Diamonique and Chocolates

I never thought a can of frosting would make me homesick.

My mother called me today to thank me for her Mother’s Day present, which had just arrived in the mail. I had ordered her a Diamonique ring from QVC, which is basically like the Home Shopping Network. She was raving about her ring, much to my satisfaction.

“It fits perfectly, it’s my birthstone, and it’s just beautiful! How did you know?” she raved.

“Oh, I don’t know, the countless hours of QVC Diamonique Jewelry Showcase you forced me to watch?”

My mother pauses. “Really? I don’t recall watching that with you,” she says.

“Mom, we watched it all the time. For hours at a time,” I say.

“Well, I don’t remember forcing you to watch anything,” she insists.

It’s true, my parents didn’t own firearms, but they owned only two televisions. It was either sit in the living room with my mother while she drooled over high-end cubic zirconias, or sit in the kitchen with my father. He would be fixated on the mustaches and polyester pants of Classic Bowling while asking me repeatedly about school as I fetch him small glass after small glass of orange juice.

I elected to always sit in the comfort of the living room, watching my mother grip the phone and sweat over five easy payments of $19.95. She never bought anything, though I think that has changed now. She always just would say how she should, and I would encourage her because I thought she deserved it. Also, I was hoping if she actually pulled the trigger, she might change the channel. But usually, she would write down the item numbers and tell me to hand them off to my father “at the right moment.”

As I’m remembering all this, my mother has changed the course of our phone conversation. My mother had to bake some brownies for some of the hired hands on the farm as well as some funerals and the thought of leaving baked goods unguarded with my father in the house has her all wound up.

“I hope he doesn’t eat them all. He eats everything in sight,” she says.

I can’t resist. “Yeah, I called the house earlier. He sounded like he was definitely eating something,” I say with a smirk.

This is completely untrue, but I get the desired effect. My mother makes a disgusted sound, then she goes into a rant that she says often.

“Anytime I get something sweet he eats everything. Even my baking supplies. I will go to make cookies or bars and all the chocolate chips and walnuts will be gone, because he eats it all,” she hisses.

“Uh huh.”

“I had this can of frosting, this special frosting made from Hershey’s chocolate…”she starts.

I perk up. This is new.

“He ate a can of frosting? No he didn’t,” I insist. Sad individuals resort to eating frosting. My dad is a reasonable man. Eating frosting out of a can is a level of depravity people in my family do not stoop to.

“I went to frost the bars, and I noticed the jar moved…and he had stuck a fork in it and started eating it out of the can,” she says.

I giggle. This is hilarious, but I understand her frustration. My parents live 20 miles from the nearest supermarket, except for a small grocery store that is ten miles away and not open all the time. So, when you expect that all ingredients will be there for something you plan to make, and you come up short, it’s infuriating.

“I’m serious,” she continues. “If you have a jar of hot fudge around for ice cream, forget it, it’s gone.”

Well of course hot fudge is for ice cream, what else would it be for? I decide not to ask. I was at work so I cut her off and got off the phone. I came home tonight and had a hankering for something sweet. I opened up the freezer and started digging into a bag of chocolate chips. While delicious, the chocolate did not ease my homesickness.

My parents are coming to visit in two weeks and I have no frosting. I better get the store, which luckily, is just down the street.