Kitchen Mishaps

I blame my mother. I’ve written before about this truly amazing yet probably possibly deceptive chef I have for a mother. Trying desperately to duplicate her mouth-watering recipes is what surely brought the demon spawn down (or is that up?) into my humble abode. I haven’t yet caught Mom out in her kitchen-y lies. But I will. Oh, you can be sure, I will. Eventually.

 

summoning a demon

Mom Speak

There’s a saying that goes “the best tricks are the old tricks.” At least I think that’s a saying. I might be coming up with that one on my own. And if so, consider it hereby trademarked.

I thought of this phrase when I ran across the picture below. Of course no one really thinks that they’ve turned into their mother. In fact, that would probably be the cruelest thing you could ever tell a ‘tween girl. It’d send her running for the hills in fear…and most likely tears.

But guess what…it’s sort of true. I blame the kids. Yup. That’s right. Just as they drive us to moments of insanity, I think our children drive us to become our parents — mothers especially. We Moms may start out with the best of intentions, but let’s face it. We all start to sound alike after a while regardless of our “I’ll never do things the way my mother did them” mentality.

Classic phrases like “because I said so,” “go ahead, keep it up,” or “try me,” and “don’t think I won’t do it” (usually said when threatening bodily harm that rarely actually occurs) are tried and true comebacks that get results…oh, not because they make any kind of sense whatsoever, but rather because they are the debate stoppers in every mother’s toolkit sure to deal with a kid that’s in Brat Mode.

Yes, our children goad us to a level of inanity that beggars belief.  And yet, here we are, babbling absurd phrases like “yeah, well, if Holly jumped off a bridge, would you??” and “don’t put that in your mouth, you don’t know where it’s been,” and “if you must kill each other, for god’s sake, go outside!” (for moms of more than one), or my all-time favorite “don’t come running to me after you break your leg on that [insert skateboard, bike, 4-wheeler or other unwanted item here].” Of course that’s when we’re not standing there like fools counting down the fuse to an imaginary time bomb to some horrific, albeit as yet unknown, punishment that never materializes.

The mother’s curse works. Namely, I hope you have children who act exactly like you act.  That’s why all mothers end up sounding exactly alike. It’s the children. It always comes back to the children.

So, yes, sometimes when I speak it’s like I’m a ventriloquist doll with my mom behind me working the mouth lever. The thing I’ve come to realize now is that this is not a bad thing. We may have different perspectives on life. We may still hold conflicting viewpoints on any given day. But by and large sounding like my mother is okay with me. Need proof? Just look how awesome I turned out!

 

my mother2

I.O.U.

My mother told me after my “inside joke” post, that if I was going to continue using her as fodder for my blog entries I would have to pay her a fee.  So.  I guess I’m going to have to pay up the next time I see her because I could not resist posting this.  THIS is what torments me so when I go to her house and I see these beautiful tins on her counter top. My grandmother had these tins as did my great-aunt and they all used them in the exact same way. It’s an ongoing familial conspiracy.

I absolutely love these cookies. I’d say they are my favorite. Around Christmas-time  (any time really, but Christmas-time especially) the question would always be: “Are there cookies in there?  Or buttons?” Because it could very well be either. If there were buttons, they’d usually be hidden away in a drawer somewhere only to be brought out if mending were being done.

HOWEVER, if mending were being done at some point in time, the tin could then sit on the counter for weeks at a time before being returned to its dark, faraway corner of the world, never to torment a cookie lover like me. But during its freedom from its dungeon, there it would sit, out in the open, waiting for someone to come along, drooling, craving that buttery sweetness that is a Danish butter cookie.  OR you might actually get Danish butter cookies. You just never know. It’s never the same two times in a row. And it’s enough to drive one mad. Because you just have to look. Just. In. Case. My mother is an evil, evil woman. Don’t let that sweet face fool you. Evil, I tell you.

 cookie tin

Inside Joke

This, this is my mother’s refrigerator in a nutshell. You just never know what to expect. Don’t even get me started on the Cool Whip container that I thought was Cool Whip (who wouldn’t, right!?) but turned out to be lard. Which, believe it or not, look surprisingly similar when they’re both chilled…but trust me, do not taste the same at all.

And I would like to say it’s contained to her refrigerator, but it’s not. There are Danish Butter Cookie tins and the like tempting you tantalizingly from the kitchen counter-top, but do they have those amazing little cookies and other sweet treats in them? No. Of course not. Really. Why would you even think that? They might have buttons nestled inside or they might be filled with cast-off grease. It’s a crap-shoot. 

It’s taken years — yes, I’m a slow learner — but now each foray into the unknown is prefaced with “Is this really…”  As in, “Is this really Cool Whip?” Or “Are there really cookies in here?”

Mom thinks it’s funny, though I’m sure slightly annoying too, when I put her through these pop quizzes on the inventory of her home-made tupperware system each time I’m craving a snack or maybe want a PBJ, but she brought it upon herself.

I do not, and here I must I reiterate most emphatically, I do not want a repeat of the Cool Whip vs Lard incident.

mom's house