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"And all these things shall give thee experience and be for thy good." Is this what it meant? I wondered miserably as another drop of milk dripped from my hair and splashed into the small pond that had already formed in my ear.
Somehow I could not believe that this is what I had prepared and waited for, for eons of time. Oh certainly I had expected skinned knees, bruises and bumps, even disappointment, but this was humiliation in its cruelest form. My mother, now blurred by my tears, was standing staring at me angrily, the empty mush bowl still in her hand. I could bear her piercing glare no longer. I lowered my head, causing another clump of cold sticky mush to splat on my tray.
Thus I learned early on that it had not been my misfortune to have been born to a mother who believed in sugary, empty calorie "Froot Loops" nor "Frosted Flakes," not even "Lucky Charms" which are magically delicious. Rather, my mother believed firmly in "Wheat for Man." She believed in it on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday mornings in a most delectible form. Not that it was easy for her, certainly it was an involved gourmet dish.
To be so dedicated to one's beloved offsspring required an early start, for it had to simmer several hours in order to form the delicate leathery crust, then allowed to cool so the climate would be conducive for the formation of delightful lumps. This was then complemented with "mixed milk" (powdered milk mixed rather thinly so as not to have too strong of an imitation flavor), and, against her better judgment, sugar.
As I grew, my ability to eat wheat mush ironically diminished. Certainly with maturity my appreciation should have increased, but rather my cleverness began to develop. By age five I had learned that "You have to eat enough that I can see the bottom of the bowl" could be satisfied by employing the natural elements of mush. If not too much milk was added, the mush would fiercely stick to the sides of the bowl, thus allowing the bottom to be visible. This tactic worked for awhile, but soon mother tired of it and insisted that I eat it. However, she was not totally heartless in her demand. She would allow me as much time as I required to eat it. She would say, "I don't care if it takes you all day!!! You're not leaving until you eat it!" If mother was in a particularly sensitive mood, I could leave the table without eating it, and her melodious voice would follow me out the door, "It'll be waiting for you at lunch, and if you don't eat it for lunch, you can have it for dinner! I was determined that there had to be another way.
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