Breakfast for Dinner

          It seems this blog has focused on the topic of food  for most of the month of November.  Considering that the Thanksgiving holiday falls in this month,  food is a very appropriate topic.  Today is no exception as Jennifer Johnston Crow returns with the final post of her series of three guest spots.  Jennifer writes a helpful blog called Pivot.   She also writes memoir.  Please visit her blog to say hello.  If you missed her previous posts be sure to visit Memories of Mighty Mouse and The PB & J Massacre.   My thanks to Jennifer for her contributions to Wrote By Rote.



Breakfast for Dinner

I don’t know for sure how old I was when I first saw The Wizard of Oz, but I know those flying monkeys shot shivers of fear through my body. Each year I’d sit transfixed, gnawed by worry, each time the intrepid group ventured through the gloomy forest and into the castle, Toto in tow.

I grew up with Dorothy and the gang (well, I grew up, they stayed eternally young), and by the time I was 13, the movie had been an annual televised event – and an eagerly anticipated one – for some 11 years.

I was a newly minted teenager then, and our sparkling color television was the focal point of our living room. It was a Sunday night and time again to visit Oz. The familiar movie took shape: the tornado (surely an F-5) still swept the house off its foundation, carrying Dorothy and Toto toward a wildly different world. Thunk! The house dropped, the wind died away, an expectant silence fell. As they had so many years before, Dorothy and Toto crept to the door, opened it, and stepped out into Oz.

Except this was no Oz I’d ever seen. It was bright! It was bold! It was fantastic. It was in color!

My jaw dropped. When had that happened? Had the color on our TV been off? Was our brand new TV going bad? What? What?

Spellbound, I sat raptly through the movie – literally a new movie to me. I never knew The Wizard of Oz was in color. I soaked up the sights – even the sound seemed somehow brighter. And those ruby slippers! Dorothy clicked them once, twice. “There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home.”

And just as quickly as color had come, it was gone. We were back to black and white.

Many years later I realized the significance of how The Wizard of Oz was filmed. Real life is often black and white, a little dull, filled with routine. Pastures are greener somewhere else … but they carry their own set of troubles. It’s when we return to our black and white lives that we discover a new appreciation for all that’s good about familiar things.

It’s amazing what a change of perspective can do, but what’s even more amazing is that, when you tap into memories, there’s no telling where they’ll take you.

I was telling my friend Susan about my Oz epiphany, which managed to send her way back into the crevices of her life, rekindling the memory of the marching minions around the witch’s castle, which tripped her on down the lane to recalling how her mother always made her a milkshake during the annual Oz broadcast.

That’s a pretty special memory, and I have one, too.

For me and my sister and brother, it was breakfast for dinner (and not just during the Wizard of Oz, but nearly every Sunday).

Sunday at our house had its own kind of rhythm. Sometimes it centered around church and sometimes it centered around a Sunday drive. Whatever it was, we’d never eat lunch. We would, instead, have dinner in the middle of the afternoon. It’s a country thing, I think, that’s being replaced by quick lunches after church so we can run off to do this errand or that obligation. I miss them.

There we’d be, gathered around the dining room table, resplendent with mom’s good china and the Fostoria water glasses we hated because they were so heavy. It would be the middle of a lazy afternoon, time for our traditional Sunday dinner, which cut seriously into crucial kid activities. And those activities were usually, although not always, outdoors. Sometimes they involved a swing or a lounge chair with our noses stuck deep into a book (well, me and my sister, anyway. My brother definitely was outside, probably gathering up garter snakes. His only books were of the Rick Brant or Hardy Boys variety, and then only when he had a book report due the next day).

Even the luscious smell of roast chicken or maybe a pot roast with mashed potatoes and gravy, some of mom’s canned green beans (half runners only), and applesauce (because every kid likes applesauce) — even that beckoning, welcoming scent wasn’t enough to stir us.  Nope. We were waiting for night to fall and supper to arrive, because that meant breakfast.

Pancakes. Eggs. Cereal. Waffles from mom’s ancient, well-worn waffle iron. Not the kind with lights that turn green when the waffles are done, but the kind you had to have the nose for to know when they were perfectly toasted, golden and crispy. Butter and syrup and sausage or bacon. What wasn’t to like? We even got juice!

Some nights it might be eggs — scrambled, fried, frequently poached. Pancakes — buckwheat or buttermilk, we didn’t care. Or Coco-Wheats® cereal in all its chocolaty wholesomeness! And best of all, we could take them all into the living room and carefully arrange our ’60s-era tray tables for the best television viewing angle.

THIS was what we waited for. This, and the Wonderful World of Disney with its weekly family friendly feature, augmented once a year with a romp to the Emerald City with Dorothy and the gang. We never knew if we’d be in for a comedy, a cartoon, a heartwarming tale, a swashbuckling adventure, or a romp through the wild, wild West. What we did know was that breakfast for dinner was the highlight of our Sundays.

         Did you grow up with any unique meal traditions?  Are there any interesting meal traditions that have now?    Do you ever eat breakfast foods at dinnertime?   Or how about hamburgers for breakfast?

BIO:

Jennifer Johnston Crow is a personal coach and a writer/editor with the federal government. She offers insights and commentary for living through her blog (pivot-coaching.com) and through individual and group coaching events. This year Jennifer captured second place in the West Virginia Writers Spring Writing Contest for her memoir, “Fear.” She’s passionate about storytelling, especially when it’s real, honest, and personal. A little humor doesn’t hurt,either!








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The PB & J Massacre

         Jennifer Johnston Crow writes a helpful blog called Pivot.   She also writes memoir.   Today is one of three guest posts she is contributing to Wrote By Rote.   Watch for the next installment on  November 24th.  And be sure to visit her blog to say hello.  If you missed her first post be sure to visit Memories of Mighty Mouse.


The PB & J Massacre 

It’s the early ’60s. I’m a kid and mom is conveniently outside pulling weeds or doing some adult garden thing, so I decide to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Apparently I haven’t paid much attention to mom’s sandwich techniques.

I carefully assemble the needed supplies. One knife. Two slices of Roman Meal whole wheat bread from Kroger, but not the end slice, for heaven’s sake. One humongous jar of creamy (not crunchy) peanut butter. One jar of homemade jelly, half-full or half-empty (depending on your perspective). It’s mom’s homemade version.

Mouth watering, I dig into the jelly, slathering the perfect amount onto a slice of bread, making sure to thoroughly coat the whole slice from crust to crust with a smooth, even field of fruity goodness. Had a ruler been handy, I might have measured to make sure the left side was the same thickness as the right.

I grab the knife and like any good kid, lick it clean before sticking it into the deliciousness that is peanut butter. Protein and fat, skillfully blended into the most amazing concoction. Bless the person who first discovered that a legume like a peanut could be squished into a spreadable consistency. Whoever it is should be enshrined somewhere.

I lift my knife. A perfect glob of peanut butter balances precariously along its length as I slowly, carefully navigate the distance between jar and bread. Tongue sticking out in concentration, I use two hands and control my breathing to avoid any sudden stops or starts, eyes glued to the knife’s load.

Many long minutes later, it seems, I reach my bread without dropping a single spot of the tan creaminess on the table. Licking my lips in anticipation, I begin spreading the peanut butter. On top of the jelly.

Yeah. It’s impossible to spread. In fact, it not only won’t spread, it pulls the jelly off in clumps and then tears the soft bread asunder. I stare in horror, disappointment filtering through me. My perfect peanut butter and jelly sandwich lies in shreds, nearly inedible. And I have learned one of the most meaningful lessons of childhood, although I won’t realize it for another 40 years or so.

What I learned so long ago is that I can’t hope to change the natural order of things and, if I try, the result is a horrifying mess not unlike the great PB & J massacre. And I learned that, if I don’t meet others where they are and for who they are, it becomes a PB & J massacre in disguise. And, if I consistently expect something from someone when I know –  I truly know — that what I expect is not authentic or natural for them? Right. It’s another PB & J.

Like that very first massacre back in the ’60s, when it happens in other guises all I see is that mangled sandwich lying on the table, and familiar disappointment sits heavily on my soul.

Now, I know that the proper ingredients for making a quality PB & J remain the same — knife, bread,  peanut butter, and jelly (no longer homemade) — but are applied in the correct order: peanut butter first and jelly second.

I know this, and I do it for any peanut butter and jelly sandwich I craft these days. The thing is, I’m still learning how to prevent PB & J massacres in my daily life, because they still happen. Oh, and by the way, I still lick the knife clean of peanut butter  before inserting it in the jelly. Some things never do change.

BIO:

Jennifer Johnston Crow is a personal coach and a writer/editor with the federal government. She offers insights and commentary for living through her blog (pivot-coaching.com) and through individual and group coaching events. This year Jennifer captured second place in the West Virginia Writers Spring Writing Contest for her memoir, “Fear.” She’s passionate about storytelling, especially when it’s real, honest, and personal. A little humor doesn’t hurt,either!

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Memories of Mighty Mouse

          Jennifer Johnston Crow writes a helpful blog called Pivot.   She also writes memoir.   Today is one of three guest posts she will be contributing to Wrote By Rote.   Watch for the next installments on October 20th and November 24th.  And be sure to visit her blog to say hello.


Memories of Mighty Mouse  

I haven’t ridden much for years, but Charlie and I have talked about going riding someday soon. When I do, I’ll ride dressage. It’s elegant, sedate, and very upper crust. Now, all that means is that I sit on a fairly small piece of leather atop a horse’s back and hold the reins in two hands. We walk, trot, canter and perform the usual horse show moves. It’s a relaxing way to spend an hour.

There was a time when I sought a little more excitement in my weekly communion with horses – it involved jumping over hurdles. Big ones. I was just a teenager then, and I knew no fear.

“I hope I get Mighty Mouse today. I just love that horse.”

“Mmm, hmm,” Mom said.

“He’s that big buckskin, you know? The one I got to ride last week?”

“Mmm, hmm.”

My mother was giving me lip service, no doubt lost in her own thoughts as we drove the 15 miles to my weekly riding lesson. I’d ridden Western for a while, but didn’t like that, so I turned to jumping. Now, THAT was more like it. No more trotting dutifully around a ring; jumping offered speed, excitement, accomplishment – just what a teenager needs.

“He just hurtles,” I said.

Mom looked at me. “Hurdles?”

“No, I mean, he just zooms. He flies. He’s sooooo fast and powerful,” I said, not missing a beat. “He is such a perfect jumper.” I looked out the window at the autumn landscape and the clouds of dust rolling off our wheels. Once we hit the dirt road, it was a matter of minutes. “He has heart, you know? He’ll try and try and try. He’s a great horse.”

I jumped out of the car almost before it stopped. “You can watch if you want from that room with the glass windows,” I said for probably the 50^th time.

“Don’t worry. Go on,” she said, laughing. “I figure Mr. Handlan and Mrs. Jones are here. I’m sure I can entertain myself with them.”

Sure enough, my name was next to Mighty Mouse’s on the board. I was in the saddle and ready to go in no time, black boots gleaming, fresh jodphurs tucked in neatly.

“OK, canter around the ring to warm up.” Mary was probably my favorite instructor. She had a nice smile, and I always understood her directions. “Here’s the course. Around the ring once, then the two hurdles along each wall. After you come off the last jump, take the center hurdle.”

One by one we started. Elizabeth was riding her own white Arabian. “Go for it, Liz,” I said.

She gave me thumbs up and took off.

“OK, Jenny!” Mary gave me a nod, and I squeezed Mighty Mouse with my legs and tightened the reins. Off we went.

We flew effortlessly over the course. One jump down. Now two, three, four. I heard Liz shouting. “Way to go!” Even Mary’s, “Nice job,” edged into my consciousness.

“OK, Mighty Mouse,” I whispered. “It’s the last one.”

I turned his head toward the hurdle and urged him forward, although it was hardly necessary. He knew exactly what to do. Rising in the stirrups, I positioned myself over the Mouse’s neck to take weight off his back so he could clear the jump. It was business as usual. He took off, cantering faster, faster, faster, and then slam!

We stopped.

Well, he did; I didn’t.

The one weakness of jumping hurdles on horseback is that when you’re poised in the stirrups over your horse’s neck, there’s no good way to stop that forward momentum. You just have to hope you and the horse arrive on the other side simultaneously.

“Oh, no,” I said. I just knew we wouldn’t arrive at the same time. I heard a collective gasp from the class. From my unique vantage point – upside down at the apex of my rotation over the hurdle – I saw Mary’s hands covering her mouth.

And then it was over. I was standing on the opposite side, puffs of dust settling onto my polished boots, the metallic taste of blood in my mouth. I looked down at my hands. “I still have the reins,” I thought. I looked up to see Mary running toward me.

“Are you hurt?”

I touched my lip. “Am I cut? I taste blood. I think I should have someone look at it.”

Mary shook her head. “It’s OK. Why don’t you get back on and try again? I don’t know why he refused that jump. It’s not like Mighty Mouse.”

I still tasted blood. “I think I need to see how bad this is.” I had visions of blood all over me, stitches, bandages, sympathy. “Maybe…”

“Let’s keep on going,” Mary said. “Here, I’ll help you up.”

A little reluctantly, I let her boost me into the saddle. I knew what she was doing; get back in the saddle so you won’t develop a fear of riding. I’d ridden for years and been thrown more times than I could count. I doubted I’d be scared.

But with the taste of blood in my mouth and adrenaline in my system, we tried again, Mighty Mouse and I. He cleared that center jump as if it were a mole hill.

Just like that, the lesson was over. Sure I was covered with blood, I jumped down and walked into the tack room to find my mother. Apparently I wasn’t, though, because she didn’t even rush to my aid.

“Ready? Did you get Mighty Mouse?”

What? You weren’t watching?” I asked incredulously.

“No, I sat in the tack room with Joe and Margaret, talking. Sorry. Did I miss something?”

“Not much,” I said, a bit surly. “I think I’m going to change to dressage. I’m tired of jumping.”

BIO:

Jennifer Johnston Crow is a personal coach and a writer/editor with the federal government. She offers insights and commentary for living through her blog (pivot-coaching.com) and through individual and group coaching events. This year Jennifer captured second place in the West Virginia Writers Spring Writing Contest for her memoir, “Fear.” She’s passionate about storytelling, especially when it’s real, honest, and personal. A little humor doesn’t hurt,either!

  Have you had any experience with riding horses?    Has there been an event in your life that made you reevaluate what you were doing?

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