Oyster Stew Wars

One of my parent's child-rearing philosophy's was “Eat everything on your plate, or else!” We didn't know what all was entailed in the “or else.” We were all afraid of our Dad. He was a lot of fun, unless he lost his temper. When we weren't running for cover, we affectionately called him “Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.” My philosophy was, “Be good, and stay out of his radar when he gets mad”, but that didn't always work.

Two of my siblings were ….more insubordinate the rest of us. Especially my oldest brother. I remember one time, when that brother, who foolishly thought he was safe in the back seat of the car, engaged in the unwise practice of “talking back” to Dad. Dad pulled the car over to the side of the highway, to give him “what for”. Steve sprinted out of the car and took off across the field. Where could he go? Dad caught him eventually and applied discipline to his backside.

My younger sister was similarly reckless. Once when she was being spanked, she yelled, “Hit me again! Harder! Then I'm going to call Child Services and show them where you hit me!” That was the last time she got spanked. They were brave. I wasn't. When Dad was angry, I kept my mouth shut, and leaked out a tear or two. I would work in an apology if I could, and if it didn't admit guilt. I didn't get punished much, unless it was a group punishment. Then it was equally distributed. One day, however, the four Black family kids, united in insurrection. The cause? Oyster stew (or “a special dinner”).

Dad was getting his PHD at Indiana University, and we lived in a two bedroom apartment in the married student housing. All four of us kids, ages 3-10, were in one bedroom that had two sets of bunk-beds. Mom was very thrifty, and as most moms did in those days, cooked every meal from scratch. We carried our lunch to school. Most of all, we were to eat every thing on our plate, and drink every drop of milk. Why? Because there were starving kids in Africa. One of us politely suggested that we ship some of our less pleasing meals over to said kids, but that comment was not appreciated.

One day, as we gathered for dinner, Dad excitedly announced that we were having a special treat! Mom had purchased an exotic ingredient! Oysters! She had cooked oyster stew! Weren't we excited? Weren't we lucky? You know what we were? We were suspicious. When it was served into our bowls, we asked, “What is an oyster?” Dad loved to answer scientific questions. While he pontificated, we poked around in our bowls, trying to locate one. When we heard it was a sea-dwelling creature which basically ate bugs, our collective resolve became firm. We looked at it, and looked down in our laps. I valiantly tried to eat a piece of potato, because I was the good child, but that was all I could do.

When Dad realized that no consuming of stew was taking place, he tried cajoling, “Oooh! Yum! This is tasty! --no takers. “This is an expensive, rare treat for you!” --cold, hollow-eyed responses. He tried again, “You will eat this, because your mother has slaved in the kitchen” (we did have the grace to look sorrowfully at Mom, but we did not budge). And yes, (wait for it), “There are starving children in Africa!” We began silently praying that those oysters would magically transport themselves to Africa where they would surely be appreciated. Then he pulled out his trump card: “You will do what I say, or else, because I am the Dad.” At this point, some of us, (me) began to furtively poke at the stew in an effort to let him feel that he was making progress. He was not fooled by this, and soon Mount Vesuvius began to erupt.

“IF YOU WILL NOT EAT THIS STEW, YOU CAN GO OUTSIDE AND EAT THE SNOW!!” This was not a choice, this was a command. It was dark and cold outside, and he did not let us get get coats. The oldest among us, Steven, shouted for joy once we got outside and cavorted in the snow. The rest of us were terrified. Did this mean we were on our own now, to eke out a living, scratching in the dirt for old vegetables and looking for scraps in other people's garbage bins? Were we now orphans trudging across the bleak landscape searching for a new home? Well, I thought that. I also thought that this would be a good time for my fairy god-mother to show up. Yep, I was a big fairy tale reader. I could read long before I could understand what was real and what was the author's imagination.

I kept my little sister close (she was only four years old), and tried to be brave for her. Bruce, age 8, tried following in Steve's footsteps, but didn't have the heart for it. We tried eating a little snow, but that did not satisfy, and made us feel even colder. Steve and Bruce, who had foolishly played in the snow had wet pants and shoes and were starting to suffer the consequences. Suddenly, we saw our apartment door crack open. Yea! Salvation? No. It was Mom tossing out our coats on the porch, and quickly shutting the door again. She would have never made sergeant. On the other hand, she had defied Dad in her own way.

It seemed like we were out there all night. I don't know how long it was, but even with the coats, we were freezing. I began to envision four little coffins, filled by four little blocks of ice with children inside, and Mom and Dad tearfully mourning us, regretting their misdeed. I could see the headlines in the morning paper, “Death by Oyster Stew!” This is what comes of too many books in my library basket.

Finally, we were let back in. Dad was nowhere to be seen, and we were sent silently to bed. We were happy to be silent. Even though our stomachs were rumbling, and our minds were tumbling, we did not get a beating, and were spared further lecture, which to me was the worse of the two. This incident was never mentioned again. Oyster stew was never served in our house again. And never again was there such a mighty cause for us to unite behind. Viva la guerre! Viva la revelucion! Viva la.....who am I kidding? Cooked gluey oatmeal never looked so good the next morning.