My sister and I used to be picky eaters. I like to think about what we would say now if we saw former versions of ourselves sitting at the dinner table for seemingly endless hours finically picking at and complaining about the food we had to eat.
We would be scolded for being so ungrateful. My mother always took matters of food and nourishment very seriously, a passion both my sister and I have come to share with her.
On one occasion, mom had made a soup. My sister and I sat at the table on a hunger strike, pleading for better food.
“I hate this food!” Sister and I would cry.
Though offended on several levels, mother was patient and explained, “You can not say you hate the food. Food is a blessing from God’.” She would leave us to sit and finish. The only way to escape was to literally eat our way out of the kitchen table prison.
“This is the devil’s blessing…” My sister said softly once mom was out of earshot. I snickered. We really were brats. These brats decided to take the soup into their own hands. What can we put in this to make it edible? After about 2 seconds of intense brainstorming, we came up with a brilliant solution. What makes everything taste good? SUGAR.
Stealthily moving from the kitchen table to the pantry, my sister reached into the giant bin of sugar kept on the floor. In the bin was a cup used for scooping out sugar. We looked at each other and signaled with our eyes the common thought: Perfect. With a healthy several lumps of sugar added to our bowls, we decided to spare other poor souls by dumping some sugar into the main pot, still being heated on the stove. Grinning silently, we proudly picked up our spoons and eagerly sampled the new and improved soup.
The soup was now actually nasty. Sister and I made faces across the table as we suddenly became aware of what a horrible deed we committed. We called it Sugar Soup, and we decided to dispose of our portions and never tell….. Maybe we put them back into the main pot… I don’t remember.
I wish the story ends here, with us ruining my mother’s soup and our dinner, as mom and dad had eaten already. However, a guest came to the house a short while later. This was a red haired man who worked as a soccer coach with my father. I don’t remember his nationality, perhaps he was Irish. I remember he had an accent. Mom insisted he eat.
Sister and I sat at a distance, hiding in the hallway behind the dining room table. “Oh no!” we whispered to each other in terror, “He’s going to eat the sugar soup!!!” We felt awful for three reasons. First, PossiblyIrishMan made a face as soon as he put the soup to his lips. We saw him. We caused this man serious discomfort. He tried to be polite, but the soup was really, really bad. Secondly, my mother is a great cook. We did her a disservice, compromising her reputation. Lastly, we were so embarrassed and ashamed, we never told. We were not that embarrassed at the time. I remember giggling uncontrollably throughout the entire operation. I’m dying now reliving the night of sugar soup.
I’m sorry mom for ruining your soup. I’m also sorry for possibly contaminating it by pouring back my portion after eating from it. I realize how disgusting that is. I’m sorry sister, for telling this secret. I’m sure you had forgotten anyway.