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When I was young, and if I was lucky, very lucky, I would wake up to the smell of frying cracklings. If I did wake up to the smell of frying lard and bacon 'butchering left overs', it meant two things; it was winter and it was Saturday. Weekday mornings left no time to savour this treat, and Sunday was no time to go to church smelling of fat or burping up during the service. So the rare Saturday that our dreams would be wakened by the sounds of cracklings being simmered in bits of raw potatoe and onion, we knew it was going to be a great day indeed. One by one my 4 siblings and I crawled out of our shared beds and flew down the wooden painted near vertical staircase to land on our assigned seat at table. I say assigned; my parents solution to the constant bickering about whom we did not want to sit beside at that particular meal. My brother, the youngest, was seated in a particularly ugly wooden high chair to Mothers right. At any given time and with out warning, he would slither out via the seat or cause immediate verbal shouts from all 5 of us as he stood up and leaned backwards. Or, he could thwart all conversation by bang banging the wooden tray. This would result in well intentioned attention and chaos. I sat to my Dad's right, a position I likely used as leverage in the 'deserving category'. To my right was my 'next in line' sister Doris, a shy and reticent sister who unlike her outward nature, had the gift of swiftly twisting the skin directly behind my knee. Obviously this must have been a result of my mentioning something derogatory about her or a snigger of a secret we had shared in the bed the night before. It may have been the mere mention of a boys name that would trigger this assault to my knees behind, but it was deadly and would stop me cold in the middle of a word. I would then know to either segue into a quickly thought of new topic, or, drop the matter entirely. The last sibling to hit the landing at the bottom of the stairs was immediately attacked for being tardy and making us starve as we waited. This guilt could be used as leverage against this person for the duration if the day. At some point it would become tiresome and one parent when firmly state that "enough is enough". But we nurtured the crime as long as possible.
When I was young, and if I was lucky, very lucky, I would wake up to the smell of frying cracklings. If I did wake up to the smell of frying lard and bacon 'butchering left overs', it meant two things; it was winter and it was Saturday. Weekday mornings left no time to savour this treat, and Sunday was no time to go to church smelling of fat or burping up during the service. So the rare Saturday that our dreams would be wakened by the sounds of cracklings being simmered in bits of raw potatoe and onion, we knew it was going to be a great day indeed. One by one my 4 siblings and I crawled out of our shared beds and flew down the wooden painted near vertical staircase to land on our assigned seat at table. I say assigned; my parents solution to the constant bickering about whom we did not want to sit beside at that particular meal. My brother, the youngest, was seated in a particularly ugly wooden high chair to Mothers right. At any given time and with out warning, he would slither out via the seat or cause immediate verbal shouts from all 5 of us as he stood up and leaned backwards. Or, he could thwart all conversation by bang banging the wooden tray. This would result in well intentioned attention and chaos. I sat to my Dad's right, a position I likely used as leverage in the 'deserving category'. To my right was my 'next in line' sister Doris, a shy and reticent sister who unlike her outward nature, had the gift of swiftly twisting the skin directly behind my knee. Obviously this must have been a result of my mentioning something derogatory about her or a snigger of a secret we had shared in the bed the night before. It may have been the mere mention of a boys name that would trigger this assault to my knees behind, but it was deadly and would stop me cold in the middle of a word. I would then know to either segue into a quickly thought of new topic, or, drop the matter entirely. The last sibling to hit the landing at the bottom of the stairs was immediately attacked for being tardy and making us starve as we waited. This guilt could be used as leverage against this person for the duration if the day. At some point it would become tiresome and one parent when firmly state that "enough is enough". But we nurtured the crime as long as possible.
We arrived at the table in our still bed warm homemade flannelet pyjamas and ogled Mom as she conquered the final steps of the fry. Once Dad had given thanks for "the hands that prepared it and for a God who loved us', she would take the fire hot cast iron pan and dump the grits into a stainless steel sieve. Then, with the back of a wooden spoon or bottom of a fat mug, she would fervently squish out the last possible drop of fat, rendering it healthy and fit to be eaten. They were presented in the middle size bowl that came in a set of three colors; red, yellow and greenish. The colors well worn and faded held foods fit for queens. Next to the bowl came a platter of 'Friday baked white buns' and an array of jams that together with the bun, off set the grease of the cracklings. These breakfasts were slow meals, you could swing your slippered feet under your vinyl chair until your stomach felt 'a bit off' from too much food.
Fast forward to the last 6 weeks, where the Saturday morning breakfasts were not cracklings and white buns, but pancakes with white sauce and syrups, fresh fruit and cheese.
Should you ask me what one of the highlights of the visit was for me, I would have to say table times. Chaos, tipped over chairs, sibling yelps of 'ouch' [who is doing the pinching], the youngest assigning herself to the seat next to her Dad, 'accidental' belching, long legs under the table folding and unfolding themselves, the Mom saying 'all I want is one nice quiet meal with NO fighting', the conversations gliding from abortions to adoptions, career options, which teacher looks like she/he is ready to croak, friend dilemmas, and who is the favorite in the family. There is only one rule that this family has that my parents did not have to contend with; NO TEXTING at the table, no electronic gadgets of any kind allowed. No debate. No contest.
Should you ask me what one of the highlights of the visit was for me, I would have to say table times. Chaos, tipped over chairs, sibling yelps of 'ouch' [who is doing the pinching], the youngest assigning herself to the seat next to her Dad, 'accidental' belching, long legs under the table folding and unfolding themselves, the Mom saying 'all I want is one nice quiet meal with NO fighting', the conversations gliding from abortions to adoptions, career options, which teacher looks like she/he is ready to croak, friend dilemmas, and who is the favorite in the family. There is only one rule that this family has that my parents did not have to contend with; NO TEXTING at the table, no electronic gadgets of any kind allowed. No debate. No contest.
I can move my chair back just a wee bit now, and be rather chuffed [pleased and proud] about the family, all of them, the 3 in the west and 6 in the east. I observe the parents teaching and modelling life, doing their utmost to prepare their children to be socially accepted, globally aware, respectful, loving, caring, wise, affectionate, and, and.....individuals. I love all the laughter. I love it that their laughter is not squelched. It makes me laugh as well. It makes me feel like I clicked the 'refresh' button.
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