greedy

Childhood Memories of Food and Family

Bud and I grew up together. He was raised like me, one of five. Like my home, there was plenty of food at mealtime but treats were rare. After school snacks were leftover biscuits, cornbread, or a grizzled flapjack left over from breakfast. Should a bag of cookies or chips miraculously materialize, ravenous kids would fall on it like a hoard of locusts. It brought new meaning to term, “first come, first served!”

Bud’s mom made cookies one evening. He ate all he was allowed before being dispatched to bed. Long after the house quieted, he lay sleepless, those cookies silently beckoning him from the cookie jar. He waited as long as he could stand it before slipping into the dark kitchen surreptitiously opening the cookie jar. Naturally, he was too wily to turn on the lights.

Slipping back into bed, he gobbled his bonanza under the covers. His appetite satiated, he laid back, finally ready for sleep. Moments later, Bud noticed a tingly, ticklish feeling on his hands. Upon investigation, he found them crawling with the remainder of the ants he hadn’t already consumed.

It was the same at the Swain house. I had some dainty little cousins. Their mother constantly worried that they wouldn’t eat. Invariably, Mother embarrassed me by remarking, “My kids eat anything I put in front of them!” Even a blind man could have inferred that by the smacking. It was hazardous to reach for the last piece of chicken. A slow kid might get a fork in the hand.

Anyway, I spent a few days with my non-eating cousin. Still smarting from Mother’s remark, I made up my mind to be a picky eater for the duration. Though it nearly killed me, I turned up my nose at every meal. I even spurned fried chicken and mashed potatoes and gravy, my favorites.

Aunt Bonnie tested me sorely when she emptied her freezer and offered up the remains of a carton of butter pecan ice cream before she tossing it. Along with her honestly snooty kids, I refused to consider it. I very nearly died of heartbreak as she rinsed the carton with hot water and ran the ice cream down the drain. I fear I would have lost my resolve and eaten out of the garbage if she’d left it in the carton in the outdoor garbage can.

By the time I got home, I was gaunt with hunger, having made a point to be pickier than her miniature children. Finally, my efforts were rewarded. The minute we got home, Aunt Bonnie claimed I was the pickiest eater she’d ever seen. I’d worried her to death!”

I was overjoyed! I rushed into the kitchen and snatched a dried out biscuit off Mother’s stove. I hid under the bed and ate it where Aunt Bonnie wouldn’t see me.

This is me and my cousin. We were about a year apart in age. Of course, I was the big one.

Growing Up in the Sixties: The Greedy-Gut Chronicles

Kids in the sixties reveled in hurling epithets that seem positively sanctified by today’s standards: tattletale, crybaby, sissy, titty-baby, chicken, dumbo and greedy-gut. Calling out anyone of these could get you in plenty of trouble at home or on the playground.  As one of five children, I have been known to be a greedy-gut, along with my gluttonous siblings.  As I went over this list with Bud, he said he was always glad to be called greedy-gut, since that meant he’d gotten more of the good stuff.

My cousins were “finicky.”  Their mama complained. “My kids won’t eat anything.”  I thought that sounded good.  Mother proudly answered, “I don’t have to worry about that.  My kids eat whatever I put in front of them.” It didn’t take a genius to see that we did. It was humiliating.  I yearned to be picky, but my appetite always got the best of me.

 

We never had cookies, chips, sodas, or snacks of any type lying around our house.  Should a bag of cookies or chips  find its way in, we’d all pounce on it, eat all we could hold, wait till we felt better, then check back to see if any was left.  There rarely was.  For after-school snacks, we had biscuits with peanut butter if we were lucky, or pear or fig preserves if we weren’t.  I  was never tempted to indulge  in Mother’s homemade fig or pear preserves.  Daddy insisted she sugar them heavily and cook them down till they candied with syrup the consistency of tar.  I’d sooner have eaten tar.  If Mother was flush with cash on grocery day, she’d buy a big bag of apples or oranges, which we’d fall upon and finish off in a day or two.  Sometimes the stores ran specials on canned peaches or big purple plums, which served as dessert for dinner.

 

Dessert was for special times, usually a yellow cake, baked in a Bundt pan.  Mother taught each of her girls to bake a yellow cake when they turned five, a proud accomplishment for the girl.  None of us was great on detail, so not uncommonly, we’d start a cake before checking if all the ingredients were available.  Sometimes we’d do without if we’d gotten the cake started first. It wasn’t unusual to substitute shortening for butter, or bake without milk, vanilla or eggs.  Sometimes a cake with one substitution is tolerable, but two or three render it inedible.  I have been known to use plain flour and not add baking powder powder, soda, or salt.  A cake like that makes a pretty good pot lid.  

Our greed set the stage for Mother’s humiliation. Daddy was a hypochondriac. At least yearly, he’d come up with a malady requiring hospitalization. His ailments ranged from flu to stomach ailments to a stiff knee. When a new doctor opened a clinic nearby, he realized he had a sore back. Naturally, the new doctor admitted him for tests, something doctors were able to do in the days before insurance oversight. He shared a room with Mr. Ivan Garvey, an affable fellow.  During a visit, Mother met his wife, Doris, and inferred they’d become friendly.  Mrs. Garvey  invited her to come by for coffee.

Some days later, Mother took Doris up on her casual invitation, dropping by by just as Doris was taking peanut butter cookies out of the oven.  They smelled heavenly.  Not realizing the calamity she faced, Doris set the plate before us.  Over Mother’s horrified protests, we decimated those cookies.  Mother tried to slow us down, but Doris said, “Oh no!  Let them have them.  I like to see kids eat.”  Naturally, we believed she meant it and wanted her to be happy, polishing off the batch.  It must have been the happiest day of her life.

Humiliated, Mother got us out of there as soon as she decently could, lighting  into us the instant we cleared the Garvey drive.  “I’ve never been so embarrassed in my life.  Y’all ate like hogs.  She didn’t want y’all to eat all the cookies….” Her rant lasted longer than the cookies.  We scattered as soon as we got home. We never went by Doris Garvey’s house for coffee again.  Too bad.

 

Doris and the Greedy Guts

Kids in the sixties reveled in hurling epithets that seem positively sanctified by today’s standards: tattletale, crybaby, sissy, titty-baby, chicken, dumbo and greedy-gut. Calling out anyone of these could get you in plenty of trouble at home or on the playground.  As one of five children, I have been known to be a greedy-gut, along with my gluttonous siblings.  As I went over this list with Bud, he said he was always glad to be called greedy-gut, since that meant he’d gotten more of the good stuff.

My cousins were “finicky.”  Thei mama complained. “My kids won’t eat anything.”  I thought that sounded good.  Mother proudly answered, “I don’t have to worry about that.  My kids eat whatever I put in front of them.” It didn’t take a genius to see we did. It was humiliating.  I yearned to be picky, but my appetite always got the best of me.


We never had cookies, chips, sodas, or snacks of any type lying around our house.  Should a bag of cookies or chips  find its way in, we’d all pounce on it, eat all we could hold, wait till we felt better, then check back to see if any was left.  There rarely was.  For after-school snacks, we had biscuits with peanut butter if we were lucky, or pear or fig preserves if we weren’t.  I  was never tempted to indulge  in Mother’s homemade fig or pear preserves.  Daddy insisted she sugar them heavily and cook them down till they candied with syrup the consistency of tar.  I’d sooner have eaten tar.  If Mother was flush with cash on grocery day, she’d buy a big bag of apples or oranges, which we’d fall upon and finish off in a day or two.  Sometimes the stores ran specials on canned peaches or big purple plums, which served as dessert for dinner.


Dessert was for special times, usually a yellow cake, baked in a Bundt pan.  Mother taught each of her girls to bake a yellow cake when they turned five, a proud accomplishment for the girl.  None of us was great on detail, so not uncommonly, we’d start a cake before checking if all the ingredients were available.  Sometimes we’d do without if we’d gotten the cake started first. It wasn’t unusual to substitute shortening for butter, or bake without milk, vanilla or eggs.  Sometimes a cake with one substitution is tolerable, but two or three render it inedible.  I have been known to use plain flour and not add baking powder powder, soda, or salt.  A cake like that makes a pretty good pot lid.  

Our greed set the stage for Mother’s humiliation. Daddy was a hypochondriac. At least yearly, he’d come up with a malady requiring hospitalization. His ailments ranged from flu to stomach ailments to a stiff knee. When a new doctor opened a clinic nearby, he realized he had a sore back. Naturally, the new doctor admitted him for tests, something doctors were able to do in the days before insurance oversight. He shared a room with Mr. Ivan Garvey, an affable fellow.  During a visit, Mother met his wife, Doris, and inferred they’d become friendly.  Mrs. Garvey  invited her to come by for coffee.

Some days later, Mother took Doris up on her casual invitation, dropping by by just as Doris was taking peanut butter cookies out of the oven.  They smelled heavenly.  Not realizing the calamity she faced, Doris set the plate before us.  Over Mother’s horrified protests, we decimated those cookies.  Mother tried to slow us down, but Doris said, “Oh no!  Let them have them.  I like to see kids eat.”  Naturally, we believed she meant it and wanted her to be happy, polishing off the batch.  It must have been the happiest day of her life.

Humiliated, Mother got us out of there as soon as she decently could, lighting  into us the instant we cleared the Garvey drive.  “I’ve never been so embarrassed in my life.  Y’all ate like hogs.  She didn’t want y’all to eat all the cookies….” Her rant lasted longer than the cookies.  We scattered as soon as we got home. We never went by Doris Garvey’s house for coffee again.  Too bad.