The rants and raves of Eunice McGill occur in no special order.
I have a pantry problem, and it’s products like these that cause it.
Well, partially.
I saw this “Tomato Blood” ketchup at Shop-All and immediately had two thoughts. One, *Am I already behind on Halloween prep?* and, two, *Zach would LOVE this.*
Not love it like it would change his life, but maybe he’d be a little more enthusiastic about my next ketchup-friendly dish with this on the table. Eat a little better. Fight less with Karen because of the distraction.
Saturday night’s dinner plan was a ground turkey/tater tot casserole. I had visions of Zach topping his tots with tomato blood, showing Karen his “sacrificial fingertips” (or whatever), then eating half a helping more than usual in the fun.
The problem was, I already had ketchup in the fridge and a backup in the pantry. I stood there debating in Shop-All for two minutes before dropped it in my cart.
At home, #Eunice oversaw my restocking of the kitchen. She never participates — unless I’ve bought Skittles, which she’s constantly filching. She just watches and comments on my choices, both nutritional and organizational.
“Eggo waffles? Just skip the middle man next time and buy Pop-Tarts.”
“That crisper’s gonna break! *Are you listening?* I tell you, one more apple and it’ll bust like the Hindenburg.”
When I removed the *tomato blood* from my canvas bag, Grannay pinched her eyes hard. She couldn’t read the label at a distance.
“You already *had* ketchup,” she said. “Are you going senile already? I oughta shop next week.”
She raised one finger resolutely, veins bulging in her wrist.
I walked the bottle closer and showed her. “I know, I didn’t need it. But look. See, *tomato blood.*”
Top and bottom dentures gnashed in place as she read the label.
“Blood?” she said. “Why, tomatoes don’t have blood. What in God’s name—”
“It’s a joke, grandmother. A gag.”
After a moment’s more confusion, she sighed and made a sour face.
“Tell you what, this country.” She shook her head bitterly. “You go and elect Biden, and look what you get. Just *look*. Whole bunch of nonsense.”
#Eunice, my live-in grandmother, mistrusts science, and articles like this don't help. I showed it to her today, hoping to convince her to try aerobics or zoomba (a stretch) at the community center.
"'Creakier, older brains?'" she read aloud. "They shoulda sent that reporter my way. I'd have shown her a creak."
Granny says she'll run the vacuum if she wants exercise.
www.nytimes.com/2021/03/03/well/move/exercise-aging-brains.amp.html
How Exercise Enhances Aging Brains
www.nytimes.com
Sedentary, older adults who took aerobic dance classes twice a week showed improvements in brain areas critical for memory and thinking.I got used to grocery delivery during quarantine, and now — unless I’m just swimming in time, which never happens — it’s my default.
Usually I love it. I take the bags into the kitchen and unpack, and am delighted by how well my shopper has minimized bags, matched up cold/hot items, headed off cherry tomato or grape spills. Way better than I do.
Yesterday, though, my delight was spoiled.
“Aww, *no!*” #Eunice said. “He got the wrong Grands! He bought Southern style.”
My 74-year-old grandmother plucked the canned biscuits from their bag. She began squeezing so hard I worried they’d pop and I’d have to cook them immediately.
“What’s wrong with Southern style?” I said. “You always love Grands.”
“Not *Southern style.*” She raised a despairing hand to her forehead. “They’re lousy. I can eat the Homestyle. Homestyle’s not as good as the originals — with the layers — but they’re okay.”
“What is Homestyle? What does that mean?”
“What’s it mean?” Granny reared back like I’d just questioned the ruling during one of her judge shows. “It means they’re in the style you make yourself when you cook at home.” She rolled her eyes, muttering, “*What’s it mean…*”
I started loading the fridge with the rest of delivery — milk, OJ, salad kits …
Zach breezed in from the living room and snagged a brown sugar-cinnamon pastry bar.
“Nice,” he said. “Good call, Moms.”
“Wait — hey, we’re eating in forty-five minutes!” I said. “They were on sale, they aren’t for—”
But he’d already ripped open the packaging and wolfed half the bar in one chomp.
Granny said, “And they’re not even Butter Tastin’!” She checked all around the Grands can for the designation, eyes narrowed to slits. “You gotta be kidding me. You didn’t tip that moron, did you?”
“Yes, I did,” I said evenly. “I always tip the shopper, and he did a fine job for us. Look at this carton of strawberries he picked out. Not a bit of mold.”
I turned the carton upside-down for Granny to see — the moldy ones always hide on the bottom — but she refused.
(Full discloser: I decided here not to reveal that my shopper actually did text saying they were out of “Grands — Original, Butter Tastin’”, what did I want for a replacement?; and I had texted back, *anything’s fine.*)
She was shaking her head bitterly, one row of dentures trying to pulverize the other.
I asked, “Do you really like the Butter Tastin’? I always think they taste artificial.”
Now Zach zoomed back through the kitchen, skateboard in his armpit, crumbs on his chin.
“*Way* artificial,” he chimed in. “That fake butter taste is disgusting. They put formaldehyde in there, you know.”
And grabbed a handful of Ritz crackers and dropped his skateboard — hard on the kitchen floor, *bang!* — and kicked off.
Eunice stared at space where her great-grandson had just been.
She said, “What the hell is he talking about?”
I wedged the strawberries into the crisper, then moved on to the frozen items — peas, Popsicles, chicken tenders.
“Sometimes it’s best not to ask,” I said. “Here, let me put the can away. I’ll do something with potatoes instead tonight.”
The Griggbys were so surprised I was still taking the case — after their “stolen Lamborghini” turned out to be their 6-year-old’s electric ride-on vehicle — that they couldn’t seem to process my next question.
“Suspects,” I repeated. “Do you have any *suspects* in mind?”
“Oh, suspects!” Mrs. Griggby crimped her brow. “We actually do have a few persons in mind — persons who would’ve been in the vicinity. Of course, we abhor the idea of judging our neighbors.”
“Of course,” I said, pen poised at my notepad.
The Griggbys, settling in knee-to-knee on their couch, rattled off three possible ride-on-toy thieves.
The first was Don the junker, who cruised the neighborhood during Heavy Item Pickup in his muffler-less pickup truck, peering up your yard with a hairy elbow wagging out the window.
The second was Marigold Rowe, who lived around the corner and zipped over the neighborhood’s sideways, curbs, and pachysandra on a hoverboard.
“If she has a hoverboard,” I cut in, “what would she want with an electric ride-on? Hoverboards are more fun for big kids.”
“True, but she has a little brother who tries keeping up with her on an old rusty bike with training wheels. Aidan says he’s jealous of Marigold. I don’t know what sort of parents set up that sort of dynamic — one gets a hoverboard while the other suffers.”
The third suspect was the Ingersoll family. Superficially, they shouldn’t be. They were perfect neighbors, always mowed the lawn and watered their hanging baskets. Walked their golden retriever nightly after dinner, chatting and laughing with each other. Pete Ingersoll had all the right gear. Mrs. Griggby thought that baby carrier of theirs was CoolMax.
But they just felt off. A little too perfect.
I finished jotting the names and my impressions, and closed my notebook. It was almost 4:00. I needed to get home or else Granny might start dinner. Some days I didn’t mind, but tonight all I had in the fridge was salmon. I couldn’t bear the thought of #Eunice applying her universal 45-minutes-at-450-degrees method on that nice juicy (for now) piece of fish.
I gathered my purse. “Looks like I’ve got my marching orders. I’ll do some digging and let you know what turns up.”
The Griggbys thanked me profusely and assured me that if Aidan had been there — he did tennis Tuesday afternoons — he would’ve thanked me too.
Mr. Griggby walked me out.
At the porch he said discreetly, “I should mention that we, uh — well, that my wife is very sensitive about that issue of judgment. Of judging people.” He bent lower, and I smelled salami on his breath. “I realize your time is valuable, though. You don’t need to be wasting time due to niceties.”
“No,” I agreed. “I have a mess of problems to deal with at my own house.”
He peeked back to be sure his wife couldn’t hear, then said, “Don the junker took it. Bet the ranch on it.”
#StolenLambo
#Eunice is having a devil of a time with masks.
“What the— who hung these doilies on the cabinet handles?” she demanded last night.
“Those aren’t doilies,” I told my 74-year-old grandmother. “Those are the kids’ masks. You have to clean them every night.”
She glared at the masks, which ranged from jet-black and Billabong surf logo (Zach) to kitten face and pink paisley (Karen). “You can’t toss ’em in the dryer?”
“Not every night,” I said.
She looked from the masks to me, then back to the masks. The chicken-y skin of her neck trembled.
Eunice believes all garments should go through the clothes dryer. *If you can’t run it through the machine, it’s not worth having.* That’s always seemed contradictory to me given her frequent complaints about soft millennials and rallying cry that, “We lived through the Great Depression!”
(She didn’t, but her parents did.)
“Masks,” she muttered. “I saw a little boy come out of the store the other day? He was shooting his mask at his sister. Pretending it was gun — then walks over and picks it off the asphalt where four hundred damn pairs of shoes go.”
As her eyes rolled to the heavens, I smiled.
“It’s not perfect. But it’s good to get kids in the habit.”
“Oh, sure. Sure. Now we got doilies hung up all over the kitchen.” She wagged her finger around. “Looks downright *ridiculous* in here.”
“I’ll figure something better out,” I said. “That mug tree I tossed out last winter could’ve worked.”
Granny shook her head.
I asked, “Did you want me to wash your mask?”
She’d worn one today. I’ve talked her out of almost all possible exposures, but she categorically refuses to give up Thursday pickleball at the community center.
“I’ll wait for the wash,” she said. “You doing a load tomorrow?”
“I can,” I said.
“Good,” she said. “Good. Mine’s already in the hamper.”
“Where’s the seasoned salt?” #Eunice demanded the other day. “How am I supposed to make my world famous deviled eggs without seasoned salt?”
Her 74-year-old eyes zipped from one countertop to the next. I stood from the kitchen table, where I was double-checking Karen’s addition schoolwork.
Granny continued, “How did we run out of seasoned salt? Don’t you have a backup? Are they hoarding that too now, all the scaredy—”
“We’re not out of seasoned salt,” I interrupted. “There’s a big shaker of it in the spice cabinet.”
Her head whipped that way. “When did you start hiding it there?”
“I’ve always kept it there.”
“Aw, *no*.” She swiped her veiny hand through the air between us, disgusted. “Seasoned salt belongs within reach. For nuts and ice cream. You used to keep it out, before Obama.”
There was so much wrong with this, the most uncontroversial being that I’d never stored my seasoned salt anywhere but in the spice cabinet.
I walked past Eunice with a patient smile, retrieved the thermos-sized Lowry’s seasoned salt, and handed it over.
She muttered thanks and clutched the cylinder as though it were solid gold.
“Spice cabinet,” she said sourly. “Half the crap in there is irrelevant, y’got seasoned salt.”
I glanced over and saw Karen was happily coloring an Independence Day worksheet (I’m slightly ahead on my themes), meaning I had a window to engage.
“What even is seasoned salt?” I asked.
Granny squinted hard. “You’re kidding. You been cooking how long? It’s got cumin and garlic and herbs” — she raised the container to her face, seemed unable to make anything out, lowered it — “and saffron and green pepper. Gimme a break. I guess it’s not good enough for your generation, not authentic enough.”
She made angry air quotes on “authentic.” I looked at the clock, which read 4:51. Time to start the tuna-noodle casserole. For the next hour, give or take, I would be sharing the kitchen with Eunice.
“Hm. I had no idea it had all those flavors,” I said. “When you’re finished, why don’t you just leave it out beside the pepper?”
For #dinnerTonight, I navigated a standoff between my 74-year-old grandmother and 14-year-old son. #Eunice has rightly recognized that we’re marching through pantry supplies in an effort to space out trips to the grocery store.
“Know what you ought to use up?” she said this morning. “That cream of mushroom. It’s coming due.”
I tipped my head to one side. “Maybe a casserole.”
Her eyes lit up. “The stroganoff, make the stroganoff!”
Zach, cruising through the kitchen with his skateboard, heard us.
“No stroganoff,” he said. “I refuse to eat glob.”
“It’s not glop,” I said, though the dish can be a bit thick when I use canned soup instead of making a roux. “I suppose I could do Swedish meatballs instead.”
He made a pained face. “Ugh. Glop with meat.”
At this point, Eunice grew exasperated. “You millennials, what’re we supposed to eat? Huh? Tofu and dandelions?” She turned to me. “Make the stroganoff, Molly. It’s delicious!”
I faced Zach, who I don’t think qualifies as a millennial. Granny lumps everybody under forty-five into that pejorative bucket.
“I do have this new recipe I was hoping to try,” I said to them both. “It takes cream of mushroom” — Zach’s eyes began their trademark roll — “but it’s also got chicken and cheese. I can toss in some jalapenos too.”
Zach and Granny eyed each other. He said, “*Fine*.”
She said, “Could you sprinkle fried onions on top?”
“Grandmother…” I said warningly.
“Oh, fine,” she said. “Fine. Make the danged thing. I’ll just pick the peppers out.”
#zachQuote
#Eunice is voting Trump, but she's all in for Biden today in S.C.: "Just look at those two geezers and tell me who oughta win. Nobody uses their dang eyes anymore!"
Made #thestew out of today's #nytcooking, turned out great! The kids and #Eunice loved it — though Granny hedged when she heard it came from NYT. "Chickpeas for your main protein? Sounds about like them."