I ate onions. You read that right. I cross-my-heart-and-hope-to-die ate onions. On my own accord. And no one gave me a goddamn penny to do it.
Sunday was Mother’s Day and since the mom who birthed me lives far, far away, I spent the day with BFF Lauren’s mom, Judy, who did not birth me but lets me pretend she’s mine when it matters. The lovely thing about Judy being my pretend mom is that our history is full of love and sunshine and happy memories and is delightfully lacking in onions. Until Sunday.
In the days before Mother’s Day, Lauren read to me an e-mail from Judy wherein she painstakingly listed every item we could expect to see on our big, ole-fashioned, Southern Sunday dinner plates: cheesecake. So when we got to Judy’s house Sunday morning, I was muy surprised to see squashes in her sink and onions on her counter. What are them for? Squash casserole. With onions. Bleck.
The problem with squash casserole, of course, is that I already won it, so that technically means I have to eat it again whenever it’s on my plate, and the problem with being a charmingly polite pretend daughter is that I can’t (shouldn’t) make the same faces at Judy that I make at my real-life mom. Even though I still do a little. But Sunday was Mother’s Day and Judy had grown them squashes her own self, so there was no way I was getting out of being a grown ass woman that day.
Except for the onions. Grr onions. When I made my squash casserole I didn’t put onions in it because I’m normal, and I think a quality vegetable is best enjoyed without having to dress it up with too much… Whatever, I just hate onions and the deal was I would never have to eat them ever (except for if someone gives me a lot of cash…I can be bought). I was freaking out about balancing my nonnegotiable need to be polite with my insurmountable fear of being in the same zip code as the vomitous bulb. I smiled to Judy and said how much I loved squash and in the same beat twisted my face up at Lauren and flat out refused to eat the casserole if it had onions in it. Lauren put the kibosh on that saying Judy would blend the onions for me and then I would have no choice but to eat it. Because she did it for me. No choice. You little brat. (Lauren does a fantastic job channeling my real-life mom.)
Kicks dirt. Gawd.
While the squash was cooking, Lauren and I took the tractor out to visit Mama Goat and the Country Dogs (note to Lauren: that would be a good band name). Mama Goat was super preggo and we were hoping for a couple of Mother’s Day miracles, but she just ate grass while Country Dogs chased pine cones. People, this is what life is all about.
Back in Judy’s kitchen, it was starting to smell like the warmth of summer Sundays my friends who love vegetables have always reminisced about. The same warm, buttery, delicious smell from my squash casserole night last summer. And Judy’s squash casserole looked just as appetizing as mine was. I scooped a tiny spoonful onto my plate next to a heaping pile of turkey, rice and gravy. So here it was. Judgment time. Yes. OK. Onnnnnnions. Do it. Just do it, Julie. Just eat it. Do it. Just doooooooooooooooooooooo it. You can do this. You’ve got it. No sweat. OK, a little bit of sweat. Just….aaack.
I swallowed every bit of casserole on my plate in two bites without chewing, but I did it. So I think what this means is…I won. And we can stop giving me such a hard time about onions. Onions, done.