The Macaroni Salad Massacre

As mentioned before, I grew up with divorced parents.  When I speak of "my mom's house" I actually mean my uncle's house (which had formerly been my grandmother's house).  When my grandfather passed away, my grandmother moved to California and  my uncle turned the place into a bachelor pad when they guys all came home from Vietnam.  Then when I was barely two, my parents split and with no where else to go, my mom turned to her only brother and we all moved in and never left.

In addition to me and my sister, there were plenty of other kids tearing around his house because the other "bachelors" in the house had kids too.  In the early years on weekends there were upwards of six kids taking over the small Cape Cod that tried desperately to maintain it's "Bachelor Pad" feel.  In addition to all those kids, there were 4 adults living in the house and everyone always had friends over - and those friends all had kids too.  I can't believe the walls never exploded from the pressure of all the people inside.

I can't imagine tolerating that kind of mayhem.  It was always loud, someone was always crying and we were always ALWAYS running and/or screaming.  Just imagine living with that constantly without ever even having had kids.  Think of what it is like at a kid's birthday party.  As much as we all smile and pretend it's wonderful, you know you can not wait to get the hell out of there and go as fast and as far as humanly possible.  Unfortunately for most of us, we will only get as far as the next state before someone calls and ruins all the fun by saying "hey, um, you forgot your kids here."

In spite of it all my Uncle, never having had children of his own, treated us very much like we were his children and still does today.  My kids are more like his grand kids than his great niece and nephews.  However, as much as he loved us kids, he still had a low tolerance for nonsense.  That was rather unfortunate for him.  The poor guy was up against a lot.  This is the same uncle I had mentioned before in my "How Styrofoam Peanuts Almost Claimed Our Lives".  (if you have yet to read it, you should go do it right now!)  I was, and still am today for the most part, very silly, very enthusiastic and very clumsy.  These things don't often blend well with someone who likes things to be orderly and controlled.  Don't get me wrong, he is a lot of fun and has a great sense of humor - but I didn't really know that until I became an adult.

As the years went on, the bachelor pad slowly evolved into what we remember as home.  It still remained my uncle's house so he expected us to play by his rules.  The rules were pretty simple: don't touch anything; the living room TV was off limits when he was home from work; the decor was to remain as he intended - minimal, mismatched and awful; and the brown barrel cup in the dish drain was to remain in the dish drain and never to be used.  That was his cup, reserved for when he stopped in on his lunch break to use the bathroom and quench his thirst for 1 ounce of tap water in his unwashed barrel cup.

I wish I could remember all the times that we probably made him want to just abandon all of his belongings and split town in the night.  Especially after watching over us while our mother wasn't home.  This didn't happen frequently, and it was mostly when we were older - say, 7-10 years old.  He still always underestimated what he was agreeing to I'm sure.

One time under his care, while he sat in the living room watching The Three Stooges on his recliner, I decided I should make macaroni salad.  And why shouldn't I?  I saw my mom do it a thousand times!  No reason I shouldn't be allowed to boil and drain pasta unattended.  I remember vividly his repeated attempts to stop me, "Nah, Nah, just wait till  your mother gets home" were interrupted by me assuring him "It's OK, I know how to do it!"  I was so chipper about it and confident in myself.  I didn't even consider listening to him, because surely he didn't know what he was talking about.  I suppose he gave up because after a while "Nah" turned into "don't make a mess".

As I continued on completely disregarding his orders, I wondered how much of each ingredient should I use?  I decided two pounds of elbow macaroni should suffice.  I almost overflowed the boiling water, but it was OK because it was an "almost" and Uncle Tom didn't know about it.  While the pasta cooked, I cut up the olives and such.  I'm not sure how I didn't cut off a finger tip.  Now I had to decide how best to drain this pasta.  I don't even remember how I did it without being admitted to the burn unit (again), but I managed.  I did, however, overflow the colander and fill half the sink with the excess macaroni.  But again, it was OK because Uncle Tom was none the wiser.

With the exception of his repeated demands to not make a mess, he did not concern himself with my efforts.  He didn't come to make sure I didn't burn myself, cut myself or make a mess.  Either he just gave up, or decided I was old enough to handle it like I claimed.

All the ingredients had now been mixed in, but the kitchen was a disaster.  I tried to tidy as best I could by picking up from the counter, table, floor and sink most of the great excesses of pasta that wouldn't fit into the ginormous bowl.  I was so excited to present my creation that I dismissed any further intentions to clean up and proudly proclaimed that it was done!  He didn't really care, but I was so proud that I insisted he come see for himself.  He refused.  I responded with I'll bring it to you then.  Clearly irritated by my pestering he starts shifting around in his seat and says "Nah, nah just leave it, just leave it, I'll see it later, I'll see it later" (he always says everything twice).  I couldn't wait for later, so I picked up the huge bowl and headed for the living room.

As I turned the corner and into his view I saw his face light up with alarm.  "WHAT THE HELL DID I TELL YOU??!! JUST LEAVE IT IN THERE!!".  Ever oblivious, I kept right on walking and brought it to show him anyway.  He was not at all impressed and ordered me to return it to the kitchen.  As I turned to walk away, now clearly angry, he went to a raised voice and said "YOU'RE GOING TO SPILL IT!".

At that exact moment, before I could even get out my chipper, sassy "No I'm not!" I tripped over his stupid plastic runners he kept on the floor to protect the new carpet.  I kid-you-not when I tell you that right then, the world actually went into slow motion.  When I recount this part of the story, I feel as though as I am seeing it from the eyes a witness, instead of through my own eyes.  My sister's face is slowly morphing into a mix of shock, horror and "told you!".  My Uncle's arms are raising as he is slowly beginning to flip out while he struggles to get upright in the recliner.  It was too late though.  No sense in getting up now.  As my trip launched me into flight, the bowl escaped my grasp and thrust ahead.   It hit the wall and macaroni salad exploded into a three foot radius around me.

Slow motion snaps back to real time as I look at the olive slices and macaroni sliding down the stereo speakers.  My sister darted off like a squirrel who has been acknowledged by a human.  I'm on the floor slumped over an empty bowl and covered in mayonnaise.  My Uncle was loosing it "Jesus Christ!  Jesus Christ!!  I TOLD you NOT to bring it in here!!  Didn't I!?  DIDN'T I!!??".  It did not faze me in the least because I was laughing SO HARD that I could barely maintain consciousness.  I didn't dare turn around and look at him.  I just stayed on the floor and scooped the macaroni salad from behind the TV and all over the floor.  I tried hard to keep my shoulders from bouncing so he wouldn't detect my hysterical but mostly silent fit of laughter.  I wonder if he thought the little noises that escaped were me crying?  I surely hope so.  All these years later, I still get a laugh and bit of gratification when I serve him macaroni salad.