For this one you will have to view a Betty book (p.509) as it was already vegetarian and I only made minor adjustments. For the peanut butter I used Trader Joe's organic unsalted, which is not processed like the "stuff" (I'll be polite) that is found in a jar of Jiffy. Also, where it calls for Vanilla yogurt I used O'Soy Vanilla. These two adjustments took the calorie count from 345 per serving to 253 per serving, but most importantly no processed "stuff."
As the writer stares at my sterile computer screen, I grab for the closet bottle of hard liquor: Glenlivet 12. That will do the trick.
Much like George Costanza's father in "Seinfeld," only a good bottle of scotch could help erase the post-traumatic stress from last night.
For those of you that are not "Seinfeld" fans, in an episode of the hit sitcom, it was revealed that Mr. Costanza used to cook for the troops during the Korean War. He was a good cook, a revered cook, and unfortunately, an overconfident cook. (Unlike my modest cook).
As the story goes, one day he received a shipment of meat that was past it's prime. Confident that he could make lemons into lemonade, he decided to keep the inferior product and to mask it's funk with a liberal dose of herbs and spices.
Thinking he found a cure, he proudly fed the stank to all his rank. But one by one, the men keeled over, sick to their stomach's, vomiting profusely, food exiting from every orifice. Over and over they fell, screaming his name in horror.
It was clearly a memory he had to that modern day not forgotten, and the only way to drown his guilt was to drown some scotch in the process.
It was post-traumatic stress reinvented, and not far from our experience last night with the little one. Tyler.
The cook, much like Mr. Costanza, confidently strided into my parent's house last night with a dutch oven (hehe) filled with Black Bean Soup and hand-made rolls.
The writer's parents were happy to receive her gift, but were preoccupied with the little lover. For all of my past angst, Tyler is actually a very well behaved baby.
Eat...poop...eat...burp...eat...sleep...poop...sleep...
It was pretty consistent and pretty controlled, but last night was our Korean War, and the opposition was Ty.
I could tell from the moment we walked in that something was different. A baby that from my experiences was very peaceful, seemed to be a little more fussy than past visitations.
After being fed a majority of his bottle, the cook, writer and parents sat for our feast, positioning Ty right next to me so he could feel inclusive and I could reach over and sway him at any sign of discomfort. Well, discomfort seemed more plentiful than the beans in our hearty soup.
After a difficult dinner, I decided to try to feed him the rest of his bottle. I awkwardly held the squirmy wormy in my hands, and pleasantly displayed the nipple to tip of his mouth, implying, "here Tyler, please decide if you would like this or not."
"No," my mom yelled. "Shove it in!"
The writer believed this game of shoving was not for him, but that timidness quickly faded.
No eating, but still crying, even after the reliable pick up, walk and a gentle sway. The only possibility left was a dirty diaper.
The cook carried her maternal instinct's toward Ty and checked for evidence.
"Yep, he pooped," she confirmed.
(Though after this night I am convinced if you utter, "he pooped" about a baby you would be right every other time. Nostradamus she is not.)
After a quick cleaning and changing, and many piercing cries and vicious haymakers, we decided to take Ty for a walk.
Once he was placed in his stroller, he stopped crying, and once he was pushed forward, and a cool breeze caressed his face, he was sleeping...like a baby.
After half-way through the walk, and after passing loud kids and curious dogs, Ty woke up and started to fuss.
"Waaaaaaaaa!" He screamed.
Pacifier was the only possible pacifier (hmm, such an appropriate name.)
Shove, not subtlety, and he was again quieted.
Suck, suck, suck, happy, happy, happy, and then he pulled it out of his mouth and continued his onslaught. Shove...suck...pull...cry. Not quite the eat...sleep...poop...sleep we had become accustomed.
Finally, after a final chorus of cries I could only imagine as impassioned as the finale to the Buble concert my sister was attending, we arrived back at his grandparents home.
And after another changing, and more prodding, the cook and the writer called it a night. Back to our home with our bookshelf, our Betty book, and our stocked liquor cabinet.
Which takes the writer to tonight. Sipping scotch, writing about my experiences, just as my therapist recommend. But I am hoping, unlike Mr. Constanza, who conquered his fear of cooking to only be traumatized again, that I will be able to take on Ty, and handle his quirks like the good uncle I am determined to be.
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