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Somewhere, my grandmother must have been watching – and laughing.
She was the one who was the brunt of family jokes after a bus trip to California back in the late ‘50s or early ‘60s. Last week, the tables were turned.
In her latter years my grandmother, Anna Edgerton, moved out to Pasadena, Calif., to live with her sister, my Aunt Edith. An Orthodox Quaker who didn’t trust air transport (even though both her sons were pilots), Grandmother would take the bus to travel between the East and West coasts.
It was on one of those bus trips that she made a serious blunder that had relatives on both sides of the country in stitches. To her credit, she was self-deprecating enough to let the cat out of the bag.
During those long road trips, it was necessary for Grandmother to live out of her suitcase. She had most everything she needed for personal grooming, including toothbrush, toothpaste and mouthwash.
At one point during a cross-country trek, Grandmother pulled out what she thought was her mouthwash. She removed the cap, lifted the bottle and poured out a mouthful.
Oops! It was shampoo, not mouthwash.
We used to joke about how Grandmother must have been blowing bubbles across the Great Plains.
OK, Grandmother, now it’s your turn to lead the laughter.
It’s funny how unfamiliar surroundings can lead to these types of blunders. In this case I was at my sister’s home at Charlotte staying with my mother while my sis and her hubby were out of town for a day.
They had just moved to the Queen City last fall so I wasn’t all that familiar with where to find what I needed in the kitchen. I got up for breakfast while Mama was still in bed, located the oatmeal, bowls and silverware.
After the oats were nuked in the microwave, I began a search for my sister’s honey. I couldn’t find the bee nectar anywhere, even after checking and double checking the cabinets, cupboards and anywhere else I could think of.
Finally, I looked in the refrigerator. At the rear of the middle shelf, I espied a squeeze bottle with the word “honey” plainly printed on the label. “Aha!” I thought to myself. “She keeps the honey in the fridge because she’s been having problems with some pesky ants.”
I grabbed the bottle, opened the lid, turned it over my bowl of oatmeal and began squeezing. The amber fluid poured over the steaming oats in zigzag fashion as my mouth watered.
Then I happened to notice that the stream was more of a pastel gold than glossy, as one would expect of honey. I stopped squeezing, held the bottle up and checked out the label once again, this time much more carefully.
“Honey mustard,” it read.
I looked at the label, then at the brown stuff all over my oatmeal, then back at the bottle.
“This is honey MUSTARD,” I realized.
Again, I looked at my oatmeal with honey mustard glazing the top. I considered an attempt at removal, knowing that the prospect was pretty dim.
Then I had another thought. I stuck my finger on the honey mustard, tasted it with my tongue and realized it had a sweet flavor.
“It’s HONEY mustard, after all,” was my conclusion.
With that, I squeezed out some more of the liquid, stirred it in and enjoyed my first bowl of honey-mustard oatmeal.
What can I say? When you’re given lemons ...
Larry Penkava, who has written Now and Then since 1994, hopes Grandmother enjoyed the laugh.
