Cooking Up Crazy

Yesterday was glorious. I spent the entire day with my two oldest friends – Madge and Catfish -- cooking, laughing and gossiping. We watched as Madgette (the first in our second generation) “helped” us crack eggs and stir batter. We misread recipes, made enormous messes and one of us (surly not me) splattered boiling strawberry Jello in her eye. By the end of the day we were loopy from a combination of physical and emotional exhaustion -- but it was totally worth it. Not only did we make six casseroles and two desserts for our recovering friend Tree, but we also got to spend an entire day together.

We had the kind of magical time that makes you realize that you WOULD actually be best friends with these ladies even if your parents had made you play together 25 years ago. It feels so nice to be all grownup, together in a big city and still enjoy and value each other’s company. They’re not only the friends you’ve had forever, but they are actually friends you would choose from Sear’s 2008 Friends Catalog. And I can not even begin to explain how convenient this is! I mean, now – more than two decade’s later – they know all my family secrets so I couldn’t just break up with them. I’d have to have them killed and murder is messy business so we’d probably have to stay together anyway because with my college loans and credit card debt I would never be able to afford a good hitman. Actually having each other and loving each other is a great alterative to having someone whacked.

It was during this foray into cooking that I found myself eyeball-to-eyeball with a teary eyed five-year-goddaughter.

“What’s a matter, sugar?” I asked.

“It’s my hamster. He died yesterday,” she said, looking awful pitiful with tears forming in her big doe eyes.

“Oh,” I stammer. “Oh.”

I am choosing my words carefully. You see, I have what you might call an aversion to rodents. Truth be told, I absolutely HATE all things rat-like – this includes mice, squirrels, chipmunks, gophers, beavers, hamsters, gerbils, guinea pigs, chinchillas and degus. (And I don’t even know what the last two are, but I hate them anyway.) The only exception is porcupines. I think they’re okay because they are prickly and would rather stab a human than be touched by one, and that is exactly how I feel about hamsters and their ratty cousins.

Madgette, however, is young, innocent and a lover of almost anything furry. She has yet to be knocked down life so she is still optimistic about many things, including that allowing a rodent to share her princess bedroom is a very good idea. She is looking at me the way a young genius studies a defiant Rubick’s cube for the first time –her brain’s struggling to not only comprehend how the puzzle works and why on Earth people would mix it up to begin with. I am silent so she takes another approach.

“On the way home from the grocery store we are going to stop and get me two other ones! Mama said I have to ask you if that is okay,” she said, smiling sweetly. “Is it okay? Is it?”

“Uhhh…” Again, I’m choosing the words carefully.

“Well?” she presses. And with that one-sylable word I AM BROKEN.

“NO!” I said, a little to loudly.

“Why not?” she asked, so thoroughly confused that she thinks she must have misheard me.

“Because I hate them. I hate hamsters. I hate all rats and rodents and fuzzy things like that. I’m very scared of them. They are mean and aggressive and dirty. They are yucky and gross and I’m glad yours is dead.”

She stares at me unable to comprehend what I said.

“Ahhhh…” Now she is answering me in grunts. “Ahhhh that’s a little…Ahhhhhh….”

“WHAT!” I demanded.

“Silly. That’s a little silly,” Madgette said then turned and went back to her mother. She is completely unfazed. Her mother instructs her to go play in her room for a few minutes then turns her glare to me.

“What!?” I said. “I can’t help it, but I hate them.”

“You just told a child that you were happy her pet died. GLAD! Your exact words were ‘and I’m glad yours is dead,’” Madge said. Her hands are on her hips and I can’t tell if she is shocked or angry. “They are fuzzy little pets…”

”NO! They are rodents. DIRTY rodents! They started the plague!” I scream.

“Hamsters did not start the plague,” she says calmly.

“I’m sorry, but I hate them. I can’t even pretend. I have a phobia.”

Madgette reappears before us, Madge turns to her and speaks to her in a soothing voice.

“Auntie is sorry she said she hated your pet,” Madge said. “She’s not glad he’s dead.”

Madge looks to me for confirmation, but I am physically unable to give it to her. This is one thing I can’t play off. So I rush off to the bathroom and hope she believes her mother. As I close the door I hear her say: “Mama, hamsters are great. She’s crazy.”

And this folks is how young Madgette has her first lesson in what she will one day categorize as “Coping With The Mentally Ill.”