By Mary Barberio
Did I tell you about the Green Pea Fiasco? Well, you'll like this story for it took place when we were visiting my favorite aunt — Ina. As you might remember, Ina was my dad's maiden sister and she lived in that grand old house in Ashtabula, Ohio.
You know the area — the small Finnish community in the northeast corner of Ohio.
The year was 1956, and I was 9 years old. It was a fine sunny summer day and I was having a jolly time, as always. My two brothers (one older and one younger) and I were outside running around, playing tag, chasing butterflies, racing after the dog, Scottie.
And then we got the call to come in for dinner. Mom said to wash our hands, sit down and eat dinner and then we could go back outside again. She said that after dinner we should check around in Grandpa's garage for some Mason jars for collecting lightning bugs. Sounded like a good plan to me.
In we went, washed our hands and sat down at the big old kitchen table. My two brothers dug into their dinners right away while I sat there in utter disappointment, just staring. Meatloaf — great. Mashed potatoes — wonderful.
But what were those little round green things on my plate? No, it can't be, not the most dreaded vegetable in the whole world.
But, alas, it was. Peas. And on top of that they were the kind so obviously from a can — mushy.
I quickly looked around for Scottie, but mom was middle to me and gave me the stink eye. She said I was to not even think about "accidently" dropping the peas on the floor for Scottie to scoop up. I was not to leave the table until I had cleaned my plate.
Well, that night I was sticking to my stubborn Finnish guns and refused to eat those stupid peas. Everyone else had finished eating, all members of the clean-plate club.
The boys had already found their jars for the lightning bugs and mom had poked holes in the lids. And yes, I heard their snickering, but that did not persuade me, nor did the admonitions from Mom about all the starving children who would gladly eat those peas.
There sat the peas on my plate, untouched. I sat at that table for a really, really long time.
It seemed like an eternity.
And then Aunt Ina had an idea.
She warmed up some of the leftover mashed potatoes and gravy and told me that if I mixed the peas into the mashed potatoes and gravy and didn't try to pick out the taste and texture of the peas, I wouldn't even know they were there. I could even try to pretend they were one of my favorite foods.
Well, since I really liked my Aunt Ina and I believed that she would never try to trick me, I decided to give it a try.
Before you know it, the peas were gone.
Never one to let an opportunity pass, I suggested that I deserved a sugar cube. She agreed.
See why she was my favorite?