**I thought I would share with you an excerpt of my essay writing, this one is about my mother's Mormon cooking (sorry mother)**
Another meal she liked to torture us with was broccoli and cheese soup. I remember the day the recipe arrived. Hearing a light knock, I bounded down the stairs, swung open the door and came face to face with Rhonda Eddy. Her unsmiling face greeted me and she looked highly annoyed that I had answered the door, her swollen face staring down as she asked, “Is your mother home?”
“She’s in the bathroom, “ I replied confidently. We continued to stare in silence as I left her plump body standing on the porch, her sunken eyes piercing into my inner thoughts.
Toilet flushing, water running, mom rushed down the stairs, smiling in embarrassment. Ms. Eddy’s neck seemed to appear as she raised her head to greet my mother.
She proudly announced, “I brought you a new recipe to try.” And she slowly slipped a piece of paper past me into my mother’s hand, like she was giving away a top military secret.
My mother read, “Broccoli Cheese soup. “
It was like Hell had opened its’ gates, I just didn’t know it at the time.
My mom was energized to start testing this mystery recipe, because she piled us all into the car, drove to the store, and loaded the cart with the supplies. Lots of Velveeta cheese.
Mom boiled up a batch and strapped my two-year-old brother into his highchair. He couldn’t escape.
Then she began to test it on us.
Immediately there were screams of horror. Moans were heard throughout the room as I glanced at my sister gagging, which made me gag. My brother was smart and started to pour it over his body. A clever toddler method to avoid the concoction.
How could a soup go so wrong?
Then the threats started as we proclaimed our independence, joining together in defiance.
“You have exactly ten minutes to eat the soup! I’m setting the timer” mother threatened crossing her arms and towering over us.
I looked to my older sister for a solution. She looked panicked. Usually she had some clever idea of putting the food in her hand, mashing it, then sticking it under the plate and calmlyu walking the plate to the sink. Soup would be trickier.
She betrayed me. She started to eat it. Then my younger sister followed suit. Traitors.
I was left to my own device. I started to cry. Hoping mother would take sympathy. No such luck. She restarted the timer giving me another five minutes. I cried and squirmed, four minutes disappearing.
Counting down to the last minute. I did not want to be grounded. It was now or never. It was go time. I pulled the heavy spoon up and began to fill my mouth, figuring I could swallow it all at once. I gagged and spit like a rabid dog.
Then it came out my nose. Chunks of broccoli.
Mother was not pleased. By the look on her face and her set jaw, flinching intensed anger. I knew I was grounded.
Time was up. I was sent to my room to face the wall. My stomach started to growl in protest.
Another meal she liked to torture us with was broccoli and cheese soup. I remember the day the recipe arrived. Hearing a light knock, I bounded down the stairs, swung open the door and came face to face with Rhonda Eddy. Her unsmiling face greeted me and she looked highly annoyed that I had answered the door, her swollen face staring down as she asked, “Is your mother home?”
“She’s in the bathroom, “ I replied confidently. We continued to stare in silence as I left her plump body standing on the porch, her sunken eyes piercing into my inner thoughts.
Toilet flushing, water running, mom rushed down the stairs, smiling in embarrassment. Ms. Eddy’s neck seemed to appear as she raised her head to greet my mother.
She proudly announced, “I brought you a new recipe to try.” And she slowly slipped a piece of paper past me into my mother’s hand, like she was giving away a top military secret.
My mother read, “Broccoli Cheese soup. “
It was like Hell had opened its’ gates, I just didn’t know it at the time.
My mom was energized to start testing this mystery recipe, because she piled us all into the car, drove to the store, and loaded the cart with the supplies. Lots of Velveeta cheese.
Mom boiled up a batch and strapped my two-year-old brother into his highchair. He couldn’t escape.
Then she began to test it on us.
Immediately there were screams of horror. Moans were heard throughout the room as I glanced at my sister gagging, which made me gag. My brother was smart and started to pour it over his body. A clever toddler method to avoid the concoction.
How could a soup go so wrong?
Then the threats started as we proclaimed our independence, joining together in defiance.
“You have exactly ten minutes to eat the soup! I’m setting the timer” mother threatened crossing her arms and towering over us.
I looked to my older sister for a solution. She looked panicked. Usually she had some clever idea of putting the food in her hand, mashing it, then sticking it under the plate and calmlyu walking the plate to the sink. Soup would be trickier.
She betrayed me. She started to eat it. Then my younger sister followed suit. Traitors.
I was left to my own device. I started to cry. Hoping mother would take sympathy. No such luck. She restarted the timer giving me another five minutes. I cried and squirmed, four minutes disappearing.
Counting down to the last minute. I did not want to be grounded. It was now or never. It was go time. I pulled the heavy spoon up and began to fill my mouth, figuring I could swallow it all at once. I gagged and spit like a rabid dog.
Then it came out my nose. Chunks of broccoli.
Mother was not pleased. By the look on her face and her set jaw, flinching intensed anger. I knew I was grounded.
Time was up. I was sent to my room to face the wall. My stomach started to growl in protest.
No comments:
Post a Comment