The Turkey Baster

Turkey basters… mention that to my siblings or my oldest child and you’ll get a reaction that has nothing to do with being thankful or having a nice family dinner!  Grandma Lillian was known for many things, among them keeping a watchful eye on the bowels of the youngsters in her care. She raised 3 generations of kids and I’m sure she was proud that none of them ever died from constipation.  Not on her watch!

When we were kids it was expected that we’d make that trip to the bathroom each day, like clockwork, and you didn’t come out until you were done. I remember my little sister sitting on the toilet with a TV tray and paper dolls in front of her, staying put until she paid the ransom for her freedom. However, she liked paper dolls so most days she was in there awhile, regardless of her "status."  She was the most compliant of the three of us.  After I discovered that Grandma hid her “True Story” magazines in the bathroom closet, I got fairly compliant as well.

One particular evening we were having dinner around the table when she thought someone passed gas - a sure sign of bowel trouble. I still don’t know who, but my brother apparently seemed like the most likely culprit, so he took the fall.  Grandma tried to coerce him into the kitchen for a dose of the dreaded “Green Drops” – a thin, green liquid that tasted terrible. He said it was absolutely awful.  Another time it was my turn to take the blame, and it took Grandpa intervention to get me out to the kitchen for my dose.  I was determined to avoid it at all cost, but I remember Grandpa telling me to just do it and get it over with because nothing more was going to happen until I’d taken that vile spoonful.

Grandma was not above telling little white lies to keep us three hooligans in line – after all, besides being outnumbered, she stood about 4’10” so she did what she had to do. In one desperate attempt to keep us “regular” she told us if it didn’t come out one end, it would work its way out the other.  I’ll never forget the look on my brother’s face – much the same as the look on my face, I’m sure… I have to say, it was a relief when I eventually discovered it was not true.

But the worst fate that could happen was the turkey baster – one special item that had only one purpose, and it was kept in the bathroom for these “special occasions.”  The only kid I remember getting a “turkey baster enema” was my own son, who liked to exert his independence by refusing to poop.  But Grandma won that power struggle.  To this day, he still poops regularly, every single day, and you can set the clock by him.  Grandma would be proud.

So if you invite any of us over for Thanksgiving dinner and pull out the turkey baster, expect that we’ll all cringe just a little bit, and possibly even refuse to eat the turkey.  I was in my late 20s before I knew that the baster was invented with a completely different purpose!  Besides getting a cold chill down my spine at the sight of one, it also reminds me of the love she had for all the kids in her charge and how she’d do what had to be done to keep us safe and healthy. 

Miss you every day, Gram!

What I Really Threw Away Today

Well, I had to throw away my measuring cups today.   

Besides being measuring cups I actually liked, these were the first ones I owned when I initially set up housekeeping at the age of 18.  It's quite amazing that they lasted this long - they were still structurally fine but the silver stuff on the inside was getting flaky and corroded.  But these cups were more than just measuring cups.

They are following other vintage kitchen gadgets into the landfill.  The old double boiler, and the electric frying pan with the leg that kept breaking off...  That frying pan... the leg would break off and Grandpa would glue it, and it would break off again, over and over, until Grandpa put a couple of screws in it.  I remember him saying that last fix would outlast the frying pan, and he was right about that.  All of these items, and more, were from my first little house.  Bit by bit, my grandparents helped me get that little place furnished and functional.  They went through their house and gave me furniture they weren't using, went to estate sales where they got me a bed, a vintage stove and a washing machine, and drove to endless rummage sales where kitchen gadgets like the double boiler and the measuring cups (along with things I could not identify) came from.  As I was moving in to that little house I'd walk in the door and find something that hadn't been there the last time.  I would have been up the proverbial creek without them and using these little kitchen items over the last half century always made me feel just a little bit closer to them.  

I think I'm down to one special kitchen item left, and that is her biscuit cutter which I treasure because that was actually hers and cut biscuits for years and years.  Silly, yes.  But every time I saw one of these old items I was reminded that I was deeply loved by those two incredible people, and so much that they did all that for me at their own expense (on a fixed income).  So they were more than measuring cups to me.  But time marches on.