Leatherface and the Guacamole

Leatherface and the Guacamole

Cheri Allen

Growing up we didn’t have a lot. We weren’t exactly impoverished but we weren’t wealthy either. My dad was a mechanic and for the most part mom stayed home with us kids. It’s funny but I feel like I don’t have as many memories of my childhood as I should. What memories I do have seem to center on food; or at least features eating.

Every Saturday morning my grandma would treat us to breakfast out. Mom would stick my brother and me in the car and we would pick up grandma. Sometimes we would go to Denny’s and she would get the Grand Slam and a coffee. I can’t remember what I ate, but I can vividly see her using her pancakes to sop up the yolk from her over medium eggs. My favorite breakfast spot was in a cafeteria in K-Mart. After we ate we would go into the store so she could shop. She gave my brother and me a dollar or two. I usually spent mine right away but my brother would save his for the arcade.

After we left K-Mart or Denny’s we would head to the mall. My favorite place on earth. We didn’t have a mall in our hometown so we would drive about 30 minutes to the nearest. They actually had two malls. La de da. The old mall and the new one is what we called them. I liked the new one best because it was bigger and had a food court. If we went to the old mall, Chris and I would sit on the bar stools of an ice cream parlor. It sat in the middle of the mall kind of like the kiosks you see today. He liked chocolate or bubblegum flavor. I liked sherbet.

The new mall was even better. They had a shop called KarmelKorn. I have no idea if they are still in business anymore but man I loved them. They had a variety of flavors. And in one small box you could get two flavors separated by a paper divider. I could choose to get popcorn or I could go around the corner and pick a cookie from the cookie shop. The name escapes me but I can still smell the chocolate chip cookies baking.

Back at home, we ate dinner at the table every night. The four of us would usually sit quietly. We often ate chicken and my dad loved fried potatoes with onions. On some nights, mom would make us pizza from the chef Boyardee pizza kit and a stir n’frost cake for dessert. One of my dad’s hang-gliding buddies said it smelled like feet in our house. Must have been the packet of parmesan cheese that came in the pizza box.

My favorite night was Mexican. This was different than taco night, which was my brother’s favorite. It was almost always on a Saturday night. We would get to-go food from a Mexican restaurant. Chris and I would get a tortilla shell filled with guacamole. We would break off a piece of that shell and scoop up a big bite of avocado, tomato and whatever other deliciousness they put in there.

Some weekends when the weather was nice we would go to the drive-in theater. The first movie we saw was Texas Chainsaw Massacre, the original. I must have been around 7 and my brother was 9. We bravely sat outside the car with a paper grocery bag full of buttery popcorn that mom popped earlier in the day. As soon as old leather face started up that chainsaw we flew into the car. When I say flew, it isn’t much of an exaggeration. I went through the window, kicking my brother in the shoulder in the process, and in one motion was over the front seat and laying across the back seat screaming. Chris wasn’t far behind once he recovered from my lethal roundhouse. My parents were the only people in the entire audience laughing hysterically as teenagers were being slaughtered by a family of cannibals.

When I became a mom at 19, and shortly after became a divorced mom at 24, I didn’t have a lot to offer my son. I showered him with love of course. I made him a bookcase out of a cardboard box and decorated it with his crayon drawings and stickers. A lot of his toys were found at yard sales, but I can’t imagine he would have been any happier if they were new. On payday we would have a treat. I would grab a to-go order from my own favorite Mexican Place. My son would get the corndog bites with French fries. I would get the cheese quesadilla with guacamole. It wasn’t much, but it was a very special night for us.

I look around now as I am getting closer to 50 and I admit I live in judgment sometimes. I myself am overweight, and I see so many people who are just way too big. And I notice a common denominator. Many of them are from lower income families. I wondered how this happens. Is healthy food just too expensive? Do we not know any better? Are we just lazy? But my mind drifts back to my childhood. My parents couldn’t give us a lot. So our happiest times centered on food. It wasn’t always unhealthy, but it always made me feel better. Running to the ice-cream truck and handing over the two quarters to get a sno-cone or a rocket pop was simply magical. The world didn’t exist as the cold blue syrup ran onto my hand. It was perfection.

Depression has plagued me as an adult and I tend to self-medicate. That often comes in the form of food. I know better, I’m not a stupid person. I’m not the only one who feels this way. It shows up in family get-togethers or an after church lunch. When someone is sick or dies we show up at the door with casseroles, pies and cakes. Food is how we show love. When the only thing you can afford is a hug and chicken pot pie that is what you give. It isn’t about being lazy, it’s about affection and the desire to make the people you love feel better.

I want to make a change. The depression that lives in the shadows of my mind will never go away. But I won’t feed it anymore. Today I was shopping at the local big box store I had the urge to grow or create something. The flowers smelled amazing and the ferns were magnificent. But something else caught my eye. A small pear tree sat alone in the corner. He wasn’t very pretty, just a few green limbs sticking up out of a brown plastic pot. I walked over to him and sighed. “Ok yes, you are technically food. However, if I nourish you and pamper you, you will grow into a beautiful strong tree that will in return nourish me.” So I bought him. Notwithstanding the people in the store who must’ve thought my conversation with this sapling a bit odd, I truly believe this is the perfect first step. Food was never what made me happy. It was the connection to the people around the food. I won’t suddenly and completely change today, but I will get there; both mentally and physically. This little guy will be a perfect reminder to treat myself with the same kind of love and respect I will show him to grow and to and be strong and healthy. I owe it to myself. I deserve this.