Mark and Libby. You know what they look like. Grandparents. Not mine, but the image of what grandparents are supposed to look like. Stooped, gray-haired, wrinkled and slow. Mark was ninety years old. Libby was six months older and considered herself a cougar. She didn’t know what that meant, but she heard somebody say it and liked the sound of it.
At eighteen, my job was to keep them company. I spent every Saturday at their home — cooking, cleaning, reading the Bible to them, writing letters. Figuring out the TV remote. Whatever they wanted or needed me to do.
One Saturday, Ms. Libby asked me to make chicken and dumplings. When she realized I wasn’t opening a can of Sweet Sue Chicken & Dumplings, her jaw slackened in surprise and she held her hands over her heart. I knew how to make them from scratch and for her, it was reminiscent of times gone by.
In no time, I had the chicken cooking in a tasty broth. The dumplings were mixed and flattened out with a rolling pin that hadn’t been used in thirty years, according to Libby’s “best recollection.” I used a pizza cutter to slice the dough into two-inch squares. Libby didn’t realize she had a “dumpling cutter.” She stood by the table watching every move I made with her faded blue eyes.
As I dropped dough into the boiling broth, Libby got inspired and decided to make a cake from scratch. I became her sous chef. The only requirement? The ability to lift a five-pound bag of flour. I helped her gather ingredients and she measured and mixed them together. Old school. By hand. The bowl rested on her hip with her left arm wrapped around it like she was qualifying for the steer wrestling competition at the National Finals Rodeo. While her arthritic right hand whipped the ingredients together, her unrestrained, saggy boobs swung back and forth like the pendulum on a grandfather clock. It wasn’t fast, and it wasn’t pretty, but she kept up a steady pace.
The chicken and dumplings finished cooking and Libby was anxious to try them. Her hands and boobs were still in motion, so I grabbed a spoon and loaded it up with a generous portion. I carefully guided the spoon to her wrinkled lips. She took the offering, closed her eyes and chewed slowly, savoring the bite.
Libby opened her eyes, looked toward me, and opened her mouth to speak. Her false teeth slipped past her lips and my eyes went wide. With an astonishing move, Libby lifted her left shoulder, bent her head toward her shoulder, and popped her teeth right back into her mouth. She never stopped stirring or swinging.
Libby was giving me a sideways glance through squinted eyes to see if I noticed her teeth nearly taking a tumble into the cake batter. Yes. Yes, I did. And I didn’t miss the mouthful of masticated chicken and dumplings that she drooled into the bowl either. But Libby was oblivious. She just kept stirring, mixing supper with dessert.
I had a dilemma: tell her what happened or pretend I didn’t see anything? Ms. Libby was excited about this cake. If we tossed out the batter, she wouldn’t have enough ingredients to make another one. She grew up in a generation that discouraged wasting anything. This woman replaced the elastic in her underwear and washed out sandwich bags so they could be reused. If I said something, she’d be devasted. She’s ninety. I didn’t want to upset her.
So, I started justifying.
Libby’s husband Mark was diabetic. He was medically disqualified from eating the cake. God knows I wasn’t going to eat it. The only person left was Ms. Libby. And it was her giblets floating around in places they shouldn’t be.
I made a decision. I helped her put the cake in the oven, cleaned the kitchen and made tracks out of the house before the cake was finished baking and cool enough to eat.
All week long I was stressed out about Ms. Libby and that cake. Did she remember to turn the oven off? What if there was cake left and Ms. Libby offered me a piece? What if she saved me a piece? My stomach was upset. I didn’t know whether it was from the poor decision I made allowing that cake to be baked, the thought of actually eating a piece, or the thought of lying to Libby about why I couldn’t eat it.
I nervously went back to the house the following Saturday. My first objective: find the confection in question. The kitchen wasn’t charred, and I didn’t see any evidence of the cake. I couldn’t hide the relief I felt.
Mark was enjoying a cup of coffee at the table and Libby had her usual glass of high fiber natural laxative that she never mixed correctly. Ignoring the directions gave her perpetual diarrhea and cleaning the bathroom became a testament to my gag reflex. I was in the middle of my second stomach revolt when the doorbell rang. They never had visitors.
I offered to answer the door, convinced I would be facing off with a Jehovah Witness. Luckily, I’d been reading the Bible. I opened the door to a smiling gentleman. He wasn’t wearing witness attire, but he was holding a pan. He extended it to me and said, “I’m Mark and Libby’s neighbor. Can you please tell Libby that was the best cake I have ever had!”
At eighteen, my job was to keep them company. I spent every Saturday at their home — cooking, cleaning, reading the Bible to them, writing letters. Figuring out the TV remote. Whatever they wanted or needed me to do.
One Saturday, Ms. Libby asked me to make chicken and dumplings. When she realized I wasn’t opening a can of Sweet Sue Chicken & Dumplings, her jaw slackened in surprise and she held her hands over her heart. I knew how to make them from scratch and for her, it was reminiscent of times gone by.
In no time, I had the chicken cooking in a tasty broth. The dumplings were mixed and flattened out with a rolling pin that hadn’t been used in thirty years, according to Libby’s “best recollection.” I used a pizza cutter to slice the dough into two-inch squares. Libby didn’t realize she had a “dumpling cutter.” She stood by the table watching every move I made with her faded blue eyes.
As I dropped dough into the boiling broth, Libby got inspired and decided to make a cake from scratch. I became her sous chef. The only requirement? The ability to lift a five-pound bag of flour. I helped her gather ingredients and she measured and mixed them together. Old school. By hand. The bowl rested on her hip with her left arm wrapped around it like she was qualifying for the steer wrestling competition at the National Finals Rodeo. While her arthritic right hand whipped the ingredients together, her unrestrained, saggy boobs swung back and forth like the pendulum on a grandfather clock. It wasn’t fast, and it wasn’t pretty, but she kept up a steady pace.
The chicken and dumplings finished cooking and Libby was anxious to try them. Her hands and boobs were still in motion, so I grabbed a spoon and loaded it up with a generous portion. I carefully guided the spoon to her wrinkled lips. She took the offering, closed her eyes and chewed slowly, savoring the bite.
Libby opened her eyes, looked toward me, and opened her mouth to speak. Her false teeth slipped past her lips and my eyes went wide. With an astonishing move, Libby lifted her left shoulder, bent her head toward her shoulder, and popped her teeth right back into her mouth. She never stopped stirring or swinging.
Libby was giving me a sideways glance through squinted eyes to see if I noticed her teeth nearly taking a tumble into the cake batter. Yes. Yes, I did. And I didn’t miss the mouthful of masticated chicken and dumplings that she drooled into the bowl either. But Libby was oblivious. She just kept stirring, mixing supper with dessert.
I had a dilemma: tell her what happened or pretend I didn’t see anything? Ms. Libby was excited about this cake. If we tossed out the batter, she wouldn’t have enough ingredients to make another one. She grew up in a generation that discouraged wasting anything. This woman replaced the elastic in her underwear and washed out sandwich bags so they could be reused. If I said something, she’d be devasted. She’s ninety. I didn’t want to upset her.
So, I started justifying.
Libby’s husband Mark was diabetic. He was medically disqualified from eating the cake. God knows I wasn’t going to eat it. The only person left was Ms. Libby. And it was her giblets floating around in places they shouldn’t be.
I made a decision. I helped her put the cake in the oven, cleaned the kitchen and made tracks out of the house before the cake was finished baking and cool enough to eat.
All week long I was stressed out about Ms. Libby and that cake. Did she remember to turn the oven off? What if there was cake left and Ms. Libby offered me a piece? What if she saved me a piece? My stomach was upset. I didn’t know whether it was from the poor decision I made allowing that cake to be baked, the thought of actually eating a piece, or the thought of lying to Libby about why I couldn’t eat it.
I nervously went back to the house the following Saturday. My first objective: find the confection in question. The kitchen wasn’t charred, and I didn’t see any evidence of the cake. I couldn’t hide the relief I felt.
Mark was enjoying a cup of coffee at the table and Libby had her usual glass of high fiber natural laxative that she never mixed correctly. Ignoring the directions gave her perpetual diarrhea and cleaning the bathroom became a testament to my gag reflex. I was in the middle of my second stomach revolt when the doorbell rang. They never had visitors.
I offered to answer the door, convinced I would be facing off with a Jehovah Witness. Luckily, I’d been reading the Bible. I opened the door to a smiling gentleman. He wasn’t wearing witness attire, but he was holding a pan. He extended it to me and said, “I’m Mark and Libby’s neighbor. Can you please tell Libby that was the best cake I have ever had!”