When I lived in North Dakota and then briefly in Kansas, I only had one or two friends. My sister collected friends like marbles, but I could only manage one or two. When we moved to the Rocky Mountains, I expected more of the same. And more of the same I got. Except.
The one or two friends I made in my new neighborhood? They actually weren’t very nice to me. One of them, a big-boned blonde named Sandra, was downright vicious. She flushed my mittens down the school commode, practiced random and frequent lunch table ostracism and informed Kevin G., the most popular boy in the 4th grade, that I was “gay for Karen.”*
I was not, in fact, gay for Karen, but Karen did the most amazing thing when confronted with that information. She looked Kevin G. square in the eye (a feat I never could manage) and said, “That’s stupid.” And then she looked Sandra square in the eye (ditto) and said, “You’re just mean.”
I thought she’d be struck down by lightning then and there.
That day, Karen was the only one brave enough to sit with me at the lunch table. She unwrapped her sandwich (salami on a buttered Kaiser roll) and said, “You have to quit crying so easily. That’s why Sandy always picks on you. She knows that you’ll always cry.” I looked down at my own sandwich (Mama’s bitchin’ tuna fish), speechless. Could it really be that simple?
Well, no it wasn’t that simple, because I’m a weeper. My family calls me “the human watering pot,” and it’s true. A tree falls in the woods and Dana cries. I never did get more accomplished at stoicism, but I did have a new friend in Karen, and for that I was grateful.
Karen invited me over for dinner that week, and I discovered that her family was, well…interesting. Different. For one thing, her parents had funny accents (German). And they ate funny food (German). And all of them had really big wrists and feet and teeth (German).**
Karen’s parents immigrated from Germany, and although my father was of German descent, he was a watered-down, American sort of German. A German who, unlike Karen’s mother, had never experienced the brutality of war.
Karen’s mother, Renate, wasn’t emotional about her past. She told stories of her childhood matter-of-factly, almost disconnected from the whole experience. But there was evidence, all around that house, that the experience had stuck with her. Furnishings were spare–the home was almost stark in it’s simplicity. Each family member owned one good pair of shoes and one pair of sneakers. Closets held few items of clothing. The only condiments in the refrigerator were butter, mayonnaise, ketchup and jam. And, as Renate stated, “No soup. Ever.”
As a girl in war-torn Germany, Renate was sent out to scrounge around town for a potato, a cabbage, a turnip–any kind of root vegetable that she could find. Often, the few ones she did find were on the verge of going bad; she still brought them home. And the family ate them. In soup. Thin, watery, tasteless wartime soup. For years, Renate ate soup and grew to hate it. Soup meant hardship and hunger and having to wear shoes several sizes too small until they actually fell apart. The minute Renate’s feet landed on American soil, soup was off the menu.
Another thing I found bizarre about Karen’s house was the complete lack of sweets. At my house, Mama often offered dessert and we had a candy jar in the family room and, to Karen’s delight, several varieties of sugary cereal in the pantry. I thought Karen’s eyeballs were going to fall out of her skull the first time she visited my house. “You can eat this?” she asked, gesturing at the candy bowl. “Like, whenever?” And then she promptly ate three bowls of Crunch Berries. The only cereal at Karen’s house was shredded wheat–the big, biscuit, straw-textured kind.
Sweets were special things at Karen’s house, and I only got to eat them a handful of times. One time, Renate announced, to much delight, that there was a special treat for us to enjoy. At dinner’s end, she went to the cupboard and with a flourish, produced a package of dried pineapple slices. I was perplexed at the allure of that “dessert” but politely gnawed on my slice.
Karen’s father, Joe, was less stern than Renate, but reserved. He did have a bit of a sweet tooth, though, which proved problematic. I remember this dessert vividly, because Joe prepared it on the sly and tried to eat it, standing up in the kitchen, as quietly as possible to avoid detection. Alas, he did not escape unnoticed and Renate gave him a loud and thorough scolding. “That’s the second time this week!” she harrumphed, and Joe tried to look chagrined, but at the last minute, he gave us a saucy little wink.
Sometimes, a man just needs dessert.
Pear Helene
serves one sly, sweet-toothed German
One ripe pear, cored and sliced
Two scoops of vanilla ice cream
Several healthy drizzles of chocolate sauce
A sprinkle of nuts, if desired
Scoop ice cream into a bowl as quietly as possible. Top with pears and chocolate sauce. Eat quickly, with ears open.
* This was not the end of the “gay” thing. Two years later, Sandra brought that little rumor back to the table. Luckily, I was in the presence of Julie N. (who had just moved to the neighborhood) and she gave Sandy a good tongue-lashing. Thank you, Karen H. and Julie N., for championing a girl too weak to do it herself. It meant more than you know.
** Yeah, I know that’s a stereotype. I’m sure there are tons of small-wristed Germans walking around. Forgive me.
I’m also over at From the Monkey Bars today; I’d love it if you’d swing on by!
{ 59 comments… read them below or add one }
human watering pot? that’s awesome. me, i’m like the sahara. i can’t remember the last time i cried! great story, great little dessert. :)
Kitch, you do a fabulous job weaving these memories into things that I can touch and taste.
Fellow watering-pot over here! Renate kind of reminds me of one of my friend’s mothers: German, blunt, and tough as hell (but she’s also very warm too). She’s so awesome to watch in action because she takes no bullshit from anyone.
I hate mean people. I think its awesome that there are still a few out there that will stand up to them.
Pear Helene, looks super Yummy!
So here’s my question du jour: How the hell do you remember all this stuff? You must have a brain like a steel trap, woman. I could no more tell you about the heritage of my friend’s parents than I could describe how the moon is made out of cheese. I love, love, love your stories. And I marvel at how you’ve kept them all in your head all these years.
Gale, it’s so odd–some things I can remember clearly but others just fade into the ether. Luckily, both my parents are gifted storytellers, so they occasionally can fill in the details for me. Although my Daddy, bless his heart, LOVES it when I get a detail wrong and them emails me with a correction. He’s delightful.
I love this about your Daddy.
Your blog is so good. So, so good. Great stories, wonderful recipes, the whole enchilada.
I am weepy too. Thank God for the Karens of the world. I am meeting one of mine tonight in DC—she’s in town for a conference and I haven’t seen her for ten years. But it feels like yesterday.
I loved this post! It was so heartwarming and sweet. I could go on and on, but suffice it to say, I smiled, and I love the part where you describe those different (German) people! This was terrific! God Bless Karen’s father for turning a pear into something more than a fruit your mother got on sale!
I have a German grandpa, and I inherited large wrists and ankles, and square-shaped fingers and palms. Why couldn’t I get my grandma’s fine ankles and gorgeously turned limbs??? I don’t know, and to this day, and I feel cheated out of the genetics I would have chosen if given the option.
Good friends are worth their weight in gold.
OMG, this has to be one of the funniest posts I have read in a while. Thank you for making my morning brighten.
It reminded me of a high school experience I had. A certain Narcissistic Biology teacher asked me one day if I rode horses (he had overheard me and my friend talking on more than one occasion) when I said yes, he replied with “Oh I thought so, girls who ride horses have big butts) Well, my good friend Liz got wind of this (she had his class later that day) and chewed him out. The next day he said “thanks for sickin’ your lawyer on me!”
Good friends are awesome.
Kelly, we all need friends who are willing to go to bat for us–thank goodness for the Liz’s in this world.
Oooooh, I’ve never tried pears paired with ice cream before! Or chocolate! It sounds delicious!
I love your stories! They’re so full of soul and humor. Love the imagery of the sly sweet-toothed German! :D
I love your childhood stories even if they make me a little sad for you and what you went through. And I’m a human watering can…at any time, just tip me over and I’ll cry! ;)
Priceless
From a small wristed, footed, and handed person of German descent and thick ankles.
I’m drooling. I need to pick up some pears next week. Yum.
Good for Karen. I liked her. She stood up for you. And then you got to know a family much different than yours…great experience for you.
My daughter’s the biggest watering pot I’ve ever known (until you). Drives me nuts.
Takes a real big deal to make me cry. I mean a BIG deal.
Love your pear dessert…how simple and delicious!
I knew, underneath all that snark, that you were a softie. It’s why I love you so! The many layers of Kitch!
Where’s the “like” button?! : )
I don’t know which I love more: your story or your (or Joe’s, I guess) pear dessert recipe. (I am of the opinion that the pear is far under-utilized in American cooking.)
Have a great weekend, TKW.
From your big-wristed German pal, Kristen.
What a great story, Kitch – what I love, even more than your recipes, is your entertaining stories!
Wandering minds want to know: WHY is it again that you ever ranked Sandra as a friend–and then kept her around long enough to publicly slam you more than once? Your warmth and humor bubble forth with every click of your keyboard. In the off chance you haven’t already come to this realization, people like you are in short supply and are very highly valued.
Stephane, after I found out that she was the one who flushed THREE pairs of my mittens (and a coat!), she was no longer a friend. But dangit, she was always in the same class as me.
Ah! What you needed then was MY husband. He once picked me up and dangled me by my ankles inside a dumpster to facilitate the retrieval of some tremendously important something that I had apparently pitched (and foolishly confessed to pitching). He could have hung Sandra by her ankles and used her as a plunger–because clearly, any toilet that has flushed a coat is seriously in need of plunging! (Or is that too, too warped?)
Count me in as someone who cries over commercials. Total watering pot here!
I address you as the small wristed German girl who is also a human watering can. I can so easily relate to your story. I had a Karen in my life too. I was never one who could stand up to people. I was quiet and demure. Then something changed. Now you can’t shut me up, and I’m not so quiet when people are being obnoxious to me. I love the dessert – what a good German to sneak it behind his wife’s back! My great-grandpa used to do the same thing!
This is a dessert I could manage! Yum.
(a COAT? How’d she flush a…. or was it more of a dipping situation? Either way, yikes.)
Stephane and Melissa: The mittens flushed but the coat (winter coat!) just clogged the sucker.
I am having a rather serendipitous moment right now. You lived in North Dakota, I lived in North Dakota. You lived in Kansas, I live in Kansas. You had a mean girl in your life, I had a mean girl in my life. You have/had a Renate in your life, I have a Renate in my life.
Serendipity.
We must be sisters in a parallel universe, or something…that’s really fun!
KW,
Love the pears and ice cream. And the memories in this story are rich in detail. I love the weaving of your storytelling. One of my favorite posts from you.
What frickin size are commodes in the Dakotas!? Have you replaced cow-tipping with cow-flushing yet? I am not gonna ask “what’s in the water there?” Everything. Everything is in the water there.
That Sandy sounds like a real piece of work. Boy, do I wish I would have had the balls (German or otherwise) to deal with the Sandys of my childhood.
My dad had a sweet tooth too. He liked nothing better than to prepare cold Quik mix Chocolate milk every night before going to bed, thoroughly enjoying loudly stirring the milk and leaving sugar and Quik mix all over the counter to piss off my mom.
I am sure he would have loved Karen’s dad’s concoction!
Happy weekend to you, Kitchy!
What a memory. Both awesome and sad—friends as a young child can be awful. I should know. ) :
I’m always telling my son that if he doesn’t want kids to pick on him all the time he needs to learn some self-control. They know just how to push his buttons. I tell him to be a duck. He is so much like I was as a kid. We are all a bunch of cry babies in this family. Oh well. This is a good looking little sundae. It reminds me of a caramel apple sundae I made a while back.
Ungourmet–Honey, please tell me why it’s good to be a duck. I am totally interested what that means! xo
Water rolls off of a ducks back. I tell my son that when people say mean things he should just let it roll off of his back. Don’t dwell on it. Don’t worry or get too mad about it. :)
Vintage Kitchen Witch—and all the dessert I’m needing this evening (okay, fine, I already had my chocolate).
Be as clever as you want about your childhood: such a painful story
And honor their family with a loving hand if you want: terribly sad war legacy
See me crying over your emotional abuse and Renate’s permanent psychological damage? Better than a holiday phone commercial for tears, your blog is.
I love the way one must dip the ice cream in this recipe. I think my husband makes his own version of this occasionally although I try to resist catching him in the act.
And the lunch table ostracism…it’s brutal. Brings back no-so-wonderful memories. I’m so glad I don’t have to grow up again.
I just have to stop by to tell you (again, no doubt) how much I love, love, love the way you pair recipes with personal essays. Even if I didn’t come back for the recipes (which I do), I’d come back just to hear the stories behind them. You could write a whole new breed of cookbook: I can see it now, with gorgeous full-bleed photographs of food and childhood retro snapshots, and page after page of stories behind the (recipe) story. I’d buy it, just so you know.
What a great story! I’m a human watering pot too!
Those real friends are indeed hard to find. Thanks for sharing!
What a beautiful story. We all have them. Some less tragic than others… but, each of us feels the stories we own as dear to us an another does. I can ache as you do about these hardship stories, as I have never experienced that. My husband has. I marvel at the resiliency in his spirit and in that of his family. Thanks for a great read.
:)
Valerie
Well, this is a story of laughter. And I laughed a lot. Outloud. I am a watering can as well and I’ve had several Karen’s in my life who embody the idea that I could just “stop.” I hang out with them to see if it will rub off. So far no, but what has rubbed off is how much ME falls in those tears. I don’t think I’m wrapped up in my tears the way I was when I was itty bitty sitting on the benches of the folding cafeteria tables.
Now I cry because it’s my relief valve.
I know a few of these secret sugar eaters. I loved seeing them through your words today, and recogonizing their “others” in the pineapple serving wife here. We are all the same, aren’t we? Thank you for making me feel more human today.
Um yes…I also cry at the drop of a kleenex. Your story reminded me of childhood…personified. I even got a wee tear in my eye ;) …love to read your stories!
I’m a giant tear-ball.
I cry at everything.
I have to admit, reading your story made me sad and angry and scared.
Sad that you were bullied by Sandra and sad that Sandra was missing that “something” in her life that made her that way, angry that kids can be so mean and intimidating, and scared that my little girl may be like me, and you, and be the one having her mittens flushed.
I love, love, love your childhood stories and how you weave them effortlessly into your recipes. I wish I had that knack for relating long ago memories to a mondern day setting.
You don’t like fruit with your meat and I don’t care for chocolate with my fruit. But now I have a taste for vanilla ice cream with alomnds. Mmmm!
You are the best storyteller!!!
I’m a weeper too. Good thing TV commercials have gotten so sorry, huh? Saves on tissues.
Is this your “It gets better” story?
I love it. I have such a hard time reconciling the fighter I know with the girl you used to be. When and how did the change take place? That would make a great post.
Nothing makes me want to kick some grade schooler’s behind like one of your stories. What is WRONG with people?
As straight as I am, I think I might be gay for Karen. Love that she stuck up for you.
Wonderful voice you have. Looking forward to visiting again. And that Karen? I want one of her for my kids!
I love that you still remember your sandwiches when Karen sat with you…I think I was more of a Karen, I’m glad she was there for you and filled you with so many memories, I’m going to make Pear Helene in her honor!
Kitch, I love your stories. Sorry life had to be difficult in order for you to be able to tell them. I too can cry at the drop of a hat. This, however, did not happen to me until I had babies. Now it won’t stop. It’s downright embarassing. I am the (very ashamed) mom who cried at Kindergarten when her twins were going on their first field trip and I could go with because of R. Oh, the humiliation. Those damn tears.
Wonder what happened to Sandra….wonder if she is still mean…why are people like this invented? Loved the story as usual. Bravo Karen and to good friends! xxx PS I love soup but I can see the point…
Sweet Karen and her three bowls of Crunch Berries! I grew up in a house that didn’t have sugary cereals or candy jars, so I can imagine her awe. I love how you make me love the people you love, Kitch.
I love your stories. You just have a way writing them that is real and hits the spot.
I love love love this story. It was always so interesting going to friend’s houses and seeing how other people lived. We also were the sugar house. My friends loved coming over and getting dessert. And on Sundays? My mother always made these buckwheat pancakes that were to die for.
This is such a simple dessert but looks so delicious. I could never turn down ice cream. Love the story behind the dessert too.