NOonan sometimes scattershoots, but I love her writing, and I enjoyed the whole bit about Goldmansachs Syndrome and the last cigar.
And I get Lane's distinction about hard times and harder times. In fact, I wrote a column about it several years ago when AMR cut out all bonuses and slashed salaries.
Given our situation right now, I pulled it out to remind myself that things really aren't quite as bad as I think.
_______
Yesterday I went to make a ham sandwich and I had this really unpleasant revelation about myself.
I have become the kind of woman who has four kinds of mustard in her refrigerator, including one called moutarde aux noix with scary brown speckles in it. Why would you need four different types of mustard? What else do you put mustard on besides beside ham sandwiches and hotdogs? I wasn’t raised to be profligate with condiments. When I was growing up, we had one bright yellow Heinz mustard jar in the refrigerator door. No one really liked mustard in my family and I suspect it may have been the same jar I threw out when my mother died a few years ago.
Now we possess items with foreign names like wasabi, which sounds like something Tonto might have called the Lone Ranger. I try to imagine my father‘s face if he found something moldy green in a tube next to his Pabst’s. “Where‘s the Miracle Whip?” he would roar as he threw the offending stuff in the garbage. We never had mayonnaise, only Miracle Whip, mayonnaise being just too Frenchified, I guess.
Then there are my spices; rows of expensive, used-one-time seasonings standing in a dusty, accusatory row in the pantry. My mother, who could pinch a penny until poor Abe’s beard popped off, used salt and pepper, and when she was feeling daring or exotic, paprika. And you know what? She was a wonderful cook. Most of my seasoning attempts were met with grimaces and comments like, “Why is this rice such a weird yellow color?” “What are these funny seeds in my beans?” “I think these potatoes are rotten. They taste bad.”
When did I turn into this extravagant person who throws away leftovers rather than creating a delicious meal for the whole family from the scraps of the night before? Mom could start with two tablespoons of leftover mashed potatoes and feed the neighborhood with potato pancakes swimming in butter, as delicate and satisfying as anything I've ever eaten. The most creative thing I do with leftovers is allow them the freedom to morph into new and interesting textures and colors before their eventual eviction.
All of this guilt-ridden, angst-filled introspection has come about because, like many of you in the Metroplex, we are concerned about our economic situation, and I believe it is my responsibility here on the home front to cut costs and Make Do in the current climate. This shouldn't be hard. I was raised by the Queen of Make Do, a PhD holder in Depression Survival, a woman who ironed and reused Christmas wrapping paper year after year and reduced our worn sheets to pillowcases and then to dustcloths. A woman who collected the Dial soap remnants in a margarine container to be melted into a new bar. Who brushed her teeth for many years with, I kid you not, baking soda.
How it must pain her to see her daughter buying liquid soap that smells so delicious you could not only wash your hands with it, but serve it as a fruit sauce over ice cream to unexpected company.
Actually, that might be my first cost-cutting tip of the year.
In a way, it’s exciting. All these years, we baby boomers have been working hard to find new ways to spend all the money we were making. Now we can welcome a new challenge: how not to spend the money we no longer make. How to stretch a nickel until Monticello looks like a one-story motel. How to convert, à la Scarlett O’Hara, last year’s silk bed sheets into our daughter's prom dress. How to recycle last night’s leftover filet mignon into Hamburger Helper. No longer will we be impressed by a woman wearing an outfit she picked up in Paris. No, soon true envy will be aroused by the words, “I got this on sale at the Outlet for 80% off.” It’s just a question of changing what we value. And truly, I believe this is not such a bad thing.
My mother is no doubt looking down in pleased surprise. Since she knows I have no chance of successfully sewing my sheets into anything except a Barney-sized muumuu, and I will never fry an edible potato pancake, she is probably hoping that I can sell my musings as a column. After all, you just have to Make Do with what you have.
And it may be a relief to get rid of that brown-speckled mustard. |
