It’s Tuesday, My Friend!
After reading last week’s letter about my mom and her two slices of apple pie, someone asked me about the one dessert my mom did not like, and I decided it was a story unto itself. So, let me set this up for you . . .
The summer before my senior year of high school, my dad, mom, and I got to go on an incredible and whirlwind-ish trip to Europe. My dad was a German teacher at a high school, not the high school I attended, but that of a neighboring town. He took about 8 students, all girls, and I got to go along as well, and my mom was another chaperone. I didn’t know these girls before the trip, but we became fast friends. We were unified by the infatuation of our tour guide. More on him later.
We were part of a larger tour group, all meeting at JFK airport, where we’d start our trip by flying off to London. All in all, we’d visit London – Brussels, Belgium – Amsterdam, Holland – Köln, West Germany and end up in Paris, France. Not a bad gig for a 16-year-old from a tiny town in Wisconsin who’d only ever been to Minnesota, Michigan, and Canada.
In our larger group were people from all over the country. One gregarious woman hailed from somewhere in the South. We’d never heard an authentic Southern accent before, and this gal exclaimed regularly the following phrase: “I’d like to have died!!” It took us a minute to realize she was not requesting urgent medical attention each time she expressed this sentiment.
Upon arriving in London, our group was huddled on a bus awaiting our tour guide’s arrival. The group of us girls took up housing at the back of the bus. We were definitely the youngest in our group, and we felt like the back of the bus was the cool place to sit. And then . . . . he walked onto our bus. And the world stopped spinning momentarily while we 16 and 17-year-old girls held our collective breath.
He was a dream come true. All of the Beatles, Bobby Sherman, David Cassidy, and Donny Osmond all rolled into one heart-throbbing package. We fell in love with him instantly. His name was Jim Jackson, and he’d be our tour guide for the next ten days. He was a dream to look at, but then he spoke! Alas! That accent! I knew at once he was the only man I’d ever love. I was 16, and he was—I have no idea—but what is age when you’re madly in love?
One interesting tidbit about this trip we were on: everywhere we went, regardless of the country, we were served chicken and french fries. Word on the street must have been that Americans like to eat chicken and french fries because we had them daily. Whether it was chicken and french fries, kip en frietjes, Hühnchen und Pommes Frites, or poulet et frites, we ate it all.
OK, I’m getting to the dessert part of the story.
While in London, we had a meal in our hotel restaurant. It may have been another round of chicken and fries, but two added items were here. The first was a bowl of oxtail soup. I had never eaten anything remotely involving a tail, and I vaguely remember gingerly spooning up some broth and avoiding all solid items floating therein. I seem to remember the broth being OK. But here comes the part that was just not OK.
After our meal, the staff started to bring out little dessert dishes. The swoon-worthy Jim Jackson began oohing and ahhing as soon as it was set before him. As a dish of the stuff was put in front of me, I wasn’t sure what to do. It didn’t look like any dessert I was used to—I mean—where was the chocolate? Jim said this was his favorite, and he called it something like “Camel Cream” or “Cream Camel.” I was mortified that we were about to eat something made from camel’s milk. (It was actually the word “caramel,” but we were all still adapting to his accent, and we didn’t know.) A tiny spoon accompanied each dish, and Jim gushed on about how they give tiny spoons to make the dessert last longer. He closed his eyes as he savored each spoonful.
Meanwhile, we all took a tentative bite.
It. Was. Disgusting.
The texture was something I didn’t know existed on planet Earth. The taste was unrecognizable. How could Jim think this was so good? I looked around at my fellow Americans—in my little bevy of girls and the larger group. Everyone was taking minuscule bites and practically crying as they tried to eat without tasting. We were all much too polite to voice our true thoughts. I looked at my mom at a nearby table. She, too, was doing her best to feign delight, but honestly, she looked like she was one taste away from losing the whole of her meal. But she forged on! (Was she in love with Jim, too??) Amazingly enough, no one blurted out any derogatory remarks. We all just quietly and politely gummed down the strange dish. We were never so happy to be done with a meal as after that one.
Recalling this experience made me think about something.
We don’t always like the same things as other people, even people we like. What one person regards as “the best,” we might think, “P.U.” Maybe Jim thought chocolate cake was gross. (I do remember him crinkling up his nose when we said we liked ice-cold drinks.) We don’t all like the same foods, activities, books, or movies. Or, dare I say it—politicians.
But here’s the thing: We can still like/love/respect someone who thinks differently than we do. We don’t need to holler to the world, whether actually “hollering” or doing so via social media, that we don’t like what they like. Or what they like is dumb, and what we like is much better. Maybe we don’t need to politely “eat it all up,” but do we need to voice every opposing opinion? I’m getting very close to saying . . .
“Can’t we all just get along?” Or at least treat each other more civilly?
Whether you like “Camel Cream” or chocolate cake, scary movies or romcoms, ice-cold drinks or tepid ones—and all manner of stuff in between—the Bible says that we were all created in God’s image, and so are worthy of being treated as such—as well as treating others as such—even if we don’t like the same things someone else may like.
It’s funny what one little dessert story can lead to.
I hope you have a wonderful week!
Written with love – – – Patti XOXO