The Most Important Meal of the Day

I drove around most of the day with this in the seat next to me.

 

That is what’s left of a piece of crustless zucchini quiche. The teen wanted me to make it for her. That’s her slice, leftover from breakfast. No flour, limited amounts of cheese, plenty of organic eggs and shredded zucchini, and enough pepper to make it have some sort of flavor. Pepper, mainly.

Every so often, the teen and I decide we need to make some changes in our diet. For me, it’s the constant battle of the calories. After a very successful fall season of stress eating, I have managed to gain an incredible amount of weight, weight that has no intention of leaving my frame, thank you very much, aging metabolism. The teen wants a six pack, and six packs don’t come naturally to people who enjoy bread and chocolate. So that means more vegetables and less crust. Happy January to us!

We thought about making crustless quiches to have every other morning so we can just heat up a slice and eat it, perhaps with some turkey bacon or a small slice of dry whole wheat toast. Our first attempt was quite tasty, with its sautéed mushrooms and scallions and spinach, and I thought this week we would do zucchini, which is the teen’s favorite vegetable. I baked it last night, and we had a tiny little sliver to test it out. We both declared it delicious.

But that was last night. This morning, I heated up our two slices of quiche, according to our plan. It was still puffy and golden brown, but after a little visit to the toaster oven, it was still cold in the middle. Microwaving it took care of that, and I made sure not to nuke it to the gummy stage.

I ate my slice while checking out the free song on iTunes. The song sucked, but the quiche was really yummy, or would have been had I eaten it for lunch. The truth is, I don’t care what they do in South Beach or what Dr. Atkins has to say; I don’t want to eat vegetables for breakfast, especially not in my eggs. In fact, I don’t want to eat eggs for breakfast. Let’s just say that eggs and me, we aren’t on good terms in the morning. Also, I miss my gallbladder.

The teen, on the other hand, loves eggs, which is why I make things like crustless quiche. But even her “loving eggs" comes with a few restrictions. She doesn’t love runny eggs, which means no yolks. She doesn’t even like yolks in a hardboiled egg, but she doesn’t like scrambled egg whites either. And she doesn’t like fluffy eggs. I used to make perfect scrambled eggs until I got tired of watching the cat eat them under the table. Now, I make them firm and hard and dried out. The cat hates them like that. Everyone and their sensory issues.

Anyway, when I came downstairs after my emergency bathroom visit, to, um, brush my teeth, my teen stood there with a horrified look on her face.

“What’s up?” I asked.

“I don’t think I can eat this,” she said.

“Why not? What’s the matter with it?”

“It’s too fluffy. Don’t be mad. Please don’t be mad at me.”

For the record, I don’t have Joan Crawford levels of anger. I have a Jewish teen with guilt in her genetic material.

“Let me get you something else real fast,” I told her. “You have two midterms today. You need a good breakfast.”

“No, I'll try another bite. I'm sure it will be fine.” She gave me a small fake smile and carried her plate to the car.

We were hardly out of the neighborhood when she took another bite and said,” I just can’t do it. I think it’s the texture. I can’t get it down.” She looked so crestfallen.

“Seriously, let’s turn around and get you something else. Or can you go to the cafeteria? What do they have there?”

“Hot pockets? Microwaved cereal bars? I’m not eating that.” My teen has not had a bite of school cafeteria food since she was in the fourth grade and found a hair on her square pizza.

“Well, what are you going to eat? You need breakfast.”

“I’ll get something out of my lunchbox,” she said, and looked inside.

She generally packs her own lunch, but was feeling lazy, so she only put a banana and a small bag of nuts in her lunch bag, along with a container of coconut water. That is not a lunch; it is barely even a snack.

“That’s what you have for lunch? What are you thinking? You have two tests today! Even supermodels eat more than that! Toddlers have a bigger meal. The hamster eats more than you.”

Maybe that’s why she has so much guilt?

“Seriously,” I said, “we need to go home and get a meal.”

“No, Mom, I’ll be fine, I swear. I’m not even hungry.” She took out the coconut water and drank that. It’s chock full of electrolytes and potassium. “But could you hold this?”  And she handed me her plate with the quiche.

Seeing as I was driving a car, I had nowhere to put the plate, so I placed it on the dash, where it slid back and forth while I drove, the slice of quiche gliding ever closer to the plate’s edge.

“What am I supposed to do with this egg thing?” I said to her. “I’m not going home until lunch time. I am going to have to drive around with old egg. Sure am glad it’s going to warm up a little today, that way I can smell it every time I get in the car.”

“Toss it out the window,” she said to me.

“I would be happy to, but knowing my luck, I’d get pulled over by a cop for throwing quiche out the window. It’s probably a separate charge from just regular littering.”

Did I mention it was raining? Well, it was, and not just sprinkling when we pulled up to the school.

“Here’s what I think you should do," I said to her. "Take it and throw it on the sidewalk, right there near the flag pole. In about five minutes in this rain, it will dissolve into a disgusting puddle. Then you can start a panic in school about a stomach virus. There’s a twenty in it for you if mayhem ensues.”

She snorted, and a little coconut water shot out of her nose. She grabbed her backpack and opened the door. “Bye, Mom,” she said.

“Hey, you forgot something," I said, waving the plate around. She slammed the car door.

Tomorrow we are having smoothies.

The Gift That Keeps on Giving

Today, my sister LM texted me a photograph of her Christmas present from our mother. Yep, she too got a box of meat from Omaha Steaks. I stopped eating red meat a while ago, although I was never a big fan before then. LM, on the other hand, hasn’t had a piece of red meat, other than bacon, which doesn’t count, since 1987. She has even less interest in a gift of burgers, hot dogs, and steaks than I.

I didn’t really do anything about my unwanted gift, other than to find the whole story amusing enough to share it. My sister, however, is much more proactive. She doesn’t take shit, or steaks, lying down. She is a problem solver, and red meat or no, she was going to get the gift she deserved. And deserve it she does. She still sees my mother every month or so, if for no other reason than to lessen the guilt that comes from estrangement.  I support her in her efforts. That way I still know what’s going on in the world of crazy in which my mother lives, but without any of the shitstorm that goes along with it.

LM called the 800 number on her meat gift invoice and spoke with some unhelpful asshat in the customer service department. She explained to him that she received the gift of meat, and that as a non-meat eater, she would like to return it or exchange it for some non-meat products she would rather have. The Omaha agent told her they don’t do refunds, and she should just donate her unwanted gift to a neighbor or the fire department. She even offered to take it back to her local Omaha Steak store, but representative told her they don’t take back food, and if she did that, they would still have to throw it away. Better to give it to the firemen.

She sat on that information for a little while, but had trouble digesting it, much like she would with meat.  She called them back and spoke with someone else. This time, the customer service person agreed with her logic that giving meat to a non-meat eater and making her keep it or give it away didn’t seem fair. She made a notation in my sister’s now open meat account that she didn’t eat meat, and then offered her a $65 credit to be used towards other products that they offer, products like side dishes and desserts, products that don’t bleed. She could do what she liked with the meat she received, give it to a neighbor, a fireman, back to our mother, whatever.  She texted me the much abbreviated version of her experience along with the customer service number she found on their website.

I figured, hell, it worked for her, I’ll give it a try too. I called the number she texted me, and spoke with a different asshat who had the same script. I explained to him that my mother had sent me the gift of meat, but as a non-meat eater, I wanted to know if I could return it or exchange it for other products. He told me to give it to my local fire department or a neighbor. Seriously, what is it with the fire department? When I went on to explain about my mother having memory problems, he then told me that it was between me and my mother, and that I needed to tell her what kind of gifts I liked better than meat.

Rude does not begin to describe how that man spoke to me. I have been harassed by collection agencies with more tact and manners. Well, not personally, but I hear they are pretty horrible. I had no intention of calling Omaha at all, but now I was pissed.

I asked to speak to a supervisor, and the asshat put me on hold while he told his supervisor his side of the story. I hate that being on hold part; it feels like waiting while your mugger decides to just stab you or rape you and then light you on fire. The supervisor got on the line and gave me the same speech about the firemen, adding that it would be a shame for good food to go to waste. I told him that was debatable, the good food part. I have no problem with feeding firemen. They are hungry guys.

We went back and forth on the whole confused mother thing. I explained to him the reason I  had asked to speak to him was that his representative was rude. I don’t expect them to be able to do anything about my mother, although how amazing would it be if there were an 800 number for that service? I reminded him about his 100% satisfaction guaranteed policy, and pointed out I was not, in fact, satisfied. He offered to return my mother’s money to her, and I accepted.  

I still wasn’t happy. I just had that bitter taste of frustration left in my mouth, not unlike the metallic irony taste of beef. I got on my computer as a distraction, but found myself perusing the Facebook page for Omaha Steaks. I noticed that every comment that had been left received a reply from an Omaha representative. I thought I would try again. They had a post about sharing your Omaha story with them, so I commented something along the lines of having a shitty customer service experience that I would be happy to share.

Apparently, the customer service pros are all on Facebook over there, because not ten minutes went by before I got an instant message asking me to explain what had happened, followed by a request for my phone number to discuss it further with me, followed by not one but two calls during dinner, just like my mother would do, to try to remedy a negative comment on their Facebook wall.

I called back and spoke with my third customer service individual, because clearly I had nothing better to do yesterday than fight over some unwanted steaks. The man  with whom I spoke apologized repeatedly for the rudeness I had experienced earlier in the day. He said there was nothing they could do to fix the situation other than to stop it from happening again. His solution? Fax a copy of my mother’s power of attorney to them, so that if she tries to order me more red meat, they can call her authorized representative for approval.  At least he didn’t ask for a copy of my mother’s medical records to prove she actually had a diagnosis of dementia.

Am I 100% satisfied? No, but I am 100% tired of thinking about steaks. I will not be sending a copy of a power of attorney to Omaha steaks. My mom may or may not get her money back. My sister gets to pick out more chicken and a cheesecake. My other sister still didn’t get a gift from my mother. And my husband? Well, he can’t wait to fire up the grill.

For Me? You Shouldn't Have

I received the oddest Christmas present today from my mother. Never mind that Christmas was two weeks ago, and it just arrived today, and given that it came with its own little bag of dry ice, it was, no doubt, ordered within the past couple of days. I suppose it is the thought that counts, and I should be thankful she sent me anything. Except what I am counting is the lack of thought, or maybe just the afterthought.

This is the card I would like to send:

Only it would be lost on her.

My mother sent me a box of meat. Omaha steaks, to be exact. The gift included, in addition to some fabulous dry ice that my husband no doubt will play with after dinner, four (4) steaks, four (4) chicken breasts, four (4) burgers, eight (8) hot dogs, and four (4) stuffed baked potatoes. It’s a generous gift, I suppose. I spent a good twenty minutes researching their website to find the value of the meaty gift assortment, and I couldn’t find this particular grouping, which makes me think she selected the items individually to make her own package. Or perhaps there was a coupon in the Sunday paper that isn’t reflected on the website. Maybe Costco had a special. Regardless, I got a box of meat, mostly red, to enjoy with my family.

This would be a good time to tell you that I don’t eat red meat.

I shouldn’t have to tell my mother I don’t eat red meat, because she knows. Or she used to know. Most likely she forgot, and in her defense, she does have some pretty significant memory problems.  Really, though, that doesn’t matter so much as the part where she decided that was the gift she wanted to give me, her daughter. I am not a big meat eater, nor have I ever been. I am also not hungry, like millions of Americans who do not have enough to eat and would be thrilled to receive a box of meat. I can afford to buy food for myself and my family, food that we actually want to eat.

But seriously, who gives their daughter the gift of meat? If you don’t know what to get someone, or you don’t want to put a lot of time and energy into gift giving, do you consider meat your default? What are you, a butcher?

When I was a pre-teen, which is what kids were called before they came up with tween, my mother also did not eat red meat. She gave up her extra rare London broil about the same time she gave up cigarettes, two healthy habits that lasted until about three or four years ago, which means for a good thirty years. I remember one time after my mom stopped eating red meat, my grandmother invited us over for dinner. She had made a big pot of meaty chili, and my mother had a conniption fit. How dare her own mother forget she no longer ate beef?  If memory serves me correctly, she screamed and stomped around like a two year old. What was she supposed to eat? Didn’t my grandmother think of anyone but herself? Couldn’t she for once support my mother in anything she tried to do? I wish my grandmother had told her to just eat the beans out of the chili. That would have been funny. Instead, my grandmother didn't have us over to dinner for a long time, because who needs that kind of abuse?

Blogging about my mother giving me a box of red meat isn’t the equivalent of having a temper tantrum. I can use the chicken. I can feed the rest to my husband or some friends or a pack of wild dogs. It will not go to waste.

Honestly, when my children received checks in the mail last Friday, and still over a week after Christmas, I was taken aback. Where was my check? My mother didn’t send anything to me? Did she forget about me, or was that a subtle fuck you?  

I didn't forget about her. In fact, I sent her gift early, so there was no doubt I planned on getting her a present. Hell, I even sent her something I knew she would like, because I thought about her, and thinking about my mother isn’t something I enjoy doing.

It feels good to know she didn’t forget about me. My sisters still haven’t received anything, although I am sure their steaks will be there tomorrow. One of my sisters also doesn’t eat red meat, so I know she is looking forward to her gift. And my other sister doesn’t want to eat meat of unknown and dubious origin or quality. Just because it came in the mail doesn’t make it safe or healthy or ethical.

Whatever. At least it wasn’t another box of flowers that I have to arrange myself. Besides, that’s my birthday present.

I am not really upset, more just amused. I gave birth to you. Now we don’t talk much.  Here’s some meat. I wonder what she gives to people she likes. I also wonder if there are any such people.

I love my daughters, and I am pretty sure they love me too. I have promised them no matter what happens in life, no matter if we get along or don’t, I will never send them mail order meat for Christmas.

Like a Breath of Fresh Air

I had the pleasure of changing a diaper today on a rather wiggly nine month old. He is the baby boy of my friend, EL, and she came over so we could share a bit of our day. She got to tell my teenage kids what to do a few times, and I, well, I changed a poop diaper. She didn’t ask me, I just did it, because I always wanted people to do that when my kids needed to be changed, over a decade ago. I wanted the rule to be whoever was in possession of the baby when the poop occurred was required legally to change the diaper, but usually it was me regardless of who coaxed the baby to poop by excessive feeding or bouncing. I will spare you the details of the diaper change, but the hardest part was definitely putting on the fresh diaper. That baby boy can roll!

Changing that diaper reminded of me when I took my daughter, S, to the allergist’s office the other day. I had made an appointment for S because she has been breaking out in hives nightly for the past month, and I couldn’t convince myself it was a patch of eczema any longer. Also, she keeps wheezing, and her third cold in a month doesn’t seem to concern the pediatrician as much as it does me. Poor S didn’t make out well in the immune system department. She isn’t the allergy queen, but in our house, she is definitely like a duchess or princess or some lesser royalty. So to the allergist’s we went.

We waited a good forty five minutes for S's exam before her name was called. After the nurse took S's vitals, she escorted us to an exam room and asked S to sit on the table. I sat in the chair next to the table, and the nurse flipped through S’s file. The room was quiet. As we sat there, S and I became aware of the most horrible stench. It was distinctly the smell of an old dirty diaper, a smell unlike any other smell. You know it when you pass a trashcan in public, or when you go past the nursery at the gym, or when a frazzled mother is loading groceries in the back of her minivan. Dirty diaper, the smell whispers to you, a gentle breeze of stink. That’s of what the exam room reeked.

S and I gave each other that look, the one with a hate glare, curled lip and wrinkled nose, the universal face for “dear lord but what is that nasty smell.” We continued to look back and forth at each other, our grimaces growing more exaggerated. She mouthed, just breathe through your mouth, at me. I mouthed back, that’s easy for you; your nose is already clogged. I don’t know how well she can read snarling lips.

Finally, I grew a pair and said to the nurse, “It doesn’t smell very good in here.”

“I thought it was just me,” she said.

Great. We had a live one.

“Do you think there might be a dirty diaper in the trashcan?” I asked.

I want to emphasize how polite I was because A. as the exchange continued, I had no reason to be, and 2. It smelled like a dirty diaper in that room, and she knew it before she took us in there. This happened next.

“Let me check,” the nurse said, and plunged her hands IN THE TRASHCAN. She dug around for a bit, again, in a trash can in the doctor’s office, and then said,” I don’t see one.”

S gave me a look. The look said, did she just stick her hands in the trashcan? Is she going to touch me with those hands?

The nurse stepped out of the room and then came back with a can of air freshener. “Let’s see if this helps,” she said, and sprayed the artificially scented aerosol spray all over the exam room. At the allergist’s office, in the shit smelling room, with my asthmatic hive-ridden child. “There,” she added, "that’s better.”

Next, it was time to go down the hall for S’s pulmonary function test. For you regular breathers, a pulmonary function test is where you blow as hard and fast and long as possible into a mouthpiece, hooked to a computer, which records the force and rate of your exhale to determine your lung function. Normal lungs would be able to empty about eighty percent of their volume. S’s, between the asthma, the colds, and the Febreze, worked, at best, around seventy-five percent.

Once S had attempted her test three times and was completely winded, the nurse led us back to the exam room. Whatever masking effect the air freshener had was completely gone by the time we went back inside the room. We sat back down and the nurse left the door open to allow us fresh air. S had surpassed mouth breathing and was at panting. We sat there for another ten minutes until the nurse came back and announced, “It’s not any better in here, is it?”

“No!” S and I said together, rather loudly.

The nurse looked at the trash can again, and then picked it up and placed it outside the exam room door. While in the hall, she peeked at the empty exam room next to ours, and decided to move us to that room, which is how I would have started the appointment, had I been her.

It’s a good thing my kid isn’t allergic to the smell of baby shit. Or stupidity.