The Cottage Cheese Incident

A Recollection

By

Terry Le Feber

We all remember those evening dinners with our parents and siblings around the old kitchen table. 

Do you remember the kitchen table with the pull out leaves, swirled marble Formica top, chrome legs, enameled base with the single silverware drawer?  And how about those classy chrome plated chairs with matching vinyl upholstery?

Of course, you do.

Do you remember all the wonderful home cooked meals before frozen foods, Mc Donald’s, and Chicken Delight?  And, can you remember that some of those foods were not too appealing to youngsters-- like broccoli, cauliflower, asparagus, fried parsnip (Dad liked his parsnips burnt black with the taste of cardboard) and, of course, my personal favorite: cottage cheese?

Cottage cheese-- that curdled, lumpy, slimy, off-white, yellowing, oozing mess created by bacteria attacking soured cow’s milk.  Everyone knows bacteria sours milk when left too long in the sun or refrigerator.  So, why would anyone, let alone my mother, force two young boys to daily indulge in eating contaminated food; food that could only make you sick, or worse, cause you to suffer a long, lingering, painful, gut- wrenching death? 

Why you ask? 

“Because it is good for you,” was Mom’s standard answer. 

My brother Rick and I could never understand how eating so many vile tasting foods “could be good for us.”  We later learned another expression that explained all this.

  “No pain, no gain.”  What pain?  What gain?  We’re still trying to find the answer to that one.

But, my parents’ personal best was when either of us balked at eating something we hated, they would proclaim, “Millions are starving in Asia. Don’t be wasteful.  Eat!” 

How was eating vile or contaminated food going to help millions of starving Asians?  We never used that psychology in later life on any of our sons, who, early on, all discovered a liking for macaroni and cheese.

But one day, at the tender age of 8, I stood my ground.

I had eaten everything off my plate; leaving it gleaming and shiny, save for one spot.  A spot occupied by an overly generous scoop of yellowing, oozing, stinking cottage cheese.

Rick was done; having accidently dropped his spoonful of the lumpy gore onto the floor. He beat me to the punch that time.

Mother proclaimed, for the millionth time, “Eat your cottage cheese. There are millions starving in Asia!”

While silently cursing all Asians, whoever and where ever they were, I bravely proclaimed, “No. I am not going to eat this cottage cheese now or ever.”

My father, sitting to my left, quietly asked, “What did you just say to your mother?”

Proudly and stupidly, I repeated my statement to good old Dad.

BAM!

I never saw it coming.  His right hand, palm flattened, landed squarely on the back of my head, forcing my face into the simmering, hideous, stinking pile of goo!

Screaming, I ran into the adjacent lavatory, and through tear- clouded eyes saw myself in the mirror.

It wasn’t pretty.  There I stood, in mental and physical anguish, looking into the face of a stranger.  A stranger with a face covered in wretched, fermenting, bacteria -laden cottage cheese. It was a face that looked like a circus clown covered in pancake makeup.

Well, that was over sixty years ago.

I have since learned to eat, and like, asparagus, broccoli, cauliflower, and, of all things, cottage cheese.  Parsnips still have not been voted upon.

Then there was the time Mom lifted the lid off the two quarts full of green string beans and there lay a steamed dead housefly belly up………………but that is another story.

Afterword:  This occurred at a time when families were closely knit units, scouting, church, God and Country represented the core values of America, and children did not ‘sass’ parents, elders, relatives, teachers, police, clergy, or even government officials. My, how times have changed.

Watching My Grandchildren Grow

By Judy VanDeVelde

Out of nowhere into our arms

This tiny bundle of joy

A wisp of heaven in human form

A precious baby boy

Beautiful tiny baby hands

Clenching at our heart

Little fingers and sturdy feet

Ready for life at the start

Bluish eyes and twinkling smile

Hair that’s touched by the sun

We watch him as he learns and grows

With love for everyone

A tiny sister comes along

As sweet as a baby can be

She loves to share a rhyme or two

While sitting on your knee

She dances as she moves about

And jumps and claps her hands

There’s kindness in that little face

As before you she stands

You give her a kiss

She blinks her eyes

Will you reach my teddy bear, please?

Let’s read the book about the Five Little Monkeys

My life has changed so very much

Watching my grandchildren grow

They sing and play and run around

Gifts from above, I know!

IRISH DANCER by Carol Creswell 2 2014

A LOVELY LASS WITH CHARMIN’ SMILE

BEGUILED THE SON OF PADDY

SHE CAST HER GAZE AND IN A HAZE

HE BLUSHED, THIS FRESH YOUNG LADDIE.

HE WATCHED HER FLASHIN’ FEET PERFORM

THE OLD, SWEET IRISH DANCES

AND IN A SEC HIS HEART WAS HERS

AS SHE SENT LURING GLANCES

HE DOWNED HIS PINT OF BITTERS AND

DECLARIN’ HIS LOVE TO ‘ER

HE DREW HER OUTSIDE NEATH THE MOON

AND VOWED THAT HE’D  PURSUE  ‘ER

SHE LAUGHED AND SCOFFED AND RIDICULED

BECAUSE HE WAS SO POOR

AND FLED HIS ARMS AND DANCED AWAY

UPON THE SPECKLED MOOR.

HIS ANGER WAS A WHITE-HOT HEAT

HE CHASED AND KILLED HIS  LURE

SHE DIED IN ALL HER FINERY

UPON THE DARKENED MOOR.

AND STILL, TIS SAID, THAT PADDY’S SON

WALKS SORROWIN’ NEATH THE MOON

AND COLLEEN GAILY RUNS AWAY

HER LAUGHTER ‘S CALLING CROON.

HARK! HEAR THE WHISPERS IN THE WIND!

THE LOON NEARBY IS CALLING

THE HEATHER WAVES ITS TENDRILLED LEAVES

THE CLOUDS SCUD  --RAIN STARTS FALLING.

THE ANGELS, THEY ARE WEEPING SO

BECAUSE OF SUCH DISASTER

FOR HEAVEN DENIED THE IRISH BOY

THE COMFORT OF ITS PASTURE.

Ice

Poem and Photograph by Karen Sorce

A TRUE CHRISTMAS STORY

by Barb Brooks

Of all the Christmases that I recall, one stands out in my mind.  It really wasn’t so different from our other Christmases.  Early preparations began as they always did when the walnut and filbert trees in the yard shed their prized nuggets.  With baskets in hand, we would hustle to pick them from the ground before the squirrels hoarded them for the winter.  Mom would eventually chop and fold them into her delicious fruit cake and cookie batters.  We girls would take care of housecleaning chores while Dad worked and mom did the shopping. Something, however, seemed different on that Christmas.  I started hearing noises in the basement in the late night hours.  I don’t recall inquiring as to what or who it was, and despite my childish wonderment, an inner voice told me not to go down and investigate.  All I knew was that something was different.

Soon it was Christmas Eve and I lay snuggled in my bed, waiting for that special moment.  Suddenly I heard the faint jingle of bells in the stillness of the night and I knew Santa was very near.  Yes! The magic of Christmas was here just like it was every other year.  The following morning we children stood at the top of the stairway with great excitement, waiting impatiently for mom and dad to join us.  Finally we descended to the living room, plugged in the colored lights and squeaked with joy at the sight of bountiful presents under the tree.  One by one, we opened our gifts. It was a wonderful Christmas, just like every other Christmas.

It wasn’t until recently that I learned what made that Christmas so different. My older sister revealed that it was mom and dad in the basement during the late night hours.  Dad had been laid off from work that year and they were down there, refurbishing some used toys. Reflecting on that for a moment, I then realized what made that Christmas different and indeed, so special. They were working diligently into the night so their five children could experience the magic of Christmas once again. The child in me continues to hear the jingle of the bells and the voices in the night, if only to remind me of how blest we were having two fine parents who could share their love for us through the gift of giving with gifts re-touched by two angels.

Final Rest by Terry Le Feber

Final Rest

They assemble here

Each brought by bier

Forever true

Wrapped in red, white, and blue

Never alone

Soldiers sleep

In the field of stones

-Terry Le Feber

One Person's Treasure is Another Person's Trash by Eileen Wegman

One Person's Treasure is Another Person's Trash

At the end of a long winters stay in Charleston, South Carolina, a friend had purchased tickets for us to hear the symphony orchestra at the Sottile theater.  It made sense to leave my large SUV in the suburb of Mt Pleasant, so that we could park her much smaller vehicle close to the theater. Well, where could I leave it ? The Whole Foods Market seemed like a logical and safe place. After all, those who ate organic products in an effort to sustain themselves and the environment, must be trustworthy, right? Even so, I parked under a large floodlight, leaving the SUV with some trepidation.

What if someone broke into my car? Since I was nearly ready to start home, it was stuffed with all of the treasures I'd brought with me from the North, as well as the ones I had recently purchased. I began to inventory the items starting from back to front.

In the rear was the cat cage which although new, contained a layer of brown edged, somewhat foul smelling newspapers; surely no one would want that. But what about the cat food? There were six bags left out of the fourteen that I started out with. Some might think that bringing so much with me was foolish on my part, but it sure beat Mama kitty leaving a noxious film on our hosts' carpets due to travelers trots.

Moving up to the back seat, I remembered the Belk department store shopping bag containing my new china! Now, there was something valuable. If only I had hidden it in a brown bag! Of course, it wasn't really from Belk but from World Market, you know, the stuff they had at the front of the store because no one else would buy it. Why people wouldn't want to eat off plates with elephants and hyenas on them, I'll never know. Well, it might appeal to some bohemian from the sixties.

Oh, and next to that, cradled in a huge straw bag from the Bahamas, was my collection of shoes:  sandals, diamond pointed flats, an occasional comfy wedge, why a good twenty pairs to see me through three whole months of sightseeing. I suppose the thief could find someone who wears a size 9B but due to the fact that the heel of each left shoe was worn down (pronation they call it)  the wearer would be hobbling around and quite uncomfortable I'd think.

To the right of the shoes was a blue plastic tote filled to the top with sundresses, shorts and snorkeling equipment. The prime piece in there was a psychedelic shift from the 70's. Every time I put it on, the years just melted away. It was a riot of colors, perfect for the Key West jaunt. You can wear anything you want there, even nothing at all! After hoarding it all those years, how dare a thief take it from me? What if they threw it into a dumpster? Now, that would be the limit!

Tucked into every available space among these items were the bags of souvenirs: beach towels, plastic oranges filled with perfume, pot holders decorated with palm trees, a variety of mugs (all too nice to drink coffee from) and the inevitable shot glasses, one for every man I'd ever known or might want to in my entire life. Why the whole batch put me back eighty-two dollars and forty-six cents. And to think of the hours I had to spend,  standing on my feet, waiting for each precious item to be wrapped!

My thoughts turned to a large item on the front seat, placed there in a position of importance. It was a box of music - brought all the way down Route 95 to be shared with whoever was unfortunate enough to be standing near the piano at our little parties. This box represented the accomplishments of my avocation:  everything from John Thompson's Beginning Piano to songs from the great musicals; an operatic anthology falling apart at the binding and how about that copy of "En Verdure Clad" from the Creation? Now surely, here was something that any high brow crook would want. How  could they be so cruel as to take that from me?

Then, I got to thinking about the intentions of any self respecting, successful criminal. Wouldn't they be seeking something they could sell, I mean 'fence', or at least gloat over at the end of a long night's work?  Things like electronics, jewelry, and, basically, anything I didn't have. Can you imagine the thief returning home in the morning and instead of offering their partner a pearl bracelet with diamond clasp or a sterling silver belt buckle, they'd get handed a copy of Schirmer's "56 Songs You Like to Sing"?

With a renewed sense of security, I got out of the car and walked with my friend towards the theater. I hoped no one noticed the smug little grin on my face as I stepped into the lobby. Sometimes, there is justice , after all!