Special K Loaf

This story is a particular favorite in my family.

When my father was still a child, and all four of my grandparents' children were still living at home, my Nana's cooking had a spurt of vegetarianism. Her most memorably misguided attempt was a recipe she found on the back of a box of Special K breakfast cereal. The recipe was a vegetarian substitute for meatloaf named Special K loaf.

Here are the ingredients for Special K loaf:

1 large chopped onion
2 T onion soup mix
1 large carton of cottage cheese
1 cup chopped walnuts
Chopped celery, if desired
5 eggs, beaten
and
5 cups Special K cereal

Truthfully, there's no comparing it to a meatloaf recipe. The closest comparison could be described as replacing the hamburger with a blend of walnuts, breakfast cereal and cottage cheese.

Surprisingly, it was not a popular dish.

At that time, my grandfather worked 9 to 5 at Goodyear. He was home by 5:15, and was at the table at 5:25 for dinner. And at 5:26 one night, my grandmother lays this beauteous loaf of glop in the middle of the table with a proud smile.

To my grandfather's credit, and to the credit of my father and his siblings, they all ate a piece that night. Then my grandfather, rarely one to stand against my Nana, laid down his fork and declared, "I never want to eat this ever again."

A couple of weeks went by, and my Nana either forgot the mandate or figured the dish was misunderstood and everyone would like it if she made it just one more time.

So, at 5:15, my grandfather walks in the door and takes off his hat. At 5:25, he and the children sat at the table. And at 5:26 my Nana, with a smile and a flourish, placed the Special K loaf in front of my grandfather.

As the story goes, my grandfather was quiet for a moment. He looked at the loaf, looked at his plate, looked again at the baked lump of cereal and cottage cheese. Then he sighed, putting his hands on the edge of the table. "Alright," he said, and pushed back his chair as he stood up. "I am going to Giuseppi's Pizza. Who's coming with me?"

A few moments later, after a frantic scraping of chair legs, my Nana was left alone in the kitchen with her Special K loaf.

And, to my Nana's credit, she never made Special K loaf again.


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"But It's Vera"

Clothing from my Nana was a hit-or-miss affair. You could always swear by the quality of whatever she gave you, but that didn't mean the quality was always, well, wearable.

To be fair, she gave me some beautiful clothes. Just before I became a teenager, she bought me a lush navy blue coat for church that hung down to my knees. Of course, when she found the price tag still on it a year later, she (rightly) lost her mind about it. For some reason, probably to test her patience, God decided to give her tomboyish granddaughters, and she was constantly frustrated by my sister and I's early distaste for skirts.

It wasn't always lovely stuff I turned down. I felt perfectly justified in refusing that highlighter-orange trench coat she tried to force on me when I was 18.

But the last piece of clothing she tried to give me was particularly memorable.

Her last Thanksgiving with us was in 2009, and we ate dinner at hers and my grandfather's home that year. We sat at the Boyer family table and spent the evening playing cards together. And then, when it was time to go home, there was the usual shuffle of gathering coats and purses.

As I walked past the stairs toward the coat closet, I noticed two figures down in the den together. I could see my Nana's white sweater, and I could hear my sister quietly say, "No, thank you. I really don't think I would wear it."

Moments later, Nana was pulling at the railing of the den staircase, walking upstairs with what looked like a dead rabbit clutched in her left hand. She scanned the room, and her large blue eyes landed on me.

"Would you wear this, Heather?" She proffered the dead rabbit thing.

"What is it?"

"It's Vera Wang, darling," and she held it up with two hands. Now I could see the cut of the shoulders, and the holes for arms...

It was a vest.

A gray faux fur vest.

I didn't even need to try it on.

"I'm sorry, Nana, I wouldn't wear that," I said.

"But it's Vera Wang," she insisted.

No designer label can save a faux fur vest.

"It doesn't matter, I still wouldn't wear it," I said, and shrugged my shoulders.

Strike two. She sighed, exasperated. "Does anyone want this?" she called out to the room, holding it above her head. The vest dangled in her grip like a hunting prize. All the other untried women were averting their eyes.

"Can I look at it, mom?"

It was my uncle. Scott walked across the room and took the vest from her, pretending to examine it seriously.

"Vera Wang, you say?"

She smiled, "Yes." She seemed relieved by the interest.

He looked up at her and grinned. And then, pursing his lips, he shrugged it on, and began to strut, hands on his hips as he fluttered his eyelashes.

"How do I look, mom?"

Her mouth puckered. All the kids giggled. I pulled out my camera, and he started posing for pictures like a runway model. The giggles turned into a room rumbling with laughter as each pose became more outrageous. "It looks good on you, Scott!" his brother called out. We all laughed harder in response, and Nana was finally starting to smile.

By the time he took it off and gave it back, Nana was laughing, too, and playfully chiding, "Oh, Scott!" And she laid it on the back of the couch, forgetting it completely as she doled out goodbyes.

And that was the last piece of clothing my Nana tried to give to me.


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My great-grandma Boyer's name was Alma. She was my grandfather's mother and was an excellent cook. She raised her family in a time when her husband came home from work and her kids came home from school to eat lunch. And she was faithful to always serve a full meal, from salad to dessert. "I don't remember us never having dessert," my grandfather said, "we always had dessert." This was the norm in the Boyer house.

My grandfather, Dinon, was the oldest of the three kids in his family. His brother Daryll is five years younger than he, and his baby sister Glenda is five years younger than Daryll. They were living in Wisconsin Rapids when Dinon was 11, and one day, as usual, he and 6-year-old Daryll walked home together for lunch. They met their father at the dinner table and sat down to the meal their mother had prepared, everyone - even Alma - unaware of the bonus protein lurking in the salad bowl.

"Well, we're sitting there eating, and we're attacking the salads," he tells the story, "And it had lettuce with maybe jello on top. Anyhow, my brother goes to take a bite of salad...and he gets it about here..." - he said, holding an imaginary fork an inch from his mouth - "...and it moves."

On little Darryl's fork, woken by its near-consumption, was a fat wriggling lettuce worm the size of a pinky finger.

"That really freaked him out!" my grandfather laughed. "He really had a tough time eating the rest of his salad. And we kidded him, of course, unmercifully: 'Oh, you like lettuce worms now, huh?'" He laughed again.

"And, of course, my mother was mortified because she always tried to be very careful when she prepared the meal. But it was just one of those things that slipped past her, and it gave us all a big laugh, and I can say that I really enjoyed it."


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