Evil, that’s what you are, just plain evil!
Get thee behind me Sugar!
Here I am, trying to limit sugar and fat intake. I’m trying to get out for walks but not having a whole lot of success in the output department. I’ve got excuses. I’m trying.
I know what Yoda says. “No. Try not. Do… or do not. There is no try.”
Yeah, well. Yoda? Easy for you to say, that is. .
OK, let’s get on with this then.
Mom did not bring store-bought candies or snacks into the house. She baked pies and cookies and cakes. She preserved fruit. We always had dessert at dinner. However, the only time we had candy or chips was at Hallowe’en or Easter. Uncle Bob was always good for a box of Turtles at Christmas; he happened to work at Smiles and Chuckles, the candy factory. Otherwise, all of our pleading and wheedling for “real” candy and treats fell on deaf ears.
I took matters into my own hands. I stole money from my mother’s wallet to buy candy. Every lunch hour while she was upstairs reapplying makeup, I’d sneak into her purse and grab a handful of loose change.
In the late afternoon, after I finished my paper route, I went to the corner store and bought a fistful of penny candy. The bulging brown paper sack was a trophy, its weight more satisfying than the contents which I scarfed down on the walk home.
This is 1967 or thereabouts. I was eleven years old. I knew better. I was a good Lutheran girl, I was fully aware of the “thou shalt nots.” That did not stop me.
Nor did the image of mom sitting with her head in her hands, despairing over the household account ledger. The bailiff was about to threaten eviction. I am not suggesting that the red ink was entirely due to the lunchtime robberies, but the loss of ten dollars a week was a significant amount in those days. Did Mom suspect me? I’ll never know. At the time I thought for certain that she did. I lived in fear of the confrontation.
One Saturday morning when mom was vacuuming my room she poked at my book bag. It was zipped shut and stuffed with brown paper bags and candy wrappers.
She turned to me and more angry than curious asked “What’s in there?”
“Nothing.” A whimper.
And she let it go.
Maybe she was afraid of the confrontation, too.
When I sat down to write this morning, I had no idea that my thieving ways would be the topic of this post. Way up there around the sigh I had every intention of listing all of the sweets that I enjoy and allowing that I really do not have a favourite. By way of settling on something, I planned to reprint a recipe for custard. It’s a recipe from an acquaintance who kept chickens. I have never tasted better custard than hers, made with fresh eggs.
Egg custard is a food I turn to when I need comfort. When I was a girl, I turned to candy. Not for comfort, but for power.
Now that I’ve shared this here, I sense I have managed to find both.
As my WordPress friend Frankie says,
Thanks for reading.
PS – WordPress, I take it back. You are not evil. Cagey, maybe. I’m grateful for the prompt that led to this work. Thanks.
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