A Thirty-Pound Baby in a Toast Cup

On New Year’s Day, we had dinner at my parents’ house; by we, I mean me, my youngest daughter and her husband, my brother from Vancouver and me. As always, the Great Vegetable Dilemma took up a good part of the afternoon. My mother likes to be sure each person has at least one vegetable they like, a desire stemming, no doubt, from her failure to ever get us to eat our veggies when we were kids. Dire threats of “not getting any dessert until you’ve eaten your vegetables” were uttered in vain. In theory, this holiday ritual allows her the supreme pleasure of watching a whole tableful of people happily eating vegetables, an event that can’t happen too often since she has so many past failures to make up for.

This New Year’s Day, then, her kitchen sported a typical display: a little dish of pearl onions she’d just caramelized, a heap of raw broccoli and cauliflower waiting to be chopped and stuck in a steamer, a bag of mushrooms, and a row of cans – baby beets, cream corn, green beens.

“Do you think there’s enough?” she asked anxiously. “Will the colours work?”

“Well,” I said, “I don’t see any carrots or celery.”

“You’re not getting any of those.” She glared at me.

“Alright, then, where are the frozen peas?”

“You aren’t getting any of those either.”

I sighed. “I guess I can manage to make do with this lot.”

“Do you really want frozen peas?”

“No, Mom, it’s okay.”

“Are you sure? It wouldn’t be any trouble.”

“Mom, I was kidding.”

My youngest daughter – we’ll call her Creature – walked into the kitchen. (“What does my childhood nickname reveal about our relationship?” she often asks.) “Aren’t we having Creamed Peas in Toast Cups?”

(Brief digression: Do all grown children taunt their mothers with the culinary failures of Holidays Past? I made the much-maligned toast cups ONCE, about 15 years ago, but they’ve been discussed so often they might as well be a tradition lovingly handed down and consumed under protest for generations.)

My mother and I both glared at Creature. “Youaren’tgettingany.Ionlymadethemonce.”

On with the show. Eventually we were all seated at the festive board, bowls of vegetables spread in serried ranks before us, a great heap of raw mushrooms beside Creature who has steadfastly refused to eat cooked vegetables since she encountered her first jar of Gerber pureed turnip. Now it was time for the real fun to begin – chasing down windfalls because my mother Upset the Apple Cart.

A little background is necessary. Creature is expecting her first baby very soon. Creature, although not a remarkably large person, is both taller and bigger-boned than my mother and me, who have a similar build. Because Creature looks different now that she’s Very Pregnant than either my mother or I did at the same stage, my mother is convinced she’s having twins and decided this was the moment to prepare us for a Dual Blessing.

“So,” said my mother through a mouthful of beets, “You’ve grown some more, Creature.”
Creature: I’m supposed to grow, Grannie. I’m pregnant.

My Mom: Ah, yes, but not so much. You really ought to prepare for twins.

Creature: I am not having twins. I have a doctor and a midwife and I’ve had several ultrasounds. Finn is ONE small boy.

My Brother (aside): Who is Finn?

Me (aside): Wumbles’ baby. (As my aged brain addles, I often mix up my daughters’ names.)

My Mother (shaking her head): All I can say is, if he’s one baby, then he’s a very large one.

Creature (bravado fading – after all, this is her first baby): What do you mean big? How big?

My Mom: I’d say at least 12 to 15 pounds.

My Dad: Why did Creature leave the table?

Me: She’s upset about having a 30-pound baby.

My Dad: Creature’s having a baby? Good Lord!

Creature (lured back by the aroma of raw fungi): The midwife has assured me that Finn is no more than seven pounds.

My Brother (having just speared the last of the caramelized onions): You know Wumbles’ midwife?

Me: Don’t cry, Creature. If Finn weights 40 pounds you’ll set a world’s record and get a ton of free diapers. You should be happy.

Creature’s Husband: Is there any more of that lovely cream corn?

A Very Happy New Year To All. (And we also had roast beef.)