Memory versus reality

February 23, 2024

Another in a series of observations of life as I know it.

I know once people get connected to real food, they never change back.

-Alice Waters

~~~~~

In troubled times such as these, specifically in the theocratic bowels of Alabama, I find myself wandering down rabbit holes of memory. It’s a way of insulating myself from the unending drip-drip-drip of Sturm und Drang. My very own version of See No Evil, Hear No Evil, Speak No Evil. Does it work? Not so much. My attention span is limited and I can’t seem to sustain my travels down the byways of yesteryear for more than a hot minute. More’s the pity. 

Be that as it may. I was at the Stop and Shop the other day, strolling past the refrigerated shelves of butter, eggs and yogurt. That’s when, like Alice, I fell either through the looking glass or I banged my head on that sinister gliding robot who trolls the aisles. Whatever. I locked my gaze on a tube of biscuits. Pillsbury has made sweet rolls in cylinders since Hector was a pup, as was I. My mom was an expedient cook. Utilitarian and goal oriented. Slap it on a plate, eat, rinse, repeat. Meals were meant to be quickly consumed without fanfare. Breakfasts were particularly uninspired. Cereal, bacon, maybe a piece of fruit if we had any. Frozen orange juice concentrate. Tea or coffee. And the Today Show. Occasionally, when the moon was blue (or in the Seventh House), mom would purchase a Pillsbury sweet roll tube. It was a little bit of Heaven. My brother and I would fight over who got to put the gooey white icing on the hot bread. And then lick the remains from the magic cup. We were so enthralled by the process that the taste was irrelevant. Perhaps that was Pillsbury’s intent?

Fast forward decades. I bought a fancy cylinder of Pillsbury Grands by Cinnabon, carried it home and then cracked that sucker open. The directions say to “gently press a spoon against the seam to open”. Mom would whack it against the formica counter edge which resulted in a satisfying pop and extrusion of dough. Always one to honor tradition, I popped that puppy open with one efficient stroke. Baked the discs at 350 and then iced liberally. Carefully gathering up the dripping sugar and reapplying to the roll.

After one bite, I recalled the prescient words of Thomas Wolfe. “You can’t go home again”. Or more precisely, my undeveloped childhood taste buds were once happy with baked dough covered in liquified sugar. Mostly because they were an occasional treat. Today? Meh. Pillsbury and its brand benefactor Cinnabon have got some ‘splaining to do. Either that or I must come to grips with the frailty of memory. Yesterday’s special treat is today’s disappointment. Ah well. Somewhere, stowed away in a long neglected box, is the 6 inch high plastic Pop-In-Fresh figure I bought with several wrapper labels plus shipping. Its little chef’s toque set adroitly askew. A tiny tummy to be poked in fun. With him lies my childhood. Nothing special except that it’s mine. From time to time it’s pleasant to revisit those pathways. But not too often.

If nothing else, it beats watching the Alabama Children of God racing around trying to undo the mess they have made. Now IVF embryos are an electoral nightmare. A ballot box snafu. They will reap what they have sown. Pass me another biscuit please. With extra icing.

“We all know that conception is a big argument, that it’s life, so I won’t argue that point, but it’s not going to form into a life until it’s put into the uterus.” Alabama state senator Tim Melson explains the problem of putting the evangelical genie back in the bottle. Um. Duh, you dimwit.