The other day, I was watching a Leave It to Beaver episode in which Theodore (Beaver) refused to eat the Brussels sprouts prepared by his mother for the family's supper. In real life, during the 1950s, there were few, if any, parents as patient and understanding as Beaver's, but the show did depict some of the problems that children faced.
For the most part, my mother was a wonderful cook. Her homemade bread, soups, cookies, and pies were delicious. However, like the Beaver, there were a few things I did not want to eat. One of the worst was oysters. As far as I was concerned, eating an oyster was like swallowing a big glob of snot. Dad, who certainly was not the model for Beaver's father, Ward, forced me to devour those smelly, distasteful things that some people actually try to pass off as food.
For some unknown reason, Mom laced her homemade cornbread with chunks of fat. No doubt my maternal grandfather would have been delighted; he loved nothing more than to chew on a big wad of that gruesome stuff. On the other hand, not surprisingly, I like a mouthful of fat about as much as I do a mouthful of oysters.
For both the oysters and the hunks of fat, Dad ordered me to say “poly-woggy,” and then, he argued, the awful stuff would swiftly slide down my throat, but swallowing was not the problem. Keeping those vile things from coming back up was the hardest trick.
I found a way to deal with the fat problem. Whenever cornbread was going to be served, I lined one of my pants pockets with a paper towel. While chewing on the cornbread (which was pretty good), occasionally I would bite into a hunk of fat. Very carefully (and sneakily), I transferred the fat from my mouth to my hand and then to my pocket.
Dad was happy because he believed I had obeyed his orders by swallowing the pieces of fat. After dinner, I went to the bathroom, where I emptied the fat into the toilet. One flush and my nightmare, at least for one evening, was over. Luckily, we didn't have a septic tank. I can imagine Dad having the tank cleaned some ten or so years after I had left the house. A confused worker would show him a large-sized ball composed of various animal innards.
As I have said, Dad certainly was not the model for Ward Cleaver. He was a disciplinarian who had both a thick leather belt and a razor strop at his disposal. However, despite this, there was one kind of food, or rather a part of one kind of food, that not even Dad could force me to eat. Indeed, President Eisenhower could have sent a platoon of armed National Guardsmen to our house, but even they could not have made me put a particular something into my mouth, let alone chew on it.
Along with hamburgers, French fries, and milkshakes, hot dogs were among my favorite foods. Foot-long hot dogs were better than “regular” ones, and ketchup-laden wieners were superior to those smothered with mustard. However, from my perspective, one tiny part of the hot dog was inedible.
For some strange reason, I believed a hot dog was similar to a living creature. (Can you imagine cowboys driving a herd of wild hot dogs to market? Since I prefer foot-longs, I would order them to “get a long little doggy.”) By definition, the part of the frankfurter on which I began chewing was the head. That part and the “torso” were delicious. However, if one end contained the head, then, logically, of course, the other end had to be the hot dog's butt.
I was willing to suffer through the nightmare of eating oysters, and, if necessary, even devouring the big globs of fat, but I drew the line when it came to eating butts. No matter what punishment my father dished out, under no circumstances would I eat buffalo butts, cow butts, chicken butts, turkey butts, OR hot dog butts.
Despite a lot of yelling from the adults, I held firm. Eventually, Mom and Dad surrendered. One of them would simply pick up the discarded end of the hot dog from my plate and eat it themselves. I was surprised such foolish actions didn't lead to their premature deaths.
Eventually, I “got over” this obsession with one end of a frankfurter. These days, without complaint, I eat everything my wonderful wife prepares for me, including the entire hot dog. Otherwise, she would kick my butt.
