Forbidden Fruit

How trite it is, to say "forbidden fruit tastes the sweetest". But like most trite sayings, platitudes and cliches it became that way for a reason. There is a deep and inherent truth to it.

Sometimes there is a literal truth to it.

Several decades ago my handsome hubby went a little heavier on the peach schnapps than perhaps he ought to have. The inevitable result of that little overindulgence lead to an aversion to all things peach related that persists to this day. He doesn't even like the color peach, so acute and complete is his distaste.

This aversion has lead to a ban on peaches in our home. Of course the girls and I love peaches. Of course we do; they are forbidden fruit. So we sneak them when we can, eating them outside - which is just glorious, because we can let the juice drip straight off of our chins onto the ground, or at other people's houses, or positively gorging on them if he happens to not be home for a day or two during peach season. (This is not a good idea, by the way. I really do not recommend trying this. Really.)

Now I know there are two camps on liver and onions. I have never met a person who is neutral. Liver and onions has lovers and haters. I'm in the love camp. I know exactly why, too. My mom was in the love camp and my dad was in the hate camp. When I was growing up, once a year he would go out of town without us for a golf tournament. Mom went into serious decadence mode. And for Mom, the ultimate decadence was ice cream for breakfast and liver and onions for dinner. That is how it was presented to my sister and I. (She's firmly in the 'love' camp, too, in case there was any doubt.) Liver and onions was a treat of the same caliper as ice cream for breakfast.

So back to peaches - the liver and onions of my own adult household.

This weekend we were traveling to my parents house for just one day. It is about a four and a half hour drive. My daughter wanted a peach for the road. I told her she couldn't eat one in the car with her daddy, but that I was completely certain that my parents would have some for us when we got to their house.

Regular peaches and those awesome little three bite donut peaches - nom nom nom.

Of course they did. My mother yelled at my father for having them on the counter where Tom was in danger of actually seeing them. (My mother yells at my dad a lot. He's sort of immune to it. Maybe if he'd let her eat liver and onions more than once a year...) Tom assured them that the mere sight of a peach decades after the incident would not provoke a replay of the pie-eating contest in 'Stand by Me', but it didn't diminish the reprimands. (I did notice, however, that he didn't spend a lot of time in close proximity with that counter. Better safe than sorry.)

So I had a peach. Maybe two. My girls devoured - I'm not sure - more than a mere couple, I think.

Peaches sort of send me into Bubba Blue mode. (I originally wrote Bubba Gump because I couldn't remember Bubba's last name and had to look it up, but frankly I think Bubba Gump is more recognizable than Bubba Blue so I'm gonna leave it here for you. You're very welcome, don't mention it.) : I like peaches. I like peach pie and peach cobbler and peach preserves. I like peaches in my cereal and on my ice cream (whether it's for breakfast or dessert). I like peach smoothies and peach yogurt; peach tarts and peach danish. I would wear peach body lotion if it didn't attract bees and repel my husband.

If they were not forbidden, would I have the same response? (Maybe. I could write a similar ode to cherries and I'm allowed to have as many of those as I like.)

But back to peaches.

It's human nature to want what we can't have, isn't it? Which brings me to beer. Doesn't it always come back to beer, eventually?


Are these the best beers in the world? Why no, as a matter of fact, they are not. But neither are available where we live, so when we get the chance to have one, we savor it. And we anticipate it. It's like ice cream for breakfast. We seek it out and will inevitably choose it over other - inarguably better - options.

Because we can't get it all the time or even most of the time.

Nor can we get these:


A simple, humble snack cake? Or a rare and coveted butterscotch treat? Depends on where you live, I guess.


Depends on whether or not they're forbidden.

Mother Nature Can Be Like That

This Thursday's Trip down Memory Lane takes us back to one of my favorite eras. The era in which I rocked a bikini. Booya.

One summer, we planned to spend three weeks at the beach. I was very excited about this. This was gonna be my year. It was the first year I really filled out my bikini in any sort of respectable way, and my intent was to take full advantage of that.

The first week it was pretty rainy and overcast. Not perfect beach weather. No worries. It was the first week and we still had two more to go. We’d just do indoor things. Shopping, game rooms, movies. Restaurants. We generally spread these things out over the course of a vacation, but Mother Nature can be a little controlling like that.

Near the end of that first rainy week we went out for seafood. My parents aren’t particularly fond of seafood, but it’s my favorite, so they always took us out for some at least once when we were by the shore. The seafood, in other words, was a sort of rare treat. For me.

A few hours later I didn’t feel so well.

“You just ate too much.”

A few hours later still I had sweats and chills and unmentionable – indescribable things were going on in my belly. If I’d eaten too much that would no longer be a problem, as I was pretty sure there was nothing left in my stomach after a couple hours on the little camper porta-potty with a bucket between my knees.

My parents exchanged worried looks.

This was not a child who had over-indulged.

This was a child who needed to go to the ER.

I’m not sure what I looked like just then – I couldn’t lift my head from the bucket long enough to see myself in the mirror – but I could see what my parents looked like. And they didn’t look good.

I’m sure it will come as no great surprise to anyone that the diagnosis was food poisoning. Or that the prescription was hydration. And time.

Mother Nature can be a little nasty like that.

Week two of our beach vacation opened with bright sunshine. It found me too weak to squeeze toothpaste onto my toothbrush independently. My mother stayed with me that first day, while everyone else suited up and headed for the beach. The next day she was still willing to stay, but doing so was sort of tinged with martyrdom. The third day brought a little full-out resentment. The fourth, one of the other parents we were camping with offered to stay with me. She wanted to clean her camper anyway, so didn’t really want to go to the beach. It would be no trouble. Really.

I’m not sure, but I think my mom may have kissed her full on the lips. If she didn’t, I bet she wanted to.

The next day I made it to the beach. I was still a little weak, but no worries. We still had a few more days.

The very next day I got my period.

And my awesome new UNWORN bikini was white.

You have got to be kidding me with this.

Mother Nature can be a real bitch like that.

I Hab a Cold Id By Dose

And a cough in my chest.

And I'm tired and a little achy.

I saw this sign yesterday in a museum and couldn't resist a pic.

Where is my medicinal grade heroin? Hmm? I need some dang relief!

I guess the sign in the museum is from around the same time period that big C Coke still contained little c coke.
Which must've been kind of like a super-serious energy drink. Red Bull gives you wings? This stuff'll take you to the moon. And you'll never stop talking about it...

So perhaps, a hundred odd years ago, faced with a cold similar to mine, a doctor might prescribe heroin for my cough and plenty of liquids. Like maybe Coke.

Now I'm just lying here all achy and slow-headed and drinking water and popping Vitamin C.

Progress sucks.

Sick Day

My thirteen year old daughter is staying home from school today. *


She has a sore throat.

It's not too bad, but frankly she's coming off of three days of standardized testing and the eighth grade is still testing today so they're not letting the seventh graders in the halls, thus no class switches. Also, today is Take Your Child to Work Day. Thus the school has decided, in its infinite wisdom, to show the seventh graders movies. She can watch movies at home in her jammies. A little rest on a little sore throat can do a world of good.

Sometimes you just have to make the call.

But that's not what I wanted to write about.

She is feeling crummy. Low grade crummy, but crummy all the same.

She is in her jammies.

As I type, she is watching 'Blue's Clues'.


I mentioned she was thirteen, right?

Not exactly the target demographic.

I tried to just blow it off, but when my teenaged daughter started yelling - in as much as one yells with a sore throat - answers at the screen, I couldn't resist a little ribbing. "Wow, Lea! Good for you! You just figured out Blue's clues, because you're really smart! (yeah!)"

She looked sheepish, but didn't change the channel.

At least she's not watching the source of all evil, Kathy Lee Gifford. So it could be worse.


As I rolled my eyes at the sight of my daughter, taking up the whole sofa with her gangly arms and legs, helping Steve solve mysteries, I thought about how being sick makes all of us regress. Children long past the thumb sucking phase will take comfort in their thumb, children who never want to cuddle will curl up in their parents lap, stuffed toys and lovies long neglected are clung to once again. I suppose when you take all of that into consideration, it's not so ridiculous for an adolescent to want to watch shows geared towards preschoolers.

Me? I want my mom. When I don't feel well, I want my mom. This makes next to no sense at all. My mom was an RN, and, as such was very matter-of-fact and rarely sympathetic. She was much more of a 'brush yourself off, you'll be fine' sort of parent than an 'oh, you poor sweet baby, let Mommy kiss it and make it better' sort of parent. When she erred, it was not on the side of caution. I went to school with mono for two weeks my sophomore year of high school because 'you're just burning the candle at both ends. There's nothing wrong with you a decent night's sleep won't fix.' When my throat swelled completely shut, she was forced to take notice. I think she still feels a little bad about that. I'm sure that is in no way related to the fact that I remind her of it every year or so.

Her mother, my grandmother, was even less big on the coddling.

And yet, when I'm not feeling well, this is how I take comfort:

I wrap myself in the quilt my grandmother made me. She gave me the quilt as a gift when I graduated from high school. She pieced it together from scraps of dresses she'd made for me when I was little. It's seen better days, but somehow that just makes it all the more special. So Grandma didn't coddle. And she didn't cuddle. But she quilted. And that's a hug I can still wrap myself in now - a decade after she left this earth.


I call my mom, who usually engages in one of those 'well, what YOU need to do...' diatribes that I hate so much, I say, but I keep going back for more. Then she'll call me every couple hours till I'm well, to make sure I'm heeding her advice. I roll my eyes like a teenager when the phone rings, but between you and me? There's a large part of me that's wishing I was lying on her sofa rather than my own.

I drink flat 7-up with a straw. Because that's what Mom gave me when she would finally give in and admit I was sick. Flat 7-up through a straw and jello. Jello with a spoon. We were cold, we weren't weird.

And I eat rice pudding. Yeah, that one is sort of extraneous. No connection to my childhood, but it gives me comfort. I try not to spend too much time analyzing it.

So. Just us Howard girls? Or do you regress when you're sick, too?

And please always remember and don't ever forget, that with me and you, and my dog Blue we can do anything that you wanna do...



*She gave full approval on my taking and using this pic. And FWIW? The blanket she's chosen to wrap herself in is one her dear old mom made from old T-shirts. A different era of sentimentality and comfort.