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Drama Queen candidates
Gag me

Contestant No. 1
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Contestant No. 3

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R E C E N T L Y

I want your sex
By Lisa Moskowitz
Forays into sex selection could result in a nation of girls
(09/15/98)

Words that sing
By Polly Shulman
Children's books that make words sing
(09/14/98)

We're here, we're ... uh ... straight?
By Sallie Tisdale
Using prayer, therapy and makeup to help gays "return" to heterosexuality
(09/11/98)

Rain on the parade
By Jeffrey Obser
Youth march or media circus?
(09/10/98)

Monica's betrayal
By Jenn Shreve
When Monica Lewinsky told more than all, she sold her man down the river -- and violated the adulterer's code of honor
(09/09/98)

ARCHIVES

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Mamafesto
By Camille Peri
Why it's time
for Mothers Who Think

The galloping (hormones) gourmet
By Susan Guerrant

When I survey my kitchen domain, the names Julia Child and Betty Crocker do not exactly leap to mind. I'm just guessing, but I'll bet old Betty never once took the lid off her butter dish and found the blob within clogged with errant collie hairs. And I'm pretty sure Julia's vegetable crisper never contained furry green cucumber skins floating in their own putrid juices. A culinary goddess I am not. And yet, I'm oddly attracted to those glossy magazines devoted to fine dining and stylish living.

Perversity you say? More like clinical-grade masochism. Each issue contains page after page of June Cleaver-Martha Stewart mutant hybrids posed cheerfully next to exquisitely set tables that display Pâté Bruschetta, Chicken Paillards with Prosciutto and Figs, Vegetables Steamed in Parchment, Three Berry Pie. In my home, the entree is a bowl of Sugar Smacks and the place mats are yesterday's sports section. Invariably, the tunes of guilt begin to play softly in my head.

Most days I can silence these songs with the smug thought that those mutant women's fresh berry pies are going to make some nasty stains on their carefully ironed, natural linen tablecloths. But on my hormonally challenged days, days when I shouldn't get out of bed, much less be allowed into a kitchen where all those knives and sharply bladed appliances are just sitting around, those previously manageable songs of guilt become full-blown, heavy metal rock events.

At such times, I begin to think seriously stupid thoughts: Maybe I could make amends to my family for the Sugar Smacks dinners and put on one good meal. I was in this PMS crazed state last October when a recipe for curried vegetables and rice spoke to me of salvation from the pages of one of those magazines.

Early that evening I swung into action with determined cheerfulness. I soaked broccoli, scrubbed cauliflower and carrots and cleaned mushrooms. I measured out rice and I measured out water. True, my pep began to dwindle a bit when it turned out the broccoli harbored a significant worm population and I had to measure the rice three times because I could not find a measuring container larger than one-fourth cup and kept losing count. But I tried to be mindful that I was cooking up family harmony along with all those veggies.

I turned my attention to my teenage daughter, asking her to set the table while I put the vegetables and rice on the stove. "Let's make it look pretty. You know -- appetizing," I said in a hearty, chipper voice. "Yeah, whatever," she replied.

Five minutes later I turned around to check on her efforts and discovered that rather than remove the household clutter that had covered the table before setting it, she had shoved it all into one pile in the center. No fresh flowers for us, no bowl of fruit or cozy candles. We had the leaning tower of domestic debris -- newspapers, textbooks, a notebook with the words "Bite me" written in White Out on the cover and a dog collar with bits of matted fur sticking to the buckle. Nor had my energy-challenged child bothered to replace the old place mats, which were spattered Jackson Pollock style with last night's spaghetti sauce. She'd just tossed the dishes on them and heaped a pile of silverware on top.

"Oh, Megan," I said, my voice tight with displeasure. "This is disgusting. Who eats like this?" Her adolescent eyes rolled as she responded. "We do, Mom. Remember last night and the night before? What's the big deal anyway? Just chill, why don't you?"

I wanted to rip her lungs out through her nose. How dare she dismiss my happy homemaker needs? Chill indeed. In the next 10 minutes I showed her just how Arctic things could get. While I slammed drawers in search of clean place mats and clanged cutlery, I threw out phrases like "ungrateful, miserable slob" and "sensibilities of a swine." Megan retreated to the couch and put on her Walkman headphones.

Meanwhile, in my scrambling to find the linens, I'd confused the back burner with the front burner when making temperature adjustments. So now unabsorbed rice kernels floated in tepid water and the curried vegetables, instead of crisp and nutrient-packed, were limp and soggy. I slammed the top back on the rice and cranked the burner dial up to high. I yanked the curry off the stove top and burned myself on the handle.

Despite the callous disregard of those around me, I persevered in my labor of love. Ten minutes later, I called my little family to the dinner table. What did they see before them? You know the camouflage pattern used for military fatigues? That's what my entree looked like. The broccoli had turned to a drab olive color, the overcooked, over-curried carrots to a suspicious brown and the mushrooms resembled an army of slugs who'd been overpowered by curry odors and expired. The rice too had a vermin quality -- kind of a crunchy maggot look.

I looked at my husband expectantly as he took his first bite. Poor man. He knew he had to say something and he knew I could tell when he was lying. He chewed for a long time and after he finally swallowed, he drank about half his glass of water. At last he made his pronouncement: "Interesting." The very word you use to describe a really hideous blind date to the unsuspecting suitor's mother.

Megan put a forkful in her mouth. She chewed once, and then in a move she hadn't employed since being forced to eat asparagus at the age of 8, she brought her napkin up to her full mouth. Clearly surreptitious removal was her goal. The dog looked on hopefully.

Then I took my first bite. The taste was toxic, something akin to swamp refuse with a hint of garlic and cumin. I couldn't tell if the sensation that arose in my throat was a lump that preceded sobbing or simply a gag response. I pushed myself away from the table and scraped my plate into the dog's bowl.

There's good news and bad news about the way my story ends. The bad news is that we didn't all go out for pizza and a good laugh. Sure, that's how events would have transpired in the land of television sitcoms, but this was real life. The good news is that we must have learned something. These days when I start poring over recipes and sighing, my family springs into action. My daughter calls friends and is somehow always invited over for the evening. My husband, a put on your slippers and stay at home kind of guy, suddenly feels compelled to take his wife out to that new restaurant in town. Perhaps, though, that dinner was most instructive for the dog. Previously a shameless mooch, she has learned to be grateful for a meal that features only bland, dry, curry-free dog chow.
SALON | Sept. 16, 1998

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