Can I please just sit with the ADULTS?

Oh family holidays. Love them or hate them - they happen every year at the same time. Family doesn't change, and in my case - neither did the food or the questions.

Don't get me wrong, I did always enjoy making the 6 hour trip up the Cities to visit family for the holidays. The main reason was because of my cousin. After the questioning about boyfriends we did or did not have - or were or were not happy with - we at least could escape together and digress from the Spanish Inquisition.

See, the problem of being a 'tweener' cousin is that I was too young to hang out with the 4 cousins outside of my age group, and way too old to be caught dead with the youngsters. This is where Jess and Ang enters the equation. You could also refer to our immediate connection as "cousin sanity." Basically outside of our own siblings, of whom we saw enough of already, we had no one but each other to chill with. This means we went through the awkward aunt sex talk when we were 15 and knew full well all about the damn flowers and the bees, talked everyone's ear off about how school was, how lame being in the band was together... you get the drift. Clearly, it wasn't time for the others to have these conversations. We were the next in line. And it sure felt like every holiday it was the same record. (This was good actually - little prep was necessary). :)

This 'tweener' classification led to unfortunate circumstances at holidays. There was enough room at the adult table for holidays for us to sit. Having more than 20 aunts and uncles, not to mention the 35 some cousins we have - made that graduation nearly impossible. Instead - it was the kids table for us. This meant watching cousins eat way too much marshmallow jello, blowing soda pop out of their noses and my personal favorite - starting the table on fire with the candles.

We just wanted to sit at the goddamn adult table. They clearly were having way more fun (we later discovered allchie helps!) and were talking about more important things than the Teenage Mutant Turtles and their boogers. If not with the adults - then come on - how about the actual teenager table? Even if they scared us with their wisdom, or so we thought... we were mature and hip at 12 too. Come on!

The other main problem of being a tweener was having to WAIT in the congo line for food. Yes, it was always buffet style. So after all the little urchins touched everything, licked everything and cleaned the place out. Well, not really - but it felt that way. At least there were always the staples - green bean casserole, marshmallow veggie jello, olives, buns. Sometimes I feel like that is all we ever ate. It was amazing how fast the sides and meat would fly away from the buffet line. Don't even get me started on the dessert. (Okay - fine. I remember one year for Thanksgiving for the 50+ people eating there were 4 pies. 4 fricking pies! They were not even homemade. *s*. We opted for spiking our koolaid that year. I think that was a fine option).

For having so many cousins and aunts/uncles- the house was always crowded. In fact, once you entered the line for the buffet (of which could take 15 minutes to move) there was no turning back. Get your plate and then scoot. Once you either sat in the many card tables arranged around the first floor, the kitchen "kids" table, or the frosty porch there was no moving. Forgot butter - tough shit. It was impossible to move around in that house when it was feeding time at the zoo - impossible. Seconds, what were seconds? Naturally jello and marshmallow mush. Other than that - good luck.

Not that this post makes much sense - and if anything it is only bringing to mind even more crazy memories. Nonetheless, holidays were always a good time. Thank the stars above that I did not have to face them alone.

There's No More Room for Jello

It's basically a fact of life that food defines the holidays. However, when you grow up in an extraordinarily big family, scrap food kind of defines the holidays. I can remember the first holiday gathering I brought up the caboose of the buffet line. Not a smart move when 32 cousins have already passed ahead of you. Aunts and Uncles, yes, them too. But they don’t matter quite as much, as adults and children have completely different palettes, you see. The adults grazing the Thanksgiving buffet table tend to gravitate towards plates the kids could care less about. No more of Grandma’s green bean casserole, which she only makes on this sole day every year, with green beans and onions from Grandpa’s garden which have been picked and stored with care until this very day? Meh, no biggie. No more pickles or after dinner mints left? Now we have a problem.

As I brought up the back of the line, passing up silver platters with mere crumbs left on them and china bowls scraped clean, I spotted a beacon of red gelatin splendor: “A Jell-o mold! I love Jell-o! How did those fools pass this up!”, I thought to myself, giggling with delight. I added it to my plate of pickles and after dinner mints, and picked up a bun for good measure.

Ah, now, where to sit to enjoy this fine spread? Seating also is a complicated process. The grown ups sit in the dining room with the china and wine and having, what I imagined at the time, amazing adult conversation about the good old days, and maybe about sophisticated things such as Aristotle (he was the one who invented T.V., right?) or The Beatles (i loved The Beatles). Or perhaps, gasp!, they were already planning where we would all have our summer vacation together! (That’s what I really liked to imagine.)

Being 11 or so at the time, I clearly didn’t fit into the adult table. The next option was the kids table. Again, somewhere that I didn’t feel as though I belonged, and I certainly didn’t have as many romantic notions about what took place there. I knew what took place there. I had sat there for 11 years, babysitting my 5 year old sister and cousins because “I was the older one”. It was a bit like an unsatisfying job: you hate being there, and just when you are about to pull a “fuck you, fuck you, I’m out” to the boss, he will come over and sing his praises about how “responsible” and “great” you are to be” helping out”. How utterly unsatisfying, but it keeps you there until the next breakdown.

There was a bit of a purgatory, but it was a place you had no option to visit: the Teenager’s Table. A cardboard table set up in the entry way, where they dined together and talked about tantalizing topics such as “high school” and “dating”….that’s what I imagined, anyway. And, now that I’m older, it was a place where I’m sure they pulled out their hip flasks out to give Aunt Alice’s Holiday Punch a little more “spirit”, if you will. How do I know this? Because it’s exactly what I did where I was finally old enough to sit at the cardboard table.

Back to the Jell-o: I went in line expecting Glorified Rice, and I ended up with Jell-o! Hallelujah! The first bite was heavenly; there isn’t much to say because it was Jell-o…it really only has one taste. But I will say the maraschino cherry I scored in the first bite did add a little something special. As I slurped the second spoonful into my mouth, I hit something. As in, I hit something that couldn’t just be sucked down -- it needed to be chewed. “What the…..?” I thought to myself, and took the bite. Celery?! I spit it out and examined my slice of the Jell-o mold: cherries, yes. All that other canned cocktail fruit, yes. But, wait….what was this? What was this green stuff? Why in hell was there celery in my Jell-o?

I consulted with my mom.
“Uh, mom…why is there celery in the jell-o?”
“Oh, your grandma made that!”
“So…why did she put celery in the jell-o?”
“It’s just her recipe”
“So….she, like, did that on purpose….or….?”
“Yeah, it’s just the way she makes it”
“Oh. Ummm…why?”

I took a moment to reflect. Apparently my grandmother was senile and she actually thought celery in Jell-o made sense or something. That made me feel kind of bit depressed, because everyone knows the first stage of death is losing your mind. I sighed a tragic sigh if ever there was a thing, and got back in line. Maybe there was some Glorified Rice left.


A couple Thanksgivings later with Celery Jell-o still making an appearance, I realized the celery in the Jell-o was no mistake; it was just part of the recipe. And now it’s become the Thanksgiving staple that I never eat.

Grandma Marcella’s Fruit Cocktail and Celery Jell-o:

2 package cherry flavored Jell-o
1 bunt cake mold
2 cans fruit cocktail
1-2 celery stalks, coarsely chopped

Prepare Jell-o according to directions. Add cocktail fruit, drained. Add celery pieces. Stir. Chill in refrigerator until set. Flip mold onto serving platter. Serve to unsuspecting relatives.

Family Dinners: Dessert and Pigs included

I have both fond and not so fond memories of family dinners. Don't we all?

As a preface, dinner at home were never boring. I quickly learned this at a young age when asked to eat over at friends' houses. Considering none of my friends had 4 younger siblings - the entertainment value for dinner at their houses was par for the course. On a given night at the Barcelona ranch you could hit 18 straight eagles.

Of this I will not complain. We always ate healthy, well balanced meals. We said Grace before each meal. We talked. Yes, we had actual human conversation at the table. (And now that we are all adults, we actually have discussions from time to time - that is, when we are all now in town to eat together). The best part of the meal was once you finished your plate you got dessert. It is because of this ritual that every evening now after cleaning my plate I long for something more- something sweet. Perhaps the occasional diet would actually be successful if this hadn't turned out to be sure a personal vice - that damn ice cream - it gets me every time.

On the sweet note of dessert lies one of the worst parts of dinner. When we were younger (and by younger, I refer to myself and two brothers) if you misbehaved not only did you get the "sting" and "tongue rolled between the teeth," but you also got something far more painful - No Treat Week. This was like the electric chair of punishments at the B. House.

Mom is an artist, even if she would never admit it. No Treat Weeks meant she would cleverly and very artfully create a mini-calendar of the week in which you would have no treats. That puppy got slapped on the fridge to remind you no sugar would touch your lips that week, and also so that the person who actually got you in trouble could rub it in your face all week. Although the mockery and the fridge art were not the worst of the punishment. The worst was knowing that you finished your plate and deserved to be rewarded in ounces of ice cream. Instead - you had to sit at the table and watch everyone else thoroughly enjoying their dessert. This is naturally when the bastard that got you in trouble would ham it up. "MMM this ice cream is so good - so rich- so creamy. It's a shame you hit me over the head with a baseball bat and you can't enjoy it... MMM." I have memories of being reduced to tears by this torture. To my parents credit, this punishment was genius. I don't remember having No Treat Weeks that often and when I did I regretted not getting away with the crime and just getting spanked.

Another very fond memory I have of the family dinner was the 'Pig Award.' This little 'game' was either invented for one of two reason (1) A younger sibling brought one of the farm animals - the pig - from her toy farm to the table on random dinner or (2) the rents were sick of our piggish behavior at the table. (Piggish behavior could, but was not limited to the following behavior: chewing with one's mouth open, wiping dirty face on sleeve, burping, putting elbows on the table, using fork like a shovel, eating with one's hands...etc.). Essentially the "Pig Award" was given out each dinner after everyone had eaten at least half of their meal. The award was given to the person with the most piggish manners. No lies - this was almost always one of my brothers. Almost always. At first the award was an insult. No one wanted the pig placed in front of his/her place. After a couple of weeks or so though it was no longer an insult, it became the "Pig Award Competition." Who could eat the most repulsively and get the award. We fought for that fat piece of plastic. The Pig Award was quickly retired by my parents and I am pretty sure there were No Treat Weeks issued to all under the age of 12. (That was all of us.)

Really when it comes down to it - dinner was always a good time. We all always ate together. We waited until Dad came home from work. The table would already be set and we'd eat. If we were in sports and Dad coached - (which was each of us at one point) then we waited then too. I think it for all these family dinners that I think all of my siblings and I actually like each other. We all also have a great appreciation for food. Amazing was some family QT can do to one's life.

On that note - I need some ice cream. I cleaned my plate Mommy, I promise.

Eat the Meat.

Most people are blessed with learning table manners early in life. Phrases such as: “Please pass the bread” or “May I have some more, spaghetti, please?” are considered courtesy phrases for most families, however, they are not at the Lauer table. You do not ask, you take. You do not wait, you act. Ideally as soon and swiftly as possible. Not that there wasn’t ever enough food to go around, but for some reason that threat always hung over your head. It’s a lot like riding the Chinatown bus from Boston – New York; there will always be a seat for you, but since there is a crowd swarming the door, you swarm too, just because maybe there won’t be a seat this one time. Or worse, you will get stuck sitting by the guy who is taking back 3 bags of (mostly) dead poultry. Ew.

But I digress.

Let me just state for the record I was born disgusted by meat. No joke. I eat it now, and ground meat and chicken on the bone still makes me a little queasy, but one of my earliest table memories is escaping the table with a napkin full of hamburger stuffed in my pocket so I could flush it down the toilet. Otherwise, I would face the penalty of sitting at the table in front of that damn hamburger “until I finished it”. Meat just disgusted me from the get go, and I have no idea why. Another fave method of disposing of meat was requesting to wear a bib at dinner, and slipping the meat into the pockets of it. I seriously must have been 3 years old, and I would like to think my parents were on to me. But who knows. At any rate, I can tell you that when you ask for a bib at the age of 7, the parents start to get suspicious.

Not eating meat in Wisconsin is simply unacceptable. End of story. So, despite my rejection of it every time it was served at the dinner table, it kept showing up on my plate. It makes so much sense to me as to why this happened when I think about it now as an adult: growing up more or less on the poverty line in rural Wisconsin meant that meat was in fact the most accessible and therefore affordable food. People hunt, and not only for themselves. People will hunt for their neighbors, too. And it isn’t for sport; it’s to get them through the winter. As in, they don’t have the money to purchase food sometimes, so they rely on the freezer of meat. It seems unbelievable, but every time I go home I am reminded that it in fact exists. This is a rather sensitive issue for me, and it is basically the main reason I want to punch those smug podium vegetarians/vegans in the face. Clearly I don’t care if someone chooses to not eat meat, I myself have just told you I couldn’t eat it before I could even comprehend issues such as “animal rights” or “standing up against mass production of foods” or “momentary food fads”. “Smug” and “Podium” are the key words in my distaste.

Again, I digress.

When I was still young and impressionable, whenever I would pick at the edge of gristle surrounding my meat, my dad would patiently remind me that that slimy white stuff actually “tasted like candy”. Um, really Dad? Candy? Because I’ve never seen candy that has looked like this before….

If you want to know the strangest thing about this whole meat debacle, it’s that I always asked for McDonald’s. I don’t even know how old I was before I ate at McDonald’s, or any other fast food place. They just weren’t around where we lived. However, my grandparents lived in the great metropolis of St. Paul, and every time we drove there, the 2 hours road trip included at least a 15 minute opening statement made my the kids (Me, Liz, Sarah, Nick…the early days, still…only 4 of us) on why we should -- no, why we NEED, to stop at McDonald’s. I imagine it was like how most kids beg to go to DisneyWorld. We just wanted to visit Micky D’s, for Christ sake. And every time, my Dad would say “but I can smell grandma’s cooking from here!” That was meant as a reassurance that food was on its way, but we didn’t take it as such (for obvious reasons….see last blog about jello…).

Anyway, I think it’s funny I craved a burger from Mc D’s, but would go to extreme lengths to not eat meat at home (I once barfed up a venison steak at the table). Now, of course, it’s all so clear to me: it wasn’t even craving meat, per say, but more the idea of that tiny burger. Once we finally got to go to McDonald’s I was probably like 11 years old, and every time after that when my Dad made burgers on the grill at home, I would request mine “McDonald’s style”: flat as fuck, and with all the flavor burnt out of them. As he is a bit of a meat connoisseur of German heritage who likes to make and smoke his own sausages and jerky, I can only look back on those days and say: Sorry about that, Dad….

Well, I’m off topic again.

The point about family meals is this: You take what you can get. And God help you if you ask for anything more.