As I chewed over the idea that remnant morsels of my
luncheon salad of kale, beet chips, quinoa and edamame might possibly linger in
my teeth for an entire afternoon’s entertainment of picking the bits out, I
congratulated myself on such a “good-for-me,” nutritious meal.
Meanwhile, every fiber of my being screamed, “Good for me?!? Bleccccchhhhh!”
If someone had told me when I was a kid – a vegetable-hater
of a kid – that I would someday eat edamame, I would have launched a spit wad
of mashed potatoes off a spoon at them. These modern health foods certainly
were not in my family’s diet out there in the middle of the Canadian Prairies.
What WAS good for us, according to my mother, was whole milk, bread crusts,
mashed potatoes and canned cream corn. “I don’t LIKE mashed potatoes!! I don’t
wanna eat my bread crusts!!! I hate creamed corn!!!!!” I’d whine. “Too bad. Eat them anyway. They’re good for
you.” The ultimate Mom sentence that shut down any debate about leaving the kitchen
table until your plate was cleaned off.
And what about the advice you hear from nutrition experts these
days that we should avoid processed foods and only consume food that our
grandmothers ate? I am old enough to be
a grandmother so I am not sure what age group they are referring to. If they’re
telling younger generations to eat what we did, then it would be Kraft dinner
and bologna on white bread.
Processed foods aren’t exactly new. My grandmother was born
in 1891. Growing up, she probably ate Campbell’s canned soups and Kellogg’s
Corn Flakes, both of which came on the market in the 1890s. Foods like these
were thought to be not only labor-saving but healthful! Today they're considered
poisons by the Whole Foods set. My grandmother lived to 83.
Looking back, I’d have to say that by 1950s and 60s
standards, my mother fed us fairly wholesome meals. In those days, when
everyone except my family owned a freezer, my mother shopped for fresh food every
day. Today, she might be considered a true revolutionary. During the short
Manitoba summer growing season, my parents traveled far and wide to gather fresh
veg from farmers’ markets and roadside stands. The rest of the year mother walked
to our neighborhood Tomboy grocery to buy meat, potatoes and vegetables for
dinner. “Fresh” veggies in those days, out on the flats in the Canadian
midwinter, consisted of turnips, carrots, potatoes and onions. The occasional
Brussels sprout or cauliflower that might be available was cooked to mush with
every drop of nutrition boiled the heck out of it. Other veggies, too exotic
for the Prairie winter, came in cans: Niblets corn, tomatoes, beans and peas
that had a sinister grey pallor to them. I was 17 before I ever saw a stalk of
broccoli.
My mother’s menu had a comforting weekly rhythm to it: roast
beef and potatoes on Sunday, left over roast on Monday, fried chicken legs
sprinkled with dehydrated onion flakes on Tuesday (with mashed potatoes), one
of mother’s famous ground beef concoctions on Wednesday (with mashed potatoes),
pork chops cooked in Campbell's mushroom soup on Thursday (with mashed potatoes.) Dinner was
eaten out at a restaurant on Friday (Rae and Jerry’s for you Winnipeggers
reading this) and then she’d prepare something “casual” on Saturday, like
burgers or chili con carne or fried rice with shrimps.
Up the street, my friend's family ate all the new, amazing, packaged,
processed foods her parents bought at the Co-op. Her family had a freezer, into
which they stuffed Swanson’s TV dinners, Pillsbury crescent rolls, Bird’s Eye
peas and marvelous loaves of Wonder Bread. I thought everything at their house tasted
better than at home. I was fascinated by the chemically, sharp, bright tastes.
I was awe struck by the fact that a wad of Wonder bread with a little saliva
added could be crafted into a marble just perfect for playing Ringers. My mother despaired when I’d come
home pleading with her to buy Tang orange “drink” or Green Giant frozen mixed
vegetables. And then she’d serve us what my brother and I called “Halloween Surprise”:
mashed carrots and turnips. “They’re good for you!”
Bleeeeccchhh!
So here’s the thing: whenever I hear THOSE words, “Good for
you,” my teeth clamp together, my lips slam shut and I assume my best pouty
face. Can’t help it. Kale and quinoa might as well be canned peas to me.
