My God! What is in that casserole?!
I've thought, many times, that I lead sort of a double life. For instance...
This past weekend, Kevin, the kids, and I headed to Bunceton for a family reunion. It was held in the small Bunceton H.S., on the edge of what was once a small but functional farm town but what is now an empty shell consisting of some nasty looking trailers, old and small homes, and a pathetic little main street with no businesses. Thank you, Wal Mart.
I made shredded BBQ pork in--what else?--a crock pot. Kevin stopped at the store and got the buns. There were big construction worker coolers of lemonade and unsweetened tea, and a couple of coolers full of pop. Except for the lame-o's who brought buckets of KFC and some "store-bought'n" cole slaw, all the food was homemade and shone in all of its Midwestern family reunion potluck glory--no less than 4 different kinds of pig, a couple different varieties of cow, about 5--I'm not kidding!--versions of au gratin potatoes (my favorite features shredded potatoes and enough butter and cheese to clog the jugular), green bean casserole in--what else?--a crock pot, at least 3 bean salads, including 3-bean salad, and rolls. For dessert, pecan pie, cakes, brownies, cookies...but none of it looked very good, surprisingly. The cookies were made with mint chocolate chips. Terrible! I don't know why so many people make such lousy cookies! They're usually dry, dry, dry, or...I don't know...just lame in some way. I make fucking GOOD cookies. But I only made BBQ pork for this shindig. Too bad for them.
Anyway, we're surrounded by mostly The Old Guard of the Old German Forefathers, and it's quite boring. Still, I make idle chitchat ("Yep! We're back in Town. We have a business. I'm Kevin's wife, those are my two lovely kids. Oh, you bet they're glad to have those grandbabies right next door!"), look nice, don't make good jokes when I can because I don't want to be Kevin's mouthy wife.
Each year they elect a president, a vice-president, and a treasurer-secretary to do the duties for next year. The president gets the pop, reads the minutes from the previous year, announces births, deaths, etc. Guess who it's gonna be next year? My own dear spouse, Kevin. Which is a riot. This is a reunion that has been going, if not always strong, at least GOING, for 73 years. There are a few people that have been to all of them, or missed only the ones that occurred while they were at war. And even though we're getting far away from the original brothers (at great-grandparent level), and many of their children have died, and now it's down to a few children and, mostly, their children, and the cousins are getting further and further removed, it's still taken pretty seriously.
So, next year, I'll make more food. We're going to try to get more of our generation to come. We might even do some structured activities for our kids' generation! So that's one Lisa--cornfed Midwestern gal who gets the whole potluck thing and can converse with all the old farmers without cursing or revealing that she doesn't believe in the god they ALL bring up way too casually, in my opinion.
Anyway, after all of this, Kevin and I left the kids with the tail end of the Greatest Generation and headed out to see Knocked Up. On the way, we passed the swanky apartments of a girl Kevin dated in college, a rare mid-MO Jew whose dad had a lot of money and whose mom taught her how to deep throat out of--I don't know--necessity? Is suppressing your gag reflex so you can choke down an entire penis really something you want to do, first of all, and you want your MOM to show you how to do? What the hell happened to sewing and properly disposing of feminine products? Did any of the women at the (religious! so religious!) reunion teach THEIR daughters how to deep throat some college dude? Ya'll know me. And I say "Yuck". So probably not. But that didn't keep me from Wayne Bradying a filthy song about Kevin's deep-throating ex-freak freak.
And that's when it hit me: If the people at the reunion knew what kind of entertainment we enjoy (rated arrrrrr) and knew that I could make up 4 funny phrases about a cock-swallerin' JAP while parking a car, and knew all of the other stuff that Kevin and I do (mostly..."have done")...would we be invited back? Would we be invited but impeached? What secret lives do others have? Are there that many surprises out there, or are they as boring/normal/clean/God-fearing as they seem? Just how tolerant are people?
You gotta wonder. I don't pretend that there was some golden age back then, where everyone was as squeaky clean as pre-American Pie apple pie. We didn't invent cussing or fucking or even deep throating, and we weren't the first to call it that either. In fact, it really horks me off when I hear people going on and on about the "good old days". Sure, it wasn't bad in the, say...I can't think of a time! Let's see...Depression, War, more war, conformity, assassinations, generational chasms, totally pointless war, energy crises, poverty, rationing--and if you were black or brown or an Injun or a JAP or a Jap, was it ever so shiny and bright?
I'm getting off the point. Maybe that is why secret things are secret. Do I really want to know? I really don't. Best to just bring the potluck pleaser and shut the hell up.
This past weekend, Kevin, the kids, and I headed to Bunceton for a family reunion. It was held in the small Bunceton H.S., on the edge of what was once a small but functional farm town but what is now an empty shell consisting of some nasty looking trailers, old and small homes, and a pathetic little main street with no businesses. Thank you, Wal Mart.
I made shredded BBQ pork in--what else?--a crock pot. Kevin stopped at the store and got the buns. There were big construction worker coolers of lemonade and unsweetened tea, and a couple of coolers full of pop. Except for the lame-o's who brought buckets of KFC and some "store-bought'n" cole slaw, all the food was homemade and shone in all of its Midwestern family reunion potluck glory--no less than 4 different kinds of pig, a couple different varieties of cow, about 5--I'm not kidding!--versions of au gratin potatoes (my favorite features shredded potatoes and enough butter and cheese to clog the jugular), green bean casserole in--what else?--a crock pot, at least 3 bean salads, including 3-bean salad, and rolls. For dessert, pecan pie, cakes, brownies, cookies...but none of it looked very good, surprisingly. The cookies were made with mint chocolate chips. Terrible! I don't know why so many people make such lousy cookies! They're usually dry, dry, dry, or...I don't know...just lame in some way. I make fucking GOOD cookies. But I only made BBQ pork for this shindig. Too bad for them.
Anyway, we're surrounded by mostly The Old Guard of the Old German Forefathers, and it's quite boring. Still, I make idle chitchat ("Yep! We're back in Town. We have a business. I'm Kevin's wife, those are my two lovely kids. Oh, you bet they're glad to have those grandbabies right next door!"), look nice, don't make good jokes when I can because I don't want to be Kevin's mouthy wife.
Each year they elect a president, a vice-president, and a treasurer-secretary to do the duties for next year. The president gets the pop, reads the minutes from the previous year, announces births, deaths, etc. Guess who it's gonna be next year? My own dear spouse, Kevin. Which is a riot. This is a reunion that has been going, if not always strong, at least GOING, for 73 years. There are a few people that have been to all of them, or missed only the ones that occurred while they were at war. And even though we're getting far away from the original brothers (at great-grandparent level), and many of their children have died, and now it's down to a few children and, mostly, their children, and the cousins are getting further and further removed, it's still taken pretty seriously.
So, next year, I'll make more food. We're going to try to get more of our generation to come. We might even do some structured activities for our kids' generation! So that's one Lisa--cornfed Midwestern gal who gets the whole potluck thing and can converse with all the old farmers without cursing or revealing that she doesn't believe in the god they ALL bring up way too casually, in my opinion.
Anyway, after all of this, Kevin and I left the kids with the tail end of the Greatest Generation and headed out to see Knocked Up. On the way, we passed the swanky apartments of a girl Kevin dated in college, a rare mid-MO Jew whose dad had a lot of money and whose mom taught her how to deep throat out of--I don't know--necessity? Is suppressing your gag reflex so you can choke down an entire penis really something you want to do, first of all, and you want your MOM to show you how to do? What the hell happened to sewing and properly disposing of feminine products? Did any of the women at the (religious! so religious!) reunion teach THEIR daughters how to deep throat some college dude? Ya'll know me. And I say "Yuck". So probably not. But that didn't keep me from Wayne Bradying a filthy song about Kevin's deep-throating ex-freak freak.
And that's when it hit me: If the people at the reunion knew what kind of entertainment we enjoy (rated arrrrrr) and knew that I could make up 4 funny phrases about a cock-swallerin' JAP while parking a car, and knew all of the other stuff that Kevin and I do (mostly..."have done")...would we be invited back? Would we be invited but impeached? What secret lives do others have? Are there that many surprises out there, or are they as boring/normal/clean/God-fearing as they seem? Just how tolerant are people?
You gotta wonder. I don't pretend that there was some golden age back then, where everyone was as squeaky clean as pre-American Pie apple pie. We didn't invent cussing or fucking or even deep throating, and we weren't the first to call it that either. In fact, it really horks me off when I hear people going on and on about the "good old days". Sure, it wasn't bad in the, say...I can't think of a time! Let's see...Depression, War, more war, conformity, assassinations, generational chasms, totally pointless war, energy crises, poverty, rationing--and if you were black or brown or an Injun or a JAP or a Jap, was it ever so shiny and bright?
I'm getting off the point. Maybe that is why secret things are secret. Do I really want to know? I really don't. Best to just bring the potluck pleaser and shut the hell up.
posted by lulu | 11:04 AM
2 Comments:
One of your best, and that's saying something. If this is any indication, the trials and tribulations of relocation have been good for the world's ethnographic output.
I must have missed this one when you first posted it and now I am reading it after first reading the one above it about how you just wanted to get away from everyone and eat ice cream.
I've gotta say Lulu, that the stresses of the move and the business setup are seeming to be getting to you.
God knows I love reading you when you get worked up about something, but I'm worried that--right now--Mizzou ain't agree'n with you so much.
Good thoughts and positive vibes are coming your way.
And, yes, I'd say that everyone has a healthy dark side that polite society has no interest in witnessing or knowing anything about. If we were all as we appeared to be, literature, movies, and everything else worth knowing would be pretty damn boring.
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