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What's for Lunch, circa 1980

Today I was reminded of a certain food that I used to eat constantly that I haven't eaten in about 20 years. That food is canned fruit cocktail.

 

Yes, I used to eat a shit-ton of fruit cocktail when I was a kid and yes, it used to make me very happy. Mom would give me a little bowl of it as a snack or a little dessert after I'd finished my bowl of Chicken and Stars soup and I would get so excited about it. Why? I have no idea. How could I have gotten such a kick out of a humble little bowl of slightly mushy mixed canned fruit? Room temperature and soft, the assorted little bits of peaches, pears, and pineapple (along with the odd grape) in Lite Syrup used to delight me, even though the canning process had mostly removed their original individual flavors and textures. I think the reason why I loved it was hidden in The Cherries.

You see, in each can of fruit cocktail, no matter what brand, there are about two little halves of tiny red cherries. Again, just like the other fruits, the cherries had been rendered mostly flavorless except for the flavor of just plain Sweet. But you'd think the cherries were the free prize inside specially marked cereal boxes or an elusive shortpacked Princess Leia doll the way I eagerly picked through the bowl looking for them. "Aha! I found you, little red cherry! And I shall eat you up! Ha!" I also used to like fruit cocktail because for about a year or so I thought it was called Fruit Cottontail and I assumed bunnies were somehow involved.

But yeah, I haven't eaten that stuff in years and years. Just like Spam, which my mom used to fry in slices sometimes, or Spam's older cousin Corned Beef Hash.

For a long time, though, I refused to even try Corned Beef Hash because I'd seen Mom open the can of it and empty it into the frying pan. It came out looking like a cylinder of dog food with those awful can lid rings embossed on each end and I wouldn't have anything to do with it. Now, I don't want to make it look like my mother was a terrible cook that served nothing but yucky canned food to her family because this is not true. She was and is a great cook that would occasionally be looking for something really easy to make for dinner, and fast and easy options in the late 1970's/early 1980's featured a lot of questionable stuff.

For example: Hamburger Helper. Another food item I used to eat all the time that I haven't had since about 1986:

Yep, I'm familiar with a few flavors of Hamburger Helper. In my memory, it tasted all right and it had a great dorky mascot- namely, that little blobby talking glove man. But do I want to eat any of it right now? No.

And how could I forget dear benevolent old Chef Boyardee? Another big lunch item was the ever-popular canned ravioli, which I haven't tasted since about 1981. Big soggy beefy tomatoey canned ravioli.

  Yes, many of you may be preparing to say "But Amy, what about Spaghetti-O's?!" I know. Boy have I eaten a lot of Spaghetti-o's. But I can't really include them in this list because I've eaten them relatively recently- I think I had some in 1995. With meatballs- always with meatballs.

I also haven't had a Manwich since around 1983. I used to love 'em, but I probably got turned off of them by the Sloppy Joes my middle school lunchroom used to serve. My school lunchroom experiences, though, are fodder for a whole 'nother blog story, so stay tuned, friends.

B-Movie Non Sequitur Sunday: The Food of the Gods

The Nickel Tour

I'm sure you're wondering where the hell I've been recently. Someone just told me that she frequently checks out my blog to see what I've posted, and over and over the answer is: NOTHING. What have I been doing? The answer to that one is: well, both Nothing and A Lot. There's been a job change, the purchase of many new absorbing books and DVD sets (including the entire color Dragnet TV series- I had to catalog all the episodes), the advent of the mighty Facebook the Timewaster, some spring gardening (me? outside? yeah, sometimes), rehearsing a short puppet show with and for a friend, and last but not least, I've had to do a lot of very important sitting around. I have found that frittering away a morning, afternoon, or evening (or all three) can be a fine art. But hey! But were you aware, Sir or Madam, that I have posted roughly 157 posts on this damn thing? Not too shabby. If you're a relative newcomer to this blog, I suggest you do a little digging around and read those older posts. Knock yourself out.

Two of those relative newcomers took me to task about an hour ago for my blog's stagnation and suggested I write about them. Turns out that it's not a bad idea, for these two characters are coworkers of mine in my beautiful new library position of Events and Outreach Specialist. That title is somewhat meaningless and tells you nothing, so here's what I do: I create and perform children's storytimes and other children's programs at several branches of a public library system that shall remain nameless. My department is called Events and Outreach and is a super secret fun spot in the otherwise deadly dull territory of the Library Administrative Headquarters. Seriously, to get to our office (unless you have a key to the side door) you have to walk down a few dim, flesh-colored hallways of plain offices, desks, honorary plaques and awards, and a few of those awfully lackluster houseplants that "decorate" almost every office in America (such as the Peace Lily- sorry, Sgt. Angel).

Then at the very end of the hallway, you see a door that is usually covered with some sort of childishly colorful construction paper decoration that changes seasonally. Open that door, and you are now in the E&O office. Our office is crammed to bursting with boxes, bins, filing cabinets, drawers, closets, and bags full of pom poms, googly eyes, stacks of colored paper, flannelboard stories, giant story cards, books, puppets, crayons, markers, adhesives of all kinds, pipe cleaners, posterboard, a die-cut machine, plastic tablecloths, prize boxes, recording eqipment, speakers, puppet sets, beach balls, bells, a rainbow parachute, a dumbass dinosaur mascot costume (officially named "Dewey", geddit?), a laminator, papercutters, and a closely guarded and locked cabinet for the Rock Band, Guitar Hero, and Wii sets, among other things. Our office is a grotto of kindergarten-y amusement. It's a friendly place.

And hey, here's one of my friendly coworkers: Nicole!

 Nicole will cut you.

I'm sort of kidding, of course. Here she is with her animal familiar, Cinnamon the fox. She is a very interesting and intelligent person who is very good at sneaking up on you and stuffing a handful of multicolored pom poms down the back of your shirt. She likes to read certain types of fantasy and gothic ghostly horror and the two of us frequently geek out about the latter genre. I spent the night at her house once, which is a lovely old 1930's farmhouse out in the middle of nowhere, complete with two horses and a bunch of cows across the street. We had a wonderful time that evening because we drank about 6 beers apiece and watched the South Park movie followed by Team America: World Police. She doesn't have a dishwasher, either, and we shared an enthusiastic high-five over that.

Her desk is next to Leigh's (pictured below):

 

Leigh is a genuinely good, sweet, and guileless person and therefore she has no place in this blog. No, that was a little harsh and I'm sorry. Leigh is wonderful and she and I share a rabid fondness for the movie Grease. She is kind, generous, and impeccably professional, but not without a sense of humor. I try not to swear around her. Her animal familiar is an English Sheepdog puppet named Shaggy.

She sits next to Carole, who doesn't mind if you swear. I think....I've never asked her.

 

Carole also went to art school, so she and I already had a lot in common. Carole is hilarious, sweet, and imaginative and recently we shared a geek-out that went on for weeks when I read the Little House on the Prairie series of books for the first time. She then reread them for the umpteenth time and we both fervently asked the question "How did pioneer women deal with menstruation??" We found the answers, some of which are compelling, to say the least. In fact, we asked each other a lot about how pioneer women dealt with many, many things. We both agreed that Mary is fucking annoying, Ma is a racist, and Pa should never have dragged them away from the Big Woods in the first place. Carole also enjoys tiny things and is a Grand Master of everything having to do with dollhouses.

Here's Amy Billings, our boss.

 

She is about as good a boss as you can ask for. For instance, she just participated wholeheartedly in a spirited discussion we had a few minutes ago about what it would be like if our Summer Reading Program stuff was themed around The Dukes of Hazzard, complete with Daisy Dukes, a Boss Hogg, and speeding library vans with the doors welded shut.

I hope you enjoyed your virtual tour and thanks for visiting. And thanks to all the peeps I just mentioned, especially Carole and Nicole, for making me get off my ass and update this damn blog.

B-Movie Non Sequitur Sunday: Godzilla Vs. Monster Zero

Cuckoo! Cuckoo!

My great grandmother, who lived to the venerable age of 96, had one of those great big old school Black Forest cuckoo clocks in her house. It lived on the living room wall over an ancient and intricate Hi-Fi stereo, cheek by jowl with dozens of framed family photos. It was made of lots of dark wood and was resplendent with many beautifully carved oak leaves and large pinecone shaped weights and was very mysterious to me. Whenever we went to Gramma's house, I had to have a look at that clock, after I had raided the glass candy jar on the sideboard for some Brach's toffee rolls. I used to ask hopefully if one of the grownups could push the clock hands forward and coax the cuckoo come out of its tiny hiding place and I think maybe once or twice someone relented, but usually I had to keep tabs on it and wait. I would sit on the couch and keep glancing at it while the grownups talked and eventually it would spring to life, the little door would pop open, and the tiny bird would spring out and bob back and forth as the tinkly little chimes chimed. The bird was so quick, its voice was so soft and quiet and the whole thing seemed to take place in the blink of an eye! I could never seem to catch the start of the show, either; I would eventually get distracted by some thing and the clock would sneak up on me. Plus, I was only about 4 years old and couldn't tell time yet, and the cuckoo clock died for some mysterious reason when I wasn't much older. Later on, I came to Gramma's knowing that if I kept tabs on the time and made sure I was looking at the clock at the top of the hour, I would see the bird properly. But no, the cuckoo clock became temperamental and stopped working and Gramma didn't care about having it fixed. I was supremely disappointed.

It stayed on the wall, though, and I never failed to check it out when my family went to Gramma's house. I think my other grandmother, Gramma's daughter, must have noticed this because one year for Christmas when I was in middle school, she gave me this:

 

Of course, I loved it! Adorableness. The clock's ticking makes the little fraulein bounce up and down and makes the bluebird dart back and forth in front of the mirror. It stayed on my bedroom wall for several years, then got packed away when I was a senior in high school and wanted to be taken very seriously. Very Seriously, I said. I must have arrived at the conclusion that teenage girls with a fondness for cuckoo clocks do not get taken seriously. I also didn't smile for photographs at that time, either. Anyway, I'd love to put this little dear on display, but unfortunately, I don't know where the key is that you use to wind it up and start it. Plus, the hanging loop broke off. I need to rig it somehow to at least hang on the wall, even if I can't get it to work properly. It's been sitting in boxes and on shelves too long, that's for sure.

I've been gazing longingly at cuckoo clocks again ever since my mom got one of those tyrolean weather houses for Christmas a few years ago. 

Basically, It's like a cuckoo clock without the clock part, and some sort of barometric pressure phony baloney thrown in. All I knew was that I wanted one! And damned if Jeff didn't get me one for an anniversary present that year. Then this Christmas Jeff and I followed our semi-custom of opening our presents to each other a couple days early and GASP!! It's a goddamed cuckoo clock!!

He got it off Ebay. Perhaps it was somebody's grandmother's- who knows? We hung it on the wall in the living room. 

"Does it work?" I asked. 

"They *said* it worked." said Jeff. 

"How do you start it?" I asked.

"...I don't know..." replied Jeff.

"Neither do I."

We fiddled with it in a very timid, hesitant manner for a while with no results. Then several days later, Jeff was fiddling with it while talking on the phone and it started ticking! The pendulum swung back and forth and a very homey, cozy, "tick..tock.." could be heard. We were both pleasantly surprised. I liked the ticking sound- it was quite soothing. Then about a half hour later I was on the computer and Jeff was telling me about something and I heard the soft and unobtrusive but unmistakable cuckoo, cuckoo. I froze! Jeff said my face looked really funny because I lit up as if a little fairy rabbit princess had just hopped into the room. I ran out to the clock and watched the clock and felt indescribably content and happy. Then the next morning it quit working before it was supposed to wind down. Now there is a piece of paper on the computer desk that says "Cuckoo Clock People" where I've written down the names and addresses of two local businesses that repair cuckoo clocks. Hopefully, they'll also give us some sort of schooling on how to keep it happy. Until then, it's hanging on the living room wall waiting to tick and sing.