It is the first day of school and while school children all across New Jersey are bemoaning their loss of freedom, Adella and Marshall are enjoying theirs. They are at Granma’s house where they can run free. New toys (at least to them), more space (Granma’s nest is empty), new treats (more than likely considered nutritionally incorrect in today's shaming climate), and a responsible (?) adult with a disposition to avoid the word no. (That would be me.)
After her first hour of unbridled freedom, Adella announces it is time for breakfast. I heartily agree and we head to the corner cabinet where Granma keeps the cereal. (This granny nanny is not often inclined to cook a hot breakfast.) I begin assembling my oatmeal for the microwave while Adella chooses a cereal, Raisin Bran, which, she announces, is actually for Marshall. (She has already eaten a yogurt and two cheese sticks.)
I pour her a bowl, but when she sees the raisins I have put in my bowl, she commandeers several of mine. I offer her a few more for good measure, thankful that I do not live in Australia, but in the land of the free, where I can still give my granddaughter raisins without being shamed. She accepts.
Then she decides this simple bowl of highly concentrated raisin Raisin Bran needs something more. In a minute, she is back with animal crackers, which she places on top of the Raisin Bran. And then she throws in a Fiber One brownie. Because, as she tells me, fiber is good. All this for Marshall. How kind.
Maybe I do deserve to be shamed for allowing this heap of sugar, mostly artificially highly concentrated. On the other hand, I do know that Marshall is more interested in my oatmeal than he is in Adella's concoction and that Adella will almost certainly not eat much of it. For Adella, I muse, is channeling her Uncle Daniel--creating concoctions to be consumed by others. Like young Daniel, who fancied himself a drinkmaster, she has unabashed confidence in her abilities to create and delight those for whom she creates. Fortunately, Marshall, not I, am the chosen one.
I no longer have the stomach for novice concoctions. I served my time with Daniel, who delighted in creating drinks for me and his father. Hot chocolate, orange juice, and diet Root Beer. Apple juice, milk, and lemonade. The combinations and his enthusiasm for creating them were endless, limited only by our selection of beverages. Never once did the thoughtful little Daniel ever really drink any of his concoctions because, of course, he had created them for his adoring parents, who tried at all costs to avoid drinking them. More than once, however, I was forced to imbibe, as his eagle eyes stared at me, hoping to gauge my reaction to his latest and greatest concoction.
I no longer have the stomach for novice concoctions. I served my time with Daniel, who delighted in creating drinks for me and his father. Hot chocolate, orange juice, and diet Root Beer. Apple juice, milk, and lemonade. The combinations and his enthusiasm for creating them were endless, limited only by our selection of beverages. Never once did the thoughtful little Daniel ever really drink any of his concoctions because, of course, he had created them for his adoring parents, who tried at all costs to avoid drinking them. More than once, however, I was forced to imbibe, as his eagle eyes stared at me, hoping to gauge my reaction to his latest and greatest concoction.
Soon we are settled at the kitchen table, I with my oatmeal and Marshall on my lap, and Adella with her cereal concoction. Marshall is, in fact, not interested in her offering. Instead he is competing with me for bites of my oatmeal, much more quickly and more adeptly than he did only a few months earlier when school ended. Despite her best efforts to entice him, Adella soon realizes Marshall is not interested in her concoction. He is only two. She does not realize he is not bound by parental (or granny) obligation. So she decides to eat it herself. Or at least the brownie on top. She nibbles a bit on a corner. (Hope all that fiber does not come back to haunt her.)
Then she announces, “I need some milk for my cereal, Granma.”
“Do you really want milk?” I ask.
I know Adella. Adella does not like milk on her cereal. She usually howls if you pour it on.
“I will only pour milk on your cereal if you are really going to eat the cereal in your bowl.”
“How about milk in a cup?” she suggests. “The Power Ranger cup.”
“The Power Ranger cup, it is,” I reply and pull out another relic from Daniel’s childhood as Marshall finishes off my oatmeal.
She eats a bit more of her brownie and drinks a bit of her milk. Then she collects the animal crackers from the bowl and arranges them for Marshall on a placemat under the table. Having finished eating oatmeal with me, he is is finally interested in them. For a minute. Until he wants to be a monkey and eat a banana.
And then Adella and Marshall move on to other things. The possibilities always seem endless on the first day of school. I, however, linger a bit in my past. I think of Daniel. I smile. All those concoctions. All those scant sips while fervently trying to control my gag reflex. All those forced smiles and effusive yet ambiguous praises.
Now Daniel is a man. One who no longer lives for my approval. One who is quite adept at his many concoctions in the kitchen. I more than willingly partake of all his culinary concoctions. (Except those doused in Sriracha.) And unprompted I honestly praise his efforts. Adella could do a lot worse than channeling her Uncle Daniel.
Now Daniel is a man. One who no longer lives for my approval. One who is quite adept at his many concoctions in the kitchen. I more than willingly partake of all his culinary concoctions. (Except those doused in Sriracha.) And unprompted I honestly praise his efforts. Adella could do a lot worse than channeling her Uncle Daniel.
