My husband and I recently had brunch with my son and his wife. Nothing fancy, just your typical diner-style food on a Sunday morning. There was coffee and juice to drink, omelets, waffles, and sausages to eat, plus good conversation and laughter around the small wooden table.
I tried not to watch my son as he slowly drizzled syrup into each pocket of his waffle, never missing a square or the 4 lines that quartered the plate-sized waffle, and I mused that he had prepared his waffles this way since he was a child, and it always vexed me. 5 minutes to pour syrup……I had finished eating by the time he started. I used to hope that this OCD type behavior of his would lead to him cleaning his room at some point in his childhood, but no- His single-mindedness was focused only on the waffle-to-syrup ratio that he determined must exist.
As I watched him carefully pour, I contemplated the syrup and then about condiments in general. As a culture, we would probably not enjoy many of the foods we choose without condiments that accompany them. Who wants to eat a dry waffle? I can’t imagine a BLT without mayonnaise, a bratwurst without sauerkraut, a salad without dressing, or a hot dog without ketchup. The list goes on —I certainly would not enjoy many meals as much without the coordinating condiment.
Condiments brought about controversy during my childhood years. The most reviled condiment of all by my parents? Ketchup! My father would grimace at my pounding the bottom of the glass ketchup bottle, pushing out that red delightful sauce onto my hot dog. We ate a lot of hot dogs when we were young because my mother worked 3rd shift and my father had to cook. His culinary trove was comprised of hot dogs, cold cereal, and frozen chicken pot pies. We ate chicken pot pie 4 times a week, and to this day I still cannot look at one without feeling nauseated.
Unbeknownst to me, my love of ketchup distressed him so greatly that he endeavored to change my behavior with a well-thought-out scheme. He worked for General Motors as an industrial engineer and engaged the help of 2 of his co-workers to bring his plan to fruition.
I was 10 years old.
I had just hopped off the bus from school, walked into the house, and the phone rang. The gentleman on the other end of the line said that he was Mr. Heinz from the Heinz Ketchup company. He told me he had heard how much I love ketchup and would put my picture in the newspaper if I ate an entire case of ketchup. Absolutely, I would!! Heck, I don’t even need my picture in the paper. I put that stuff on everything!! So, an agreement was made; I hung up the phone and was about to go outdoors to play, but before I could get to the front door, the phone rang again.
This time it was Mr. French from the French’s mustard company. He had heard that I didn’t like mustard, and he wanted to offer me a trip around the world if I ate a case of his mustard.
I paused and counter-offered:
How about ½ a case?
No. He stated that the offer was for the entire case. I thanked him and politely declined. I was only 10, had plenty of time to see the world, and was definitely not interested in eating an entire case of mustard. After all, Mr. Heinz was going to put my picture in the paper. That was good enough for me.
I can only imagine my father’s disappointment at that time, realizing that his big scheme failed so miserably. Mea culpa- I actually like mustard now as an adult.
This glitch did not hinder my parents from trying their best to raise my younger brother and me into sophisticated human beings. They were resolute. My mother determined that our manners should be of the Country Club caliber, and on evenings that she was not working, she would occasionally serve dinner in our formal dining room. It was during these meals that we learned the proper way to fold napkins and to place them on our laps. She taught us the proper use of different-sized forks and spoons, and how to sit up straight in a formal dining chair. Elbows on the dining table were strictly forbidden, and there was no television allowed during mealtime.
During one such dinner event, Mom served a new recipe called “Chicken Oporto.” I remember this dish because the name sounded funny. It looked a bit strange as well. We ate our chicken fried, not in a pot with some weird-looking grey sauce. My brother looked at me, folded his napkin, excused himself from the table, and went to the refrigerator. He came back with a bottle of ketchup and proceeded to pour it on the chicken. My mother was aghast. My father sighed and put both elbows on the table—a complete breach of dining etiquette– and covered his face with both of his hands. I thought he might cry. It was the final blow to them both, as we were determined to be irredeemable. From then on, my parents enjoyed Chicken Oporto, lobster, and steak dinners in the dining room alone in peace, while my brother and I ate hot dogs at the kitchen table. With ketchup.
I smiled softly, remembering these events as I sat eating brunch with my husband, my son, his wife, and the sweet new bundle of joy in her arms. I am eternally grateful to God for that beautiful child. I hope he likes ketchup when he’s old enough to eat a hot dog.
