Somebody Better Eat It

Monga's need to have family around her at all times was well-displayed during holidays.


At Christmastime, her house was fully decorated with lights, garlands, Santas that sang when you pushed buttons or pulled strings, and a tree that'd been decorated by us grandkids, complete with old-fashioned bulbs, bubble lights, and tinsel. But, how she really pulled us all in was through her cooking.

Walking into her house on Christmas Eve was like having your own personal Willy Wonka chocolate factory. When you opened the door, you became overwhelmed by the cacophony of smells wafting from the kitchen: sugar, yeast, ham, turkey, pie crust, fruit...Set out on doilies and Christmas-colored tablecloths were crystal dishes spilling over with fresh divinity, fudge, sugar cookies, homemade peanut brittle, Chex mix, nuts, butter mints...In the windowsills you'd see pie tins covered with towels; you'd peek to see still-warm pies: apple, cherry, pumpkin...Also on the counter would be two pans of homemade rolls, a veggie plate of black and green olives, carrots, and celery stuffed with peanut butter and cheese; a row of chips and crackers next to dishes of dips (dill and french onion), sausage and cheeses.

The adults would drink homemade Tom & Jerries, us kids-- pop. Monga'd drink her cream soda on ice. Well, she'd allow herself to be coerced into drinking one Tom & Jerry-- taking that first sip with a reaction like it was repulsive poison-- and then sip after sip more until it was gone.

"The food is ready," Monga would announce. The family would be strewn around the house talking, playing board games, watching TV, so no one would come right away when called. "The food is ready. You better come and get it. There's enough to feed an army." A few would pull themselves away and dish up their food. "Isn't anyone else gonna eat? I made enough for an army. It's gonna get cold." We'd all get up and go have dinner. Everyone overate with fancy dishes and real silver. The kids had their own table. I ate olives off my fingers and dipped my roll in turkey gravy.

As soon as everyone had finished, Monga would ask, "Does anyone want dessert?" No one ever did, because they were stuffed. Offended, she'd take her glass of cream soda into the living room, sit in her recliner and sulk. A handful of adults would wash the dishes, while us kids begged to be allowed to open just one present. Then, the kids would be lined up in front of the Christmas tree for a photograph, and to sing carols. Finally, us grandkids would be allowed to open one gift. We'd spend the rest of the night playing with whatever we got and eating the cookies, pies, and candies that Monga had made from scratch.

Christmas morning, I'd call to tell Monga that Santa Claus had come. She'd walk through the backyards to our house and watch me open my presents (with her coat on). Then, her eyes would light up and she'd tell me that Santa had come to her house, too. Mom, Monga, and I (and later Jessi and Dani) walked through the backyards to Monga's in our pajamas and boots.

Like magic, there were stockings hung across the fireplace mantle for each grandkid. A heap of presents enveloped the Christmas tree-- some were even placed in its branches. After we'd unwrapped all the presents, the adults would make breakfast-- bacon, scrambled eggs, toast. After we'd hauled our loot back home and taken a nap, we'd head back up to Monga's for Christmas Eve leftovers. Spend the day eating, playing games and looking at photo albums.


Thanksgiving was much the same, but with desserts on a smaller scale-- just six homemade pies. We'd eat until we were sick, then play games or let our food comas lull us to sleep with the drone of conversation and TV in the background. Eventually, we'd head out the back door towards home, only to come knocking on the door a few hours later for more pie (or turkey, or stuffing, or rolls, or...). After a year or two of this, Monga said one Thanksgiving as we were leaving, "I'll leave the back door unlocked." And she did, too, then and every year after that.

While I'd be rummaging through the fridge, Monga would come down the hall in her blue robe,

"What're you after?"
"More pie."
"Oh. Well, there's plenty there. Somebody better eat it."

I'd load up (with special orders from whoever couldn't pull themselves off the couch at home) and head back out into the cold.

"Thanks, Monga."
"Mmm hmmm. See you tomorrow."

She'd lock the door behind me and watch me trek through the yard until I got inside, when I'd see her kitchen light go out.


Romantic moments with desserts were gradually removed and replaced by cookies made without sugar that I ate with Monga's eager-to-please eyes on my every bite. She'd always baked without a recipe-- her mind held the ingredients. This index card with the recipe for peanut butter cookies had been cruelly edited by dementia, omitting sugar.

"Good?" Monga asked, leaning in for my answer.
"It's good, Monga. I'm just not too hungry right now."
"Oh. Well, I'll send some home with you, then."
"That'd be good."

As I was leaving,

"Don't forget your cookies."
"I won't, Monga. Thank you."

I can still remember the sound those cookies made as they tumbled into my garbage can.