Classic kidtreats
My Real Memoir: Treats I Have Known and Loved
It was fall. I’d just started 4th grade, and already I couldn’t wait for the holidays: Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas. Because holidays meant treats! Of course, my idea of treats has changed a smidge. Nowadays, I dream of handmade al dente pasta with a rich, nuanced sauce simmered for hours. Back then it was a freshly opened can of Chef Boyardee—fat, mushy noodles swimming in sugary tomato goo. Oh, I still have a sweet tooth, but these days I hanker for toasty crème brûlées and handmade chocolates. Back then…
I craved “kidtreats.” Because, duh, I was a kid. So, what’s a kidtreat? Anything that’s fun, devoid of actual nutritional value, and, of course, very, very sweet. Because, if it ain’t got that sweet, it ain’t a real treat.
At first, it was candy wafers, an early-20th-century invention (uncooked, factory-stamped tablets that will outlive the pyramids). I liked Necco, Smarties, and SweeTarts. But I fell in love with Pez! Same difference, really, except they came in magical dispensers! We got new ones in our stockings every Christmas (Mighty Mouse, Bugs Bunny, Popeye), and shared them during recess when school resumed. But then one day, on a dare, I bit into a piece of classroom chalk and, apart from a subtle lack of flavor, couldn’t tell the difference.
Then there were the instant, artificially sweetened drinkables. Talk about fun! I’d go to the lunch counter at J. J. Newberry’s, ask for a glass of water, pop two Fizzies tablets into it, et voilà, soda pop! Or, at home, I’d pour myself a glass of milk, and drink it through a Flav-R Straw—instant chocolate or strawberry milk! Except that, while they met the fun test, they both tasted awful. I needed real flavor, and real sugar. So it was back to Dr. Pepper and Ovaltine.
I also thought kids’ cereals were fun—because animated bunnies (“Trix are for kids!”) and cuckoo birds (“Crazy for Cocoa-Puffs!”) told me they were. Frozen pot pies and TV dinners (the kind ancient cave dwellers ate before microwaves) were fun in a different way: On the rare occasions Mom was away, Dad “fixed” them for us. We’d sit at TV trays (naughtily eating dinner without a table!) while watching Have Gun Will Travel or an old war movie. Just me and Dad. (Later, as a teenager, I would find a dirty, rolled-up band-aid in my instant mashed potatoes—a cast-off, no doubt, from some underpaid food-packer’s owie. I was the last TV dinner I ever ate.)
On the other hand, when Mommandad wanted what they considered a treat, they’d take us to a local bar and grill. It was there that I learned what adults loved–cocktails and a thick, perfectly charred chateaubriand–and I learned to love it too. So, yes, I could be taught. Of course, I washed mine down with a couple of tall, syrupy “Roy Rogers.” Because, in the end, it ain’t a treat…
If it ain’t got that sweet.
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A high percentage of abusers were themselves abused as children–physically, verbally, sexually. Other people may have more subtly broken models of adulthood, yet they too pass on their brokenness.
