Mystic Casserole
One stormy afternoon in October I had a houseful of kids--my own three, plus four little girls who had just gotten out of school and walked to my house because their mother, a friend of mine, was taking a day-long tax class in another city.
The kids read for awhile, and colored for awhile, and then--when I was in the kitchen making snacks--my daughter decided to give her four-year-old brother a ride on a blanket across the parquet floor.
One bloodcurdling scream later he came running, blood pouring from a gash on his head. "It wasn't her fault, it wasn't her fault," he was saying over and over. He'd lost his balance and slammed into the edge of the fireplace.
I had seven children and no car. Jonathan, who had the car and did not have a cell phone, was making the rounds of the city's various university libraries. It was pouring rain. I had blood all over my hands, soaking through the dishtowel I was pressing against my son's head. How much blood could a child afford to lose?
I called the doctor, getting blood all over the phone. "Put pressure on it," the nurse said, once I convinced her he really was my child (it took me a few seconds to remember his birthday, probably because I was wondering whether he'd bleed to death before his next one). "Put pressure on it and bring him in."
I had no car, and six other children. It was pouring rain (yes, the rain was irrelevant, except that in West Texas the world stops in wonder when rain falls). So I called my brother, an off-duty firefighter and paramedic. "I have an emergency," I said. "Do you want to take John Paul to the doctor or stay here with six other kids?"
He chose doctor duty. ("I'll try not to bleed in your truck," John Paul told him.) I stayed with the other kids and mopped up blood--unbelievable amounts of blood. John Paul got his scalp stapled with real staples, just like the sort in the stapler on my desk. And before Joel got him back home again, just as my other kids were beginning to chorus that they were hungry, the doorbell rang.
It was a woman from church. "I heard you were keeping Brendell's girls today, so I thought you could probably use help with supper." She was holding a big casserole and a loaf of fresh-baked bread.
It was a classic case of mystic casserole.
About a year later I was juggling some deadlines--classes or editing something, I forget exactly what. I took a short break to be with the kids for awhile, out in the backyard, and came back into the house to find a full meal sitting on my kitchen counter.
"You really ought to lock your front door," a woman from church told me later. A different woman. "I knew you were real busy here lately, and I had some time, so I thought I'd drop off supper . . ."
Yet a third woman showed up with a frozen fruit salad the day family was coming to visit from out of town.
And yes, I've sometimes been on the other end, finding myself suddenly thinking, "Instead of freezing half of this I'll take it to so-and-so," only to have her say, "How did you know? Today was a horrible day."
So, yeah. All the jokes are true. Church ladies have a thing about casseroles, including a mystic affinity for knowing when they're needed. I for one am glad.
The kids read for awhile, and colored for awhile, and then--when I was in the kitchen making snacks--my daughter decided to give her four-year-old brother a ride on a blanket across the parquet floor.
One bloodcurdling scream later he came running, blood pouring from a gash on his head. "It wasn't her fault, it wasn't her fault," he was saying over and over. He'd lost his balance and slammed into the edge of the fireplace.
I had seven children and no car. Jonathan, who had the car and did not have a cell phone, was making the rounds of the city's various university libraries. It was pouring rain. I had blood all over my hands, soaking through the dishtowel I was pressing against my son's head. How much blood could a child afford to lose?
I called the doctor, getting blood all over the phone. "Put pressure on it," the nurse said, once I convinced her he really was my child (it took me a few seconds to remember his birthday, probably because I was wondering whether he'd bleed to death before his next one). "Put pressure on it and bring him in."
I had no car, and six other children. It was pouring rain (yes, the rain was irrelevant, except that in West Texas the world stops in wonder when rain falls). So I called my brother, an off-duty firefighter and paramedic. "I have an emergency," I said. "Do you want to take John Paul to the doctor or stay here with six other kids?"
He chose doctor duty. ("I'll try not to bleed in your truck," John Paul told him.) I stayed with the other kids and mopped up blood--unbelievable amounts of blood. John Paul got his scalp stapled with real staples, just like the sort in the stapler on my desk. And before Joel got him back home again, just as my other kids were beginning to chorus that they were hungry, the doorbell rang.
It was a woman from church. "I heard you were keeping Brendell's girls today, so I thought you could probably use help with supper." She was holding a big casserole and a loaf of fresh-baked bread.
It was a classic case of mystic casserole.
About a year later I was juggling some deadlines--classes or editing something, I forget exactly what. I took a short break to be with the kids for awhile, out in the backyard, and came back into the house to find a full meal sitting on my kitchen counter.
"You really ought to lock your front door," a woman from church told me later. A different woman. "I knew you were real busy here lately, and I had some time, so I thought I'd drop off supper . . ."
Yet a third woman showed up with a frozen fruit salad the day family was coming to visit from out of town.
And yes, I've sometimes been on the other end, finding myself suddenly thinking, "Instead of freezing half of this I'll take it to so-and-so," only to have her say, "How did you know? Today was a horrible day."
So, yeah. All the jokes are true. Church ladies have a thing about casseroles, including a mystic affinity for knowing when they're needed. I for one am glad.
Posted 
<< Home