After schooldays of ladybug hunting and playing hopscotch, I would go home to an always early dinner that was a nightly epitome of the well-rounded meal.
The protein was always accompanied by a grain and a green, and my parents taught me to never waste food. From the off-limits cabinet crooned my incentive– the packaged boxes of $1 Little Debbie pastries that were the vital close to every meal, to be savored as we watched our nightly episode of The Simpsons.
Meatloaf, which my mother prepared with a hearty amount of ketchup, was sat alongside a creamy Alfredo noodle and off-orange, soggy carrots.
Salmon was pink laced with white, bordered by shimmering skin that my mother included for what my dad called “the good fats.” The pinks were always complimented by garlic noodles and flavorless white corn.
But my favorite by far was the chicken drumsticks, which in the years to come were the sole culprit of repeatedly failed vegetarianism. Half powdered by lemon pepper seasoning and the rest crispy with parmesan, the chewy delight that was the skin encased steaming, succulent white meat that our tongues sought in the crevices of each polished bone. But the smell of savory chicken drumsticks cooling on the stove meant a cheddar broccoli rice would be paired with the bane of my childhood existence: canned green beans.
My dad, always prepared for a natural disaster, swore by canned vegetables. My mom was always short on time, which in turn compromised the freshness of the vegetables.
The stringy, dull green beans were speckled with mushy pimento and reminded me of tapeworms. They festered in a grotesque emulsion next to the other components of my plate as the toxic fluid that preserved them crept into rice territory.
The green beans plagued me weekly. I, always a fast eater, would devour the drumsticks and the rice, leaving untouched the vegetable that I knew, even as a first-grader, was completely nutrient-less.
I would try to slip under the table, between the large wooden chairs that could fit two of me. My mother would look at me sternly, a look that would make me cringe, partly because the look hardly crossed her kind face, and partly because I knew I would never escape without finishing the heap.
If I was lucky, she would only make me take five bites.
The first bite: I chew with my mouth as wide open as possible to salvage my taste buds until the dreaded swallow which makes my shoulders tense and my eyes squeeze shut.
The second: I begin to gag, at which my mom would roll her eyes.
The third: I was no longer able to chew. At this point I would count to three in my head and swallow the half-forkful, bracing my stomach for the glob now sliding down my throat.
The fourth: Tears are now streaming down my face and I’m still gagging, maybe exaggerating slightly for dramatic effect but still fully convinced of my misery.
Finally, I summon all the strength in my chubby eight-year-old body and swallow the last bite, washed down by gulps of water.
My parents ignored my requests to never make those horrible things again, but for the time being, I was supreme victor. I asked for another drumstick and daydreamed of dessert.
The Stoked Daily. 