Barely remembered

“The worst thing,” I told my mother, “was when you made us eat venison sausages for lunch. That sausage lasted forever!”

I am visiting my parents, and we somehow got to discussing our less-than-favorite foods. My mother always made wonderful school lunches with fresh fruit and a homemade cookie. But memory is fickle. What I remember most clearly was when my father brought home from work what seemed to me, as an elementary-school-age kid, a venison sausage the size of a baseball bat, and I had to eat sandwiches made from it—forever, as I recall.

“That was not the worst thing,” my father said.

“No, you’re right,” I agreed. “The worst thing was when you made tongue sandwiches. I didn’t eat those.”

“When did I make you a tongue sandwich?” my mother asked.

“You made it for my lunch!” 

“How did you know it was tongue?” she asked.

“It had bumps!” I told her, suddenly reliving the experience.

“It couldn’t have had many bumps,” my mother said.

“How many bumps do you think it needs for an 8-year-old to refuse to eat it?” I asked.

My mother laughed. She’s not a fan of tongue, either.

We were talking after dinner. My husband, Peter, and I were visiting my parents in their home “up north.” We were having my mother’s pumpkin bars for dessert and talking about old times and relatives I barely remembered — if at all. 

I knew my mother’s father had a brother named Evald, and I knew they used to go fishing. I remember my grandmother saying that grandpa was not going up north to fish but to drink beer with Evald. I figured with 11 kids to raise and 50 cows to milk, drinking a little beer with Evald once a year wasn’t the worst thing a guy could do. 

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