Pop pop pop: A Brenda story
Aug. 31st, 2005 07:37 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jawnbcIn the Summer House, a co-parenting model was used. So if Ma had to got to the laundromat, or Aunt Berna wanted to grocery shop, or Nanny needed to the banking, that person’s progeny-in-need-of-supervision were sent down the hall. Or to a different blanket, if it was a beach day. I fairly marvel at women who have and raise children outside such supports. Though Brenda was already in her 20s, she nonetheless needed supervision--arguably moreso, given her magpie inclinations (ooooh, shiny, pocket-sized, must have, they won’t miss it, better not admit it though).
And on the hot, hot days of summer--when it was 35C/98F, when it never really cooled off during the night, and when everyone was a bit worn out by the weather--more often than not our mothers planned communal dinners. A cauldron of boiling water for hot dogs, a case of buns, jars of mustard and ketchup, a few bowls of chopped onions and sauerkraut, and some salads suited everyone just fine. Or cold dinner of cold cuts and sandwiched, also served with salads. By salads I mean cole slaw, potato salad, and macaroni salad.
On one showery afternoon, a day that was still hot and steamy but not a day for the beach--we kids were play in various corners of the Summer House (on the porch, under it, under beach umbrellas in the back yard, on the floor in cramped bedrooms), while the mothers caught up on housework. A decision was made to have a cold dinner. A few of us kids were in the Kennedy’s bedroom (playing cards? Barbies? voodoo chants?); Brenda held court in the adjacent kitchen with Aunt Berna. During her preparations, Aunt Berna must’ve realized she lacked something for the meal. “I’ll be right back. Brenda, stay away from the stove.”
Something perhaps waylaid Aunt Berna, because she was gone a fair bit longer than we expected. But being kids were were engrossed in our activities and essentially forgot about the kitchen. Until we heard the pops.
Pop! Pop pop! Pop pop pop!
By the time we entered the kitchen we could smell the sulphur of “rotten eggs”. My cousine Tricia, ever the think-on-your-toes responsible one, deftly grabbed a burned out saucepan from the stove, dropped it in the sink and flushed it out with water. On the ceiling directly above the stove were several marks--marks that looked like shell marks from a warzone. And sitting in the haze, unfazed, was Brenda.
“Brenda! What happened!”
“Pop!”
“What about Pop?” (Pop is what we called our grandfather, Brenda’s Da)
“No, the stove. Pop pop pop.”
Suffice to say we didn’t have egg in our potato salad that day.
And on the hot, hot days of summer--when it was 35C/98F, when it never really cooled off during the night, and when everyone was a bit worn out by the weather--more often than not our mothers planned communal dinners. A cauldron of boiling water for hot dogs, a case of buns, jars of mustard and ketchup, a few bowls of chopped onions and sauerkraut, and some salads suited everyone just fine. Or cold dinner of cold cuts and sandwiched, also served with salads. By salads I mean cole slaw, potato salad, and macaroni salad.
On one showery afternoon, a day that was still hot and steamy but not a day for the beach--we kids were play in various corners of the Summer House (on the porch, under it, under beach umbrellas in the back yard, on the floor in cramped bedrooms), while the mothers caught up on housework. A decision was made to have a cold dinner. A few of us kids were in the Kennedy’s bedroom (playing cards? Barbies? voodoo chants?); Brenda held court in the adjacent kitchen with Aunt Berna. During her preparations, Aunt Berna must’ve realized she lacked something for the meal. “I’ll be right back. Brenda, stay away from the stove.”
Something perhaps waylaid Aunt Berna, because she was gone a fair bit longer than we expected. But being kids were were engrossed in our activities and essentially forgot about the kitchen. Until we heard the pops.
Pop! Pop pop! Pop pop pop!
By the time we entered the kitchen we could smell the sulphur of “rotten eggs”. My cousine Tricia, ever the think-on-your-toes responsible one, deftly grabbed a burned out saucepan from the stove, dropped it in the sink and flushed it out with water. On the ceiling directly above the stove were several marks--marks that looked like shell marks from a warzone. And sitting in the haze, unfazed, was Brenda.
“Brenda! What happened!”
“Pop!”
“What about Pop?” (Pop is what we called our grandfather, Brenda’s Da)
“No, the stove. Pop pop pop.”
Suffice to say we didn’t have egg in our potato salad that day.
