Cold Peas for Breakfast

Childhood trauma can last a lifetime. For me, my trauma revolved around peas. There is a valid reason why this trauma exists that stretches all the way back to when I was five years old. To this day, I cannot stand to eat peas. The taste of them makes me gag. In some cases when peas are mixed with other food items, I may get away with eating them, but alone, by themselves, I cannot even put them in my mouth.

My mother passed away when I was three years old. I remember living in a two-story home. Dad was a certified public accountant (CPA) and my mother was an elementary school teacher. Both my parents had graduated from Syracuse University, but my mother came from a privileged background as my Grandpa William was an attorney specializing in financial and property law. My grandparents belonged to the Bellview Country Club where the mayor and the city council were members. William True would pass away before I was born leaving my Grandmother Mary Alice without financial means.

My father told me that William True died before funds in his pension matured. Telling me this at five did not mean a thing to me at the time.He also told me he went to court to try to get my grandmother some compensation, but the sad truth was she would never get full benefit from his pension.

The following year my mother passed away leaving my father alone with me. As it turned out my mother suffered from severe postmortem depression, but at that time as Sylvia Plath put it, that type of depression did not exist much less a remedy for it. Mom would put me in my crib and then take her medication. She would still be in bed when dad came home from work in the evening, and I would still be in my crib.

Dad had gone to Korea in 1951 before anyone had ever heard of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Back then it was called shell shock. Dad told me he had a desk job in the army and did not see combat. Years later, I found an old uniform in his footlocker and from the left pocket of his jacket hung two Purple Hearts. When I asked him about it, he just laughed and said, “Oh, they gave those out to anyone who cut his finger opening a bottle of beer.”

Of course, I did not believe that line, but it told me a story about him that I would never forget.

After my mother passed away, Dad moved into a duplex next to his younger brother Allan and his wife Anne Marie. They already had four boys; Mark, Eric, Scott and Allan Jr. or Skippy who was still an infant when we moved. When dad went to work, he would take me next door to spend the day with them. What was one more child to watch over after all. The four of us would explore our neighborhood in Manlius, New York. The duplex, I was told, predated the Civil War. Looking back, I was in kid heaven playing with my cousins.

When my dad came home after sundown, he would be exhausted as one of the junior CPAs at his firm.Nobody told me what a CPA was, but all I knew is it wore him out. He never had time to make dinner like my Aunt Anne Marie did. She was an excellent cook. My memory recalls she made the best molasses cookies I have ever tasted. Dad on the other hand would open a can of something and put it on the stove. If I was lucky, we would have TV dinners that were complete meals in tin foil.You put them in the oven and in a short time, dinner was served.

Not everything he served was well received, however. Some of the entrees were mushy and did not appeal to my four-year-old palate. I did not like beans, and I was not crazy about some of the shoe-leather meat that came in some of the TV dinners.

Now, I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that my dad and I had a strange relationship that wasn’t always great, but I loved my father so much and that ain’t a lie. He told me that my ancestors were Vikings, and they came over almost five hundred years before Christopher Columbus, but they couldn’t find a parking place, so they all went home. I told my history teacher that verbatim. She always seemed to keep an eye on me in class after that.

No one had to tell me that I was a strange kid. My grandmother Mary Alice True called me special and that made me feel better when she would drive by in her big old Chevy ragtop to take me on an adventure. She would take me to the big old houses of my grandpa’s former clients. They would call her Bill and she would answer that. She once told me they called her Bill, because of the respect they had for my late grandfather William True.

One night my dad came home from a long tedious day at the office. I was hungry and let him know about it the moment he walked in only a four-year-old would by whining and complaining. Dad pulled out a can of peas and put the peas in a saucepan on the stove. I peered dubiously into the saucepan wondering what this would taste like.

We sat down at the table set for two. I took one spoonful, put it in my mouth and knew instantly, I did not care about this at all. I sat there resting my head on my fist. I was hungry and hoped dessert would taste better. Dad noticed I was not eating the peas on my plate.

“Eat your peas.” He told me in his brusque business-like voice. It was no secret that I was a picky eater. George Carlin once said, “Picky eater is another way of saying pain in the ass.” Indeed, that’s exactly what I was at that moment in time. While I loved my dad, this did not mean I agreed with everything he said and did. I crossed my arms over my chest and shook my head. I was not going to eat those peas. Even though I was very hungry, nothing was going to make me eat them. It was a test of two very stubborn wills.

I did not care about the squishy texture or the overpowering mouthfeel. I did not like the peas rolled around on my plate. Of course, I was only four and did not have the proper foodie termination. To me all I had was the fact I did not like the taste of these green things. And in my refusal to eat them, I could see that dad was quickly losing his patience with me.

“Now Frosty (that was my nickname everybody called me since I was George Jr and dad was George Sr., I got stuck with the hoaky nickname) I will not fight with you. Eat your peas.” He pointed to my plate. There were far too many of them as far as I was concerned. When faced with yucky food in the past, I would wait until he was looking and dump any disgusting cuisine into the garbage can near the sink, but he was sitting there watching me. I could not get away with my sneaky tricks this time

“Dad, they taste funny.” I complained. I could see this complaint did not sit well with him.

“I ate mine.” He showed me his empty plate.

“You eat everything.” I had come to notice this about him from spending so much time with him. He did not seem to care for this tactic either.

“Eat your peas. You won’t leave the table until you do.” He pointed to the peas on my plate.

I was trapped. In his determination to get me to eat my peas, he was sitting there waiting for me to eat them. I was not about to eat them. We were at an impasse. One thing about being at an impasse with an adult is kids seldom win this battle and from the looks of it, I was not going to win this one either. I was missing good television the longer I sat here with him.

Sometimes he would tell me a sad story of when he was a boy growing up during the Great Depression. Making sure to ring the tolling bell about how there was never enough to eat between his other four siblings, Ruth, Beverly, Allan and the baby Barbara. His stories were scary about those people who had gone through that time of the Great Depression. But tonight, his story about those hungry times did not make me want to eat my peas.We continued to stare at each other, unwilling to concede the matter of the peas.

I also knew that he was not close to his father Ralph, but again he would not talk about it. Now much older, Grandpa Ralph had a habit of stopping over on occasion armed with ice cream and Oreos. While dad stayed silent, I would always make sure he was welcomed as long as he left the ice cream and Oreos. Grandpa Ralph never had much to say, but he was aces in my estimation.

“Eat your peas.” Dad left the kitchen to turn on the television in the living room to watch the Evening News with Walter Cronkite. He was discouraged when he walked back into the kitchen noticing that I had not eaten a single pea off my plate. His face turned red as he glared at me.

“I don’t like them.” I whined. I found whining was my only effective weapon against his rigid authority. Anger flashed in his eyes; he drew his chin back until it almost disappeared.

“Peas are good for you.” He he hissed through his clenched teeth.

“I don’t like ‘em.” I crossed my arms across my chest again wondering what his next move would be. Bishop to Queen?Rook to Knight? I was only four and didn’t know a darn thing about chess.

“You will sit at this table until they are gone.” He pointed to my plate with his index finger as if drawing a line in the sand.

“Alright.” I shrugged since it was all I had, but I figured it would be enough. With nothing more to add, he walked back into the other room to continue watching the evening news.

Now that he was no longer in the kitchen, I took my napkin and one by one, I stuffed the peas into my napkin until I had filled it with those goosey vegetables. I deposited the soiled napkin in the garbage, but I noticed I still had quite a few

As I searched for another napkin to rid myself of the remaining peasd, he walked in. His heavy footsteps alerted me to his return, and I sat in my chair with too many peas still remaining on my plate.

“All you have to do is eat your peas. It’s that simple. You don’t have that many left.” He pointed to my plate.

All I could hear were the peas crying out from the discarded napkin in the garbage, “We have been murdered!”

My imagination can be quite powerful, so I’ve been told. But the image of the peas I had murdered put an expression of absolute guilt on my face. Thank goodness, however he did not notice.

“Aren’t you tired of sitting here?” He asked and as far as I was concerned, the answer was obvious. “You have to get ready for bed soon. There will be no television tonight.”

That nearly brought a tear or two to my eye. After the news Lassie would be on. I loved that dog, but not tonight. It was becoming clear to me that I was not going to win this battle of wills.

“What about Lassie?” I asked.

“That’s all. Just Lassie.” He was worn down. Was I winning? In my rush to watch my favorite dog on television, my dad was putting my remaining peas into the refrigerator. I never had a clue as to what diabolical plan he was going to do. Obliviously I watched the episode of my favorite show. Grateful to have won the Battle of the Peas for the evening, once the show was over, I said “Time for bed. Thank you for letting me watch television.”

Hiding his grin behind his open newspaper, he acknowledged, “No problem. See you in the morning.”

I had no idea what awaited me when I woke up to get ready for kindergarten. The welcoming aroma of cooking bacon wafted through the entire house. Dad seldom had time to cook anything for breakfast, so the thought of having a real breakfast made me hum the tune of Captain Kangaroo as I got ready.

Coming downstairs into the kitchen, dad was at the stove as the bacon sizzled. I licked my lips in anticipation.

“Smells good.” I nodded.

“Oh, these are not for you.” He chuckled as he opened the refrigerator and pulled out a bowl, “No, I have cold cereal for you, and I have prepared it in a special bowl just for you.”

Placing the bowl in front of me, I realized in horror the bowl contained the peas I had refused to eat the night before. With a great flourish, he poured some milk on the peas in the bowl. In doing so the peas bobbed in the white milk like cereal.

“Enjoy.” He bowed like a waiter in a fancy restaurant as he shrieked with laughter.

I heard someone scream and then realized I was the someone who had screamed. Seeing the peas bobbing in the milk of my cereal bowl, I was traumatized beyond repair. From that day forward, I would never be able to eat peas again.

I did manage to get some revenge on the matter, however. Dad was dating Carole, who would become my mother when they got married.I told her what he done to me.

“George!” She scolded, “You can’t do something like that to a child.”

But it was too late, because the damage had already been done.