"Cooookie Crisp"
The Audacity of Eating Sugar Cereals Before Dinner
My pal Ross has been one of my closest friends since early elementary school, as documented in my new memoir, and just celebrated a birthday. That seems like a good occasion to share a vignette I had to cut from the book. This takes place in late winter 1989, at my home in the D.C. suburbs when we were fifth graders. It’s probably not what Ross ideally wants to read, but I bet the rest of you will enjoy it:
I may have been unofficially stamped with adolescence after getting braces, but I was still very much a child as March and Baseball Spring Training approached. In case I was feeling myself, my father was often around to put me back into my place. (“Stop eating with your hands!”) Ross was over one Saturday evening when he got another first-hand look at how my father sometimes parented.
While my brothers and I were allowed to gorge on donuts, Tastykake cupcakes and angel food cake after school, especially on Hebrew School days, my parents banned us from eating sugar cereals during the week and strongly frowned against the practice on weekends. Sugar cereals, such as Honey Smacks (which had been renamed from “Sugar Smacks” because Kellogg’s must have thought Mom was an idiot) and Frosted Flakes, were reserved only for special occasions including vacations, school breaks and sleepovers. My parents especially hated Count Chocula and COOKIE Crisp, which instantly turned healthy skim milk into less healthy chocolate milk in our bowls.
“You don’t need any more sugar,” they would counter whenever my brother Michael (age 8) and I begged for the cereals.
That night my parents were getting ready to take us out to dinner, while Ross, Michael and I sat in the kitchen waiting for them to get themselves and my brother Tyler (3) ready. We were hungry, so we looked in the pantry and pulled out a nearly full box of what we wanted most: COOKIE Crisp. We poured bowls for ourselves, added milk, and sat at the table munching quietly and watching a college basketball game. It was about 5:30 as we sat in the dimly lit kitchen, mid-winter darkness in view through the floor-to-ceiling window facing the table.
My father emerged first from my parents’ bedroom upstairs and began traversing the eight steps down the staircase, giving him a high-angle perspective of the scene. The cardboard evidence was still sitting on the table as we stuffed our faces: That goofy, bold brown lettering and a smiling bandit and cop with a mustache far too large for his face adorned the cereal box; this must have been my father’s first clue.
He concentrated his eyes directly on me and raised his voice as he walked towards us. “Are you eating COOKIE Crisp?! Before dinner!” he yelled.
No matter that it was impossible for me to spoil my dinner. If it weren’t for playing sports or video games, or being stuck in classrooms, I would never have stopped eating. I ate chunks of cheddar cheese while wrestling with my cousin and cupcakes while sitting on the toilet.
But this was apparently a serious matter. “Ross?!” my father yelled again, looking at my tow-headed, blond friend, who was probably still wearing a green basketball jersey from our game earlier that day. “Do your parents let you eat sugar cereals before dinner?!”
Ross bowed his head and kept quiet. Michael put his head down too. Both stopped eating the soggy cookie-like substance and brown milk.
I tried to ignore the spectacle and quietly finished my bowl, knowing that Ross’ presence would lead Mom to rush downstairs and quell the storm to avoid further family embarrassment. My father’s temper would not get to me this time.
Besides, I was in too good a mood. It was Saturday, I had a close friend over and baseball season was approaching. It was good to be 10, regardless of parental temperament.
Happy birthday Tader!
