Stealing Joy

Growing up in the Gilbert household came with a set of rules that mirrored exacting parental expectations. My father grew up working in a family-run butcher shop in the Dorchester neighborhood of Boston and experienced firsthand a dignified, hardworking lifestyle. It shaped his expectations for his children: that they achieve white-collar, professional
positions to avoid the physical labor and potential uncertainty of working in a blue-collar job. As a young boy, I quickly realized the one rule that could not be bent was the homework policy, the daily preparation necessary to achieve one’s potential. He made it clear that I had to have a sense of urgency in accomplishing my responsibilities before I could start running button-hook routes at the neighborhood football games
with the other kids.

One unforgettable day, I snuck my mother’s first edition of “Joy of Cooking” from her kitchen shelf while pretending to study at my desk. It was more interesting than memorizing the genus and species of animals for science class.

Even while struggling with the cooking terminology and words beyond my vocabulary, my interest was piqued by the exotic sounding food names and foreign food descriptions, until I received a knock on my door.
“How is the studying coming?” I quickly shuffled papers about. As the door opened, I turned into a huddled ball.

With luck, my mother didn’t see the book I hid, like a teenager with his first porno mag, as I sat and silently prayed she wouldn’t walk any closer. A few awkward moments later she returned to the kitchen. I was greatly relieved and carefully placed the book back onto the wooden desktop, only to overhear the phone ring and the long, analog antenna being pulled up on the “state of the art” cordless phone. I could only
hear one side of the conversation that she was having with my father discussing “What’s for dinner?” I heard them talking about one chicken dish in particular. It offered a happy resolution, because my younger sister was a picky eater; yes, she required her own separate menu. With a limited repertoire of “perfected” dishes, it seemed they agreed on this one particular recipe that suited the entire family. Mindless of the
situation, I paid little attention to the specifics until the page turned; there in front of my eyes was the recipe, titled Chicken Cynthia. Now I had a big problem!

When it came to studying and school-related homework, I found it as interesting as listening to Texas country music. Finding that sense of urgency for subjects that just didn’t interest me was always a struggle and I often found some way to get into trouble. The linoleum-floored kitchen (that had dangling pieces of my mother’s macramé for decoration) was halfway across the house, separated by a narrow hallway and large, open living room that led into the kitchen and front foyer. I knew I had to sneak the cookbook back into the kitchen—yes, maybe I had watched too much TV—but it seemed really important not to get caught redhanded.

Carefully stepping out of my room, I heard the 1970’s, push-button, microwave vents blowing out air on “high,” signaling that the chicken was being defrosted—always step one for mom. My time was limited, so I had to move quickly. I filled my backpack with “Joy of Cooking,” accompanied by my science book and review sheet. I casually strolled into the kitchen and told, perhaps, a small white lie. I said, “I want to
review in the kitchen where there’s more light,” and some nonsense about how it “smelled good” even though she was just defrosting chicken in the microwave. She gabbed away on the phone, this time with my Aunt Laura, discussing our family plans for our next Boston trip. Thankfully (for once), my mother paid little attention to me as she left the kitchen. They talked up a storm, while sitting on the “stylish” sky-blue velvet
love seat in the living room trying to work out what we were going to do with all the kids (myself and my younger cousins). The only problem was, she was in plain sight of the kitchen, but thankfully was preoccupied with her in-depth conversation.

It was time to put my years of magic lessons and sleight of hand movements into play. I needed a diversion. I knew if I stood up and opened the drawer on the wood hutch, that would create enough of a distraction, so I tossed a few highlighters onto my open biology book. My body was just far enough out of her direct line of sight as I made my swift move for the book. I reached in with my right hand and slipped
the book safely where it belonged, back on the shelf. Whew— safe! The call ended just moments later, and as my mother approached the kitchen and asked me if I wanted a drink, as she casually picked the cookbook off the shelf, never realizing it had been in my hands minutes before. I can thank my parents for spending their hard-earned money on magic lessons, something that has continually come in handy when dodging
bullets.