Of Casseroles and Things Dinner time could be ‘the best of times, the worst of times’, depending upon what kind of mood Mom and Dad were in when they walked through the door after work; variables that included five sisters and two (where DID they go!?) brothers; the season (we had three: before tax season, tax season, after tax season) and what was for dinner. After school, it was my responsibility to fix dinner, especially during The Tax Season. I had limited time to get dinner on the table for my dad who “Had To Eat AT 5:30 Because I Am Diabetic” which was always followed by “You know, one of you kids will have diabetes one day.” The 5:30 pm deadline applied EXCEPT when he had something important to do – like play cards at the Elks Club, or wanted to get another round of golf in before dark during the other two seasons. Of course, no one knew until he didn’t come home at exactly 5:15 PM. Mother would point out sarcastically that his ‘diabetes’ never seemed to interrupt his card game or golfing or anything else if he wanted to do it. Her translation: “Your father has pissed me off and I am going to throw this in his face” fight when he got home. Our translation: “Stay the hell out of the way when Dad gets home because there is going to be a fight.” It’s not like we weren’t used to their arguments; we were. Each one had its own script and most of them we had memorized. The frustration was we didn’t know what the best strategy would be if they went off script and began to ad-lib. That made any one of us vulnerable, especially if we had to walk across words flying faster than Don Rickles’ insults in Vegas and find a safe place to take cover if we were spotted. Like all exceptions, there was an exception to the dinner rule exception: Dad walked in the door late in a good mood. Mother let him off the hook. I was dubbed “the Casserole Queen” because I made a lot of casseroles. I thought it was fun to try some new concoction of my own and casseroles were the perfect venue for creative cooking. Mom also had a casserole cookbook that I would use when the ingredients on hand offered no inspiration. I developed a love of cooking through my casseroles. While my siblings moaned about another casserole, Mother told me every night they were delicious, complimented my meal, even the yucky ones. She made my siblings eat them and thank me for making dinner. She would occasionally make suggestions of things to add or avoid, and through her and my casseroles, I learned a lot about spices, how long to cook different types of meats and vegetables and how to blend the right ingredients to bring out the best flavors. Mother was a fabulous cook and without realizing it, she was teaching me without telling me what to do or criticize what I made. Like me, she picked her battles, and cooking was not one of them. She knew with her praise and suggestions of enhancing my meal, I would continue to make dinner without resentment. She also knew I would get better over time and was willing to eat a lot of bad casseroles if that is what it took to keep herself out of the kitchen. Not that Mother never cooked! She did and could make any meal taste like dining at a fancy restaurant. It was mostly comfort food, but she was SO good at it. One of the benefits to being in the “Comito Part I” family was to learn directly from the best how to make some of her specialties. When “Comito Part II” family came home from school, first question: “Is Mom cooking?” “Yes.” I would answer with sarcasm from the Oldest Sister Code. “Good. We’re sick of casseroles.” “Well guess what, I’m cooking tomorrow,” I would snap back at them. “And I am trying a new casserole.” I was only doing my job; I could pick on them at will; even if it meant I had to eat another casserole. I was growing weary of them myself. But I would never admit to that. It is an infraction of the Oldest Sister Code. My younger sisters were like one collective – the Borg from Star Trek Next Generation. On some issues, they were a united front, such as their dislike for my casseroles and taking pot-shots at all things me or dad. Then, like 7 of 9, one would break rank; the collective would collapse, followed by doors slamming and lots of screaming. I was grateful when they were out of the way after school. I could have Mom to myself during the coveted “before dinner hour”. With six girls vying for Mom’s undivided attention, it was rare to have those moments with her. They never lasted long. One by one, a sister would emerge, sans school uniform, looking for Mom to referee, halting our private time with one loud: “EVERYONE BE QUIET! I can’t understand what you are saying when you are all talking at once!” With a dismissive, “Susan, find out what’s going on,” she would pick up a book and the decibel level ever rising went silent for her as she read. Sighhhhhh……I really hated when Mom sent me into the storm because it meant I had to get involved in one of their fights. When they were picking on each other, I would instinctively jump to the defense of the underdog, unless it was Jackie. She was usually the instigator who started the disagreement, then somehow disappear unscathed. Jackie had super-powers. She could create discourse and chaos between my sisters then disappear before they realized what happened. This is a rule, if not family law: no fight among sisters can ever be dropped; it had to run its ugly course to the very bitter end. So, the fight went on and Jackie would make another appearance completely clean from ‘fight dust’ with an acerbic scowl asking “What’s going on? Are you guys still going at it?” Super-powers. I didn’t mind making dinner, but one night I announced I would no longer clean the kitchen. Gasps of “that’s not fair!” came from the collective, returning to their Borg position. “Mother, I am not doing it. What is not fair is that I do the grocery shopping, plan the meal, fix dinner, AND clean the kitchen? I do laundry, I clean, I run them where they need to go……so when are they old enough to at least clean the kitchen?” There, I said it. I can’t believe I did it in front of both Mom and Dad at the table never knowing who would say what next. It wasn’t on their play list of fights or dinner time discussion; completely uncharted territory… Dad spoke first: “Susan, you’re the oldest. You do as you’re told. Your mother works all day and she needs your help. You don’t tell her what you will or will not do. She tells you and you do it! You understand?” He was leaning forward on the table, shaking his finger at me, asserting himself as Head of Household like a 1040A. I could not believe it. The kitchen gods were smiling upon me! I could tell by the look in Mother’s ever defiant eyes! My Dad tried to be the Boss. The Big Cheese. The Whole Ravioli. In front of the entire family. I knew I had won both the battle AND the war. “Bill, she’s right. The girls can do it. Girls, start cleaning the kitchen. All of it. As good as Susan does it. No fighting. Not a word. Susan, supervise.” Dad got up from the table. “Okay, you heard your mother. Get moving.” He retreated quickly to their bedroom. He didn’t want to listen to the crash of change occurring and he didn’t want Mom mad at him. Mom strolled into the living room and returned to her book. I had the whole world in my hands. And it felt goo-ood. I got out of a job. I got to dump it on the girls. All she had to do was say one more thing and I would hit the dinnertime trifecta. There it was: “Susan, you have my permission to smack ‘em if they start fighting.” All of those casseroles. Where Jon-Luc Picard failed, I succeeded. I had won my first battle with the Borg. But wait, where was Jackie? Who knew? She had super-powers.
Posted on: Sat, 31 Aug 2013 04:38:56 +0000