There was this class party in fourth grade. Of course, I wanted to bring something that would amaze all my classmates, something that would give me bragging rights and elevate me to a position above the kids whose moms distributed individually prepared packages of festive delicacies and favors at all the holiday parties. On party days, desks were draped in tablecloths and energetic moms helped the teacher transform the back of the classroom into a smorgasbord of sugary delights, delectable by every child's Epicurean standards: graveyard cakes with little marshmallow ghosts and spindly licorice spiders on Halloween, gumdrop Santas and candy cane shaped cookies for Christmas, bunny-shaped cakes trimmed with flaked coconut dyed green like grass during the Easter season.
Unfortunately, I didn’t have one of those moms. Now, in retrospect, it was good that I didn’t—because, for one thing, I had all my front teeth intact by age five, which was quite respectable and more than I could say for some of my peers—but at the time my ten-year-old brain could not perceive this deprivation as anything other than a great injustice.
Mom was a culinary genius when it came to all things healthful and unappetizing. When she came to the United States after marrying my dad, she brought with her an intangible and exotic recipe book full of tips on traditional Filipino cooking. She knew how to marinate chicken and pork and braise beef and what seasonings elicited the best flavors in fish. She could even make squid and octopus almost edible. All her cooking was instinctive. She didn't have a little box of index cards that told her how much garlic or soy sauce any dish required, nor did she have a shelf designated for cookbooks (there were a few lying around, but she rarely used them) and she never measured anything. But none of this was useful to me, since I could not bring a platter of fried squid to school.
And so it was simply not fair that my mom didn’t slave away in the kitchen the night before a school party, or place special telephone orders to Oriental Trading Company to purchase a class set of something cool, like boondoggles woven together in whatever holiday colors the occasion called for. Neither was it fair that I knew I had the only mom in the class who watched me brush my teeth at night to make sure I was still brushing when the last granule of sand sifted through to the bottom of the hour glass timer. Did it ever occur to me that her impoverished childhood in a Third World country may have had something to do with her conscientious frugality and her concerns for my general health and well being? Nope.
So I felt hesitant to ask Mom for help with this year’s Valentine’s Day party. But I was surprised when she agreed to procure something. “What do you want to bring?” she asked.
“Cupcakes!” I said.
“Cupcakes? What is that?” she asked.
I had to explain. Cupcakes were not a staple of the Filipino diet. I scanned the living room bookshelf for our copy of the Betty Crocker book, a 70s number with crinkled yellow pages that sold for fifty cents at a church garage sale. I pointed to the cupcake page and folded the top corner down so she couldn’t miss it.
“Oh! Those are cute! Maybe I can do that one…” Mom replied.
That week I dreamt of googley-eyed cupcakes singing the songs from Disney’s Beauty and the Beast. I saw perfect cupcakes in my sleep. Spongy vanilla cake dressed in dollops of fluffy pink frosting and crystalline red sprinkles with heart-shaped ju ju bees nestled on top. They were the kind of cupcakes you’d see in magazine ads where the moms and blonde-haired kids are baking together in their IKEA kitchens, gathered around the electric mixer, decorating their confections, laughing with white smiles and wearing their matching aprons. Never mind that Mom didn’t bake or even own an apron. I could still dream.
My cupcake fantasy ended abruptly at 7:45 AM, when on the day of the party, my mom pointed to the bag on the counter. It didn’t look like cupcakes. I held my breath for candy. If I couldn’t have cupcakes, shiny individually wrapped fun-size Snickers bars were the next best thing.
No such luck.
It was a bag of Werther’s Original butterscotch hard candies. I. Hated. Hard. Candy. I. Hated. Butterscotch. It was the most uninspiring concoction I could imagine, preceded only, in my limited experience, by the chalky flavor of Neco Wafers. “I did not have time for cupcakes, but this is good. Don't be late,” was all Mom said. This was all so disappointing.
I trudged to school slowly in the snow, head down like a dejected dog with its tail between its legs, trying to think of the most convenient way of disposing of the candy without having to lie or hurt anyone’s feelings.
When I got to school I discretely hid the candy in a large planter in the corner of the room. What do you know? Some dummy found it. I couldn’t believe it.
Later the teacher asked, “Who brought these?” Nobody jumped up to volunteer an answer. “Anyone?” Silence. More silence. Vacant stares from the crowd.
"Daniel?"
"No."
"Elmer?"
"No."
“Martha?”
“Uh-uh.”
"Sarita?"
Head shake.
No way was I going to claim them, especially after this boy's mom brought in 25 neon pink teddy bears, one for each of us. She also brought cupcakes. I wondered how long it took her to color-coordinate the frosting to match the hue of the teddy bears.
Life was so not fair.
Unfortunately, I didn’t have one of those moms. Now, in retrospect, it was good that I didn’t—because, for one thing, I had all my front teeth intact by age five, which was quite respectable and more than I could say for some of my peers—but at the time my ten-year-old brain could not perceive this deprivation as anything other than a great injustice.
Mom was a culinary genius when it came to all things healthful and unappetizing. When she came to the United States after marrying my dad, she brought with her an intangible and exotic recipe book full of tips on traditional Filipino cooking. She knew how to marinate chicken and pork and braise beef and what seasonings elicited the best flavors in fish. She could even make squid and octopus almost edible. All her cooking was instinctive. She didn't have a little box of index cards that told her how much garlic or soy sauce any dish required, nor did she have a shelf designated for cookbooks (there were a few lying around, but she rarely used them) and she never measured anything. But none of this was useful to me, since I could not bring a platter of fried squid to school.
And so it was simply not fair that my mom didn’t slave away in the kitchen the night before a school party, or place special telephone orders to Oriental Trading Company to purchase a class set of something cool, like boondoggles woven together in whatever holiday colors the occasion called for. Neither was it fair that I knew I had the only mom in the class who watched me brush my teeth at night to make sure I was still brushing when the last granule of sand sifted through to the bottom of the hour glass timer. Did it ever occur to me that her impoverished childhood in a Third World country may have had something to do with her conscientious frugality and her concerns for my general health and well being? Nope.
So I felt hesitant to ask Mom for help with this year’s Valentine’s Day party. But I was surprised when she agreed to procure something. “What do you want to bring?” she asked.
“Cupcakes!” I said.
“Cupcakes? What is that?” she asked.
I had to explain. Cupcakes were not a staple of the Filipino diet. I scanned the living room bookshelf for our copy of the Betty Crocker book, a 70s number with crinkled yellow pages that sold for fifty cents at a church garage sale. I pointed to the cupcake page and folded the top corner down so she couldn’t miss it.
“Oh! Those are cute! Maybe I can do that one…” Mom replied.
That week I dreamt of googley-eyed cupcakes singing the songs from Disney’s Beauty and the Beast. I saw perfect cupcakes in my sleep. Spongy vanilla cake dressed in dollops of fluffy pink frosting and crystalline red sprinkles with heart-shaped ju ju bees nestled on top. They were the kind of cupcakes you’d see in magazine ads where the moms and blonde-haired kids are baking together in their IKEA kitchens, gathered around the electric mixer, decorating their confections, laughing with white smiles and wearing their matching aprons. Never mind that Mom didn’t bake or even own an apron. I could still dream.
My cupcake fantasy ended abruptly at 7:45 AM, when on the day of the party, my mom pointed to the bag on the counter. It didn’t look like cupcakes. I held my breath for candy. If I couldn’t have cupcakes, shiny individually wrapped fun-size Snickers bars were the next best thing.
No such luck.
It was a bag of Werther’s Original butterscotch hard candies. I. Hated. Hard. Candy. I. Hated. Butterscotch. It was the most uninspiring concoction I could imagine, preceded only, in my limited experience, by the chalky flavor of Neco Wafers. “I did not have time for cupcakes, but this is good. Don't be late,” was all Mom said. This was all so disappointing.
I trudged to school slowly in the snow, head down like a dejected dog with its tail between its legs, trying to think of the most convenient way of disposing of the candy without having to lie or hurt anyone’s feelings.
When I got to school I discretely hid the candy in a large planter in the corner of the room. What do you know? Some dummy found it. I couldn’t believe it.
Later the teacher asked, “Who brought these?” Nobody jumped up to volunteer an answer. “Anyone?” Silence. More silence. Vacant stares from the crowd.
"Daniel?"
"No."
"Elmer?"
"No."
“Martha?”
“Uh-uh.”
"Sarita?"
Head shake.
No way was I going to claim them, especially after this boy's mom brought in 25 neon pink teddy bears, one for each of us. She also brought cupcakes. I wondered how long it took her to color-coordinate the frosting to match the hue of the teddy bears.
Life was so not fair.
1 comment:
I love that you're sharing your writing, Sarita! That's a good story!
Post a Comment