Bruce Cameron - Sept. 3, 2009

Sep 03, 20090

Shopping With My Mom

When people ask me if my parents are still mentally all together, I explain that they retired 15 years ago to northern Michigan “for the weather,” so actually they were never mentally all together.

I am visiting them this August: Temperatures have ranged from the high 40s to the high 80s, and we’ve had hail, rain, tornados, power outages and pirate attacks.

Right now, my mother is making her grocery list. “What are some of your favorite things to eat?”

“I like broccoli,” I say.

“Broccoli!” she exclaims, as if I just asked her to bring home a live polar bear.

“I don’t like broccoli,” my father says over his newspaper.

“Your father doesn’t like broccoli,” my mother interprets for me.

“OK,” I say reasonably. “What does he like?”

“I want to get what you like,” my mother says. “What do you like?”

“Not broccoli,” my father warns.

“He can have broccoli if he wants,” my mother snaps at him.

“What are we going to do with a bunch of broccoli? I don’t like broccoli,” Dad complains.

“Your father doesn’t really care all that much for broccoli,” my mother says, whispering so my father won’t hear this slander.

“What does he like?” I whisper back.

“What are you two whispering about? I said I don’t like broccoli!” my father bellows.

“His hearing is getting really bad,” my mother informs me. “We’re not getting broccoli, for heaven’s sake!” my mother says loudly. She looks at me. “What do you like to eat?”

Her smile is open and innocent, as if this is the first time she’s raised the subject. I’m tempted to say “broccoli” again just to see if we’ll have the exact same conversation, but I am worried that we will.

“Doughnuts,” my father announces. “Get doughnuts.”

“Doughnuts?” my mother asks me, the way people will look at a dog and say, “Car ride?”

“I don’t really eat doughnuts.”

“What kind of man doesn’t eat doughnuts?” my father demands, outraged.

“You always loved donuts when you were a child,” my mother informs me, looking hurt.

“OK, but I don’t eat them now.” I pat my stomach.

“All right, I won’t get doughnuts,” she says sadly.

“What?” my father says, rattling his paper.

“Your son doesn’t like doughnuts,” my mother says.

“What does that have to do with anything?” my father wants to know.

She gives me a “what are you going to do” shrug. “Would it be OK with you if we got doughnuts?”

“Well, of course, Mom. I just don’t want to eat any.”

“But I want to get food you like. What do you like?”

“Do you mean to tell me,” my father interrupts, setting his paper down, “that you don’t like doughnuts?”

“I like them, Dad. I just don’t want to eat them.”

“If he doesn’t like them he shouldn’t have to eat them,” my mother tells him.

“I do like them, though,” I protest.

“You do? What kind would you like me to get for you?” she asks me.

I can’t see any way out of this. “I don’t know. The powdered-sugar kind, I guess.”

My father makes a face. “Powdered sugar?”

“Your father doesn’t like powdered-sugar doughnuts,” my mother informs me, a bit unnecessarily.

“Those aren’t even real doughnuts,” he says. “Powdered sugar.”

“When I was a little girl, we called them fried cakes,” my mother affirms.

“No, we didn’t,” my father objects.

“We didn’t? What did we call them?”

My dad shakes his head. “I don’t know — I never liked them.”

“But your son wants fried cakes,” my mother responds.

“Actually, I don’t.”

“That’s not what they’re called!” my father yells.

“Your father would rather we not get any,” my mother apologizes. Then she leans forward, a conspiratorial look on her face. “I’ll buy some and hide them above the bread box,” she whispers.

“I heard that!” my dad tells her.

She shakes her head at me. “No, he didn’t,” she whispers.

“There’s glazed. There’s creme filled. There’s buttermilk,” my father says, listing all the reasons why I shouldn’t like powdered sugar doughnuts.

“Would you like any of those?” my mother asks innocently. I wait for it, and she says it.

“I want to get what you like.”