Guns and Grandmas

When Southerners make the news it's never the "Mild-mannered College Professor Cures Cancer" type of story. It's not even the "Socialite Bequeaths Diamonds to Charity" type story. Oh no. When we make the news it's more of a "please don't put that on the front page and for goodness sake don't put a picture or say they're related to me" type of story. In which case I point out the happenings for the whole word to enjoy.

But in the sense of fairness, because this could have happened to anybody, I've left out Bubba and Junior's real names and supplied fitting character-generated epithets.

Here in the Redneck Capital of the World, a story made the newspaper that involved all the necessary ingredients of a made-for-TV movie—or a family reunion, depending on whether potato salad was served.

Seems Granny was unable to sleep what with pondering the whereabouts of her debit card, and woke up Nephew Number One to ask for his input on the matter. Meanwhile, Nephew Number Two, The Bad ’Un, wandered away from his plant-cultivating hobby, leaving his pipe on the kitchen table long enough to grab up Grandma in a choke hold, and poke the business end of a rifle into the throat of our boy, Rip Van Winkle. He takes a shot at the family Bible and sends Rip in to sit on the couch wearing nothing but his underpants and a plastic bag on his head.

But suddenly the plot twist kicks in. When Bad Boy turns to look out the door, Captain Underpants overpowers him, grabs the rifle, and hotfoots it down the street, where, despite his lack of fashion sense, he convinces a neighbor to call Emergency Services. (I have no proof, but I’m assuming he dislodged the fancy bag hat before the action sequence.)

If it weren’t for the Bible incident, I’d be leaning toward the Family Reunion story. But no Southern boy is going to take a pot shot that separates Matthew from Mark, Luke, and John in front of his grandmother and live to tell about it. Which leads us to the question: Where was Granny during the excitement? Any Southern Grandma worth her weight in blackstrap molasses would have pulled out a shotgun of her own and blasted the pants off Mr.Yuk. The whole tale smacks of “If you believe that one, then listen to this.”

As it was, reports state that Mr. Meanie was caught after a brief pursuit. From the descriptions, it sounds like they got their nephews mixed up because the briefs were last seen high-tailing it over the river and through the woods away from Grandma’s House.

Attack of the Killer Alfredo

My husband thinks fully cooked meals spring ready-made from the oven like Venus rising from the foam, but with gravy. I don’t know how he survived eight years of bachelorhood before he met me, but I do know why he wore pants that would be relaxed-fit on Paris Hilton, and why his eyes glaze over with that faraway look when we drive past Burger King.

These days he’s making up for all the meals he missed by hanging out in the kitchen, waiting to see if the Pillsbury Dough Boy appears from the swirling mists in the freezer. It’s like watching a toddler get ready for a visit from Santa.

“What did you eat before we got married?” I quizzed one day as he stared into the empty tea pitcher like a motherless calf.

“Tuna casserole,” he answered, prodding a package of frozen hamburger in hopes it might turn magically into meatloaf.

“You ate tuna casserole for eight years?”

“No, I had the same tuna casserole in the freezer for eight years. I got custody in the divorce. Every night I had to figure out what to do so I wouldn’t have to eat it. I know the nutrition and pricing information for every item on the fast food market.”

At least I don’t have to worry about any fond feelings left toward his first wife. The woman did things to tuna that I couldn’t do to scrap metal without heavy-duty equipment. She didn’t use serving spoons. It took the jaws of life to separate the one that didn’t get away from the casserole dish.

It makes my life easy. If I defrost cinnamon buns in the microwave, he thinks they’re homemade. I hate to tell him, but if I can’t get it out of a can, jar, or economy size shrink-wrapped package, I’m not going to be serving it for supper. There was a time when a woman’s dreams were fulfilled by spending enough time in the kitchen to bake biscuits lighter than an angel’s wing, put up enough tomatoes to last the winter, and memorize the recipe for grandmother’s heirloom pickled poundcake.

That time is past.

When I discovered Alfredo sauce in a jar, I was more excited than a Brownie Scout on cookie delivery day. While I understand that I’m not going to find fettuccine Alfredo tacked up on the doctor’s bulletin board as one of your top ten heart healthy foods, it’s part of a meal that everyone in my family will eat, which goes a long way towards making it the star atop the food pyramid in my house. Add some grilled chicken, and everyone from Finicky Fred to the dog next door is happy. At the grocery store, I deviated from the list and popped a couple of jars of the white stuff into my buggy. Then I wheeled innocently down the aisle, full of the peaceful conviction that comes from providing a good meal for a loving and happy family.

Later that evening, while my back was turned, the beast, heady with the freedom that comes upon release from captivity and applied heat, shattered the air with a mighty blast and attacked. I screamed.

The children ran to the kitchen like the population of Tokyo pouring in to see Godzilla get the big one.

Kid One: “Did you start another fire?”

Alfredo covered the front on the stove like a dust ruffle. I had spatters up my sleeve and a striking Picasso-esque design smoked on my Snoopy sweatshirt. "Not yet sweetie, but stay tuned."

Kid Two: “Is supper ready?”

Kid One with conviction: “Supper can’t be ready. The smoke detector’s not going off.”

Suddenly the beast attacked again, rising from the depths of the superheated Alfredo like a milky Kraken surging to the surface from the ocean floor. This time I was prepared. No towering wall of Alfredo is going to threaten my family without me beating it into submission with a serving spoon and the lid to a two-quart boiler. “Run, kids, run!”

Heating supper from a jar should not require escalation of the National Defense Warning System.

Bill sauntered around the corner, hands in pockets. “Need some help?”

“Sure. Do we have Chef Emeril or the Marines on speed dial?”

The lid on the pot rattled like a teenager’s knees at quarter past curfew. He whisked the pot off the stove, poured the contents into a bowl, added a paper plate lid, then tucked the whole thing neatly into the microwave. Slamming the door with a flourish, he performed the beep-boop medley on the keypad that told the machine to cook Alfredo sauce.

"Very nice. I guess all those years of bachelorhood prepared you for anything."

He grinned. “Once you’ve been face to face with an eight year old tuna casserole, everything else is easy."