was too short to reach the tray, while Curtis would grab his by a tassel and twirl it around until there was so much pressure on the seam that it would begin to spin the other way in fast motion. As this ritual went on, the clatter of silverware and dishes could be heard coming from the kitchen.
Finally Grandma would appear in her apron and greet us with a warm smile and plate of buttered crackers. She'd set the fancy hors d'oeuvres on my tray before sitting on the rocker across from us. We'd nibble at the crackers while she asked about our day and told us about her morning jaunt to the post office. Then without warning she would stab her feet into the carpet and press her chair back with enough force to propel her forward on the rebound. Back to her feet, she'd flip the TV to channel 7 where The Flintstones was already in progress. For the next twenty minutes we'd sit mesmerized by Fred and Wilma as Grandma shuffled back and forth from the kitchen with bowls full of soup (yes, Campbell's) and sandwiches slathered with butter as thick as the bread. I don't think she ever sat down for a moment and certainly never had anything to eat herself. Every condiment request warranted its own trip to the kitchen, so by the time the credits rolled on The Flintstones, I'm sure she had walked a mile.
Dessert came with a cherry on top. As the news began with either the temperature or current price of grain - whichever was lower - she would present us with canned fruit that had been ladled into her finest crystal bowls. The pears were suspended in syrup and magnified by crisscross shapes cut into the crystal. The coveted cherries had been equally disbursed between them and a ginger cookie was snapped and wedged upright in each bowl. By the time we polished off the fruit it was time to stand in line for a goodbye kiss and head back to school. It did not occur to me until years later that Grandpa Davidson was also present at these lunches. Unfortunately, he was in such poor health that he rarely had much to say, so his role in these memories is small. Yet looking back I admire how he patiently sat through our cartoon as he watched the woman he called his wife for so many years spring to life in a way he no longer could. I don't think I ever spoke to him during these lunches, but perhaps I didn't have to. Surely it's enough that we shared the same love, who always showed up with a bowl full of cherries.
Lunch with my Grandma Hayward is another story entirely. She made batches of brownies in a worn 9x9 pan that looked as though it had survived both World Wars. Perhaps it had, I don't know. Whether it was the pan or her special touch, they were the kind of brownies that could make grown men weep. They were crunchy on the outside, chewy on the inside and saturated with so much sugar that she should have served them with syringes of insulin. In short order, the greatest brownies ever made. The recipe has circulated around the family since her passing, but nobody has quite got it right. Either she left out a vital ingredient or, as I more likely suspect, in order to develop their full flavor they must sit on the counter and absorb copious plumes of Craven A cigarette smoke.
While her brownies were delicious, I never much cared for her depression era dinners. A particular favorite of hers was gummy glops of Campbell's bean with bacon soup spread onto stale slices of Wonder Bread. As much as I loved her, this recipe would have made Laura Ingalls Wilder go to bed hungry. Therefore, I rarely spent my lunch hours away from school eating at her food museum. When I think back on it, I don't think she enjoyed cooking anyway. One time when mom and dad were away, she spent a week with Curtis and I at our farm. When supper rolled around, instead of warming up the oven we would pile into her car and drive 5 miles to the Bow Manor Cafe in town. I was about 12 or 13 years old at the time, so I was surprised on the first day when she tossed her keys in my direction.
"You drive," she said.
The only vehicle I had driven up to this point was my dad's pick-up truck in the middle of a cultivated field, crying hysterically with my eyes clenched shut. I didn't understand why my brother thought driving was fun and could never imagine wanting to do it voluntarily. Yet here I was, face to face with my dear grandmother, who either believed in me or had a death wish.
My bottom lip quivered as I bent down to pick up the keys I had dodged. "Okay," I croaked. Then she took her place in the passenger seat.
Her car was the size of a boat. It had blood red upholstery and the words "Grand Marquis" emblazoned on the starboard side. It was just the kind of car that turns up regularly on 48 Hours Mystery, with stray body parts in the trunk and incriminating DNA on the carpet. I'm not sure how we didn't end up as body parts and DNA ourselves, but with my teeth, fists and butt clenched, I steered the car to our destination. I pulled over into an approach on the outskirts of town and we swapped places in case there were any police men on patrol. I ate my chicken fingers at the Bow Manor in slow motion, postponing the inevitable drive back with me as the chauffeur. Perhaps bean with bacon on bread wasn't so bad after all.
My life changed in the summer of 2001 when I took Grandma Hayward out to lunch. I had planned to pop into her apartment for a brownie or two and then be on my way, but something made it impossible for me to put on my shoes. One hour turned into two and then two into three. She always spoke fondly of her childhood, but this time I listened more closely, as if I would later be quizzed. After going through her photo album in great detail, there was nothing but crumbs left in the brownie pan.
"Are you hungry?" I asked.
She closed the album and said with a smile, "I'll put on my shoes."
Grandma always made a point of mentioning she did not like french fries, yet if you left the table for any reason, the pile on your plate would be mysteriously smaller upon your return. There at the Beefeater Cafe she told me stories about my dad as a boy, stealing french fries when she thought I wasn't looking. After we finished eating and our plates had been cleared, I delivered her back to her door and we said our good-byes. I cried the entire way back to Oxbow, somehow knowing I would never see her again. She died two months later. There's an old adage that's been embroidered on many a pillow that tells us to "live each day as though it were our last." Ever since my lunch date with Grandma, I have made a point to do just the opposite. It would be sad to remember this as the last time I talked to her because, in actuality, it was the first. Now when I see an old friend or cherished family member, I listen to them with the same enthusiasm as if we had never met. A life made of firsts is far more rewarding than one of lasts. Now put that on a pillow.
I crack open a can of Campbell's soup whenever I feel nostalgic, but it's never quite the same. Lunch simply tastes better when it's being prepared behind an unlocked door by someone who never expects you to knock. So I suppose when I close my eyes and wish for a childhood lunch, what I really want is my childhood and the open invitations that came with it. I can still taste the butter on Grandma Davidson's bread, smell the chocolate in Grandma Hayward's pan and see the surprise from mom at the bottom of my bag. Yet it's the bowls of soup I cherish most. So the next time I carve a path around the rim of a tin can, I will unlock my door and set out a couple of bowls. No invitation necessary.
