Growing up, there were a couple of things I really craved.
One was a pogo stick. I’d never actually seen a pogo stick in real life, only on TV and in books. But I sure wanted one.
Another was boot-style, lace-up roller skates. Most of us slogged around on those heavy metal skates with the red webbed straps and the skate key. Our sidewalks weren’t all that even, so the skates shook loose and you had to stop and tighten them every few minutes. What a drag! Plus those skates were so heavy hanging off our skinny little legs. What a drag!
I did know one girl who had those lace-up skates. Mary B, a cute little red-headed only child. (Only children had all kinds of stuff the rest of us could only dream of.)
And the final object of my little heart’s desire was a lunch box. Red plaid. Alice in Wonderland. Cinderella. Mattered not. I just wanted one. One with a thermos bottle, of course.
At my school, kids went home for lunch. Only those who lived on the fringes of the parish, too far to walk back and forth, or those rarities whose mothers worked, got to eat lunch at school. And thus got to carry a lunch box. The rest of us, we legged it home where, at least in my home, lunch meant slurping down a bowl of Campb
In 7th and 8th grade they switched us to junior high mode so that we would be better prepared for high school. Our hours changed – started earlier in the morning, and got out at 2 rather than 3 - and everyone had to eat at school. For some reason, we weren’t allowed to eat in the school’s lunchroom. We ate at our desks, after we covered them with a piece of reusable plastic.
By 7th grade it was way too late to carry a lunch box. Sigh. We were in brown paper bag territory now. What was in that bag was up to me. Which meant that 4 days a week I ate a bologna sandwich on white bread, with a dill pickle. (The dill pickle sliced by me and wrapped in Saran Wrap which, as often as not, leaked.) On Friday I ate an American cheese sandwich on white bread, with a dill pickle. Or a PBJ on white. I drank a carton of milk to wash the sandwich down.
I usually brought a piece of fruit. When I had a nickel, I’d buy a bag of Wachusett potato chips or a packet of Kraft Caramels. Mostly I didn’t have a nickel.
This went on through high school. My high school had a caf that sold food, but the menu was pretty limited and dreadful and I don’t think I ever paid for lunch there.
I don’t remember any of my classmates carrying a lunch any more exciting than mine. And as far as I can recall, the only mother involved in lunch packing was that of my high school friend Kath. And I only remember that because Mrs. H wrapped Kath’s bananas in Saran Wrap.
I know that things have changed mother-child-wise since I was a girl. And that there are a lot of competitive mommy types out there. Still, I was a bit taken aback by a recent WSJ article on the competitive world of school lunches. (The link was sent to be by my sister Kath, another brown-bagging, lunch-making student of yore.)
These days, pics of fancy-arse lunches are posted on Insta. Like the one that contained.
..veggie and tofu samosas, surrounded by an assortment of eight fruits and vegetables, including broccoli, grapes and lupini beans.
The kids might want a Spider Man or Selena Gomez lunchbox, but tofu samosas and lupini beans – whatever they are – are more likely to be served up in a $30 on up bento box, like this one from Yumboxes:
Now there’s a lunchbox that never saw Oscar Mayer bologna on white.
Yumbox revenue is up, thanks to the 90% increase in Instagram posts about lunchboxes that occurred through the first eight months of this year.
One dad puts together “an elaborate themed lunch” each Monday – with a theme like Willie Wonka, Princess Bride, and Star Wars. One mom goes Sue Grafton with lunches dedicated to a letter of the alphabet.The O lunchbox “included an orzo salad, an orange and an Oreo cookie.” Thank God for quinoa and zucchini.
The lunchbox craze has helped fuel a cottage industry that includes specialized utensils, pre-written parental love notes and lunchbox-planning apps.
Inevitably, a number of lunchbox support groups have sprung up. I just couldn’t bring myself to look at any of them.
But I must say I’m stopped in my tracks by the idea of “pre-written parental love notes.”
I came from an era when there was no such thing as a “parental love note.” Maybe we got a birthday card, but I wouldn’t bet on it. Even if my mother had made my lunch, I can’t imagine ever finding a love note tucked in it. And I didn’t have kids to write love notes to.
I suspect, however, that if I had had kids, I would have been a love-note writer. It’s just the way I roll. But a “pre-written parental love note.” YGTBFKM. How hard is it to scrawl a smiley face on a PostIt note and sign it Love, Mom? If you’re spending all that time prepping tofu samosas for a Bento box, surely you have time to pen your own little love note.
But what do I know…
No comments:
Post a Comment