World affairs, jello and … margarine sculpting?
I sat clutching my cup of coffee. I was early, very early, on purpose. I was not the only early bird on this particular Friday. It was a little after 9 a.m. All three stylists were busy with clients. The waiting area was unusually full.
A fourth swept in the door, letting in the drear of a Syracuse April day.
“My God, it is so dark and cold outside. It is enervating or whatever the right word is to describe what has got to be the second month of no sun…a royal blue funk,” she said.
The new early bird hung up her coat, sat down holding her purse to her chest and adopted the stare-into-space look
She took a deep breath, shrugged her shoulders and said, “I am an hour early and I’m glad. I need this place.”
One of the other ladies in waiting finished her thought … “away from the crumbs, the questions, the list of things to do, what to make for dinner, bosses, you name it. This is my refuge too.”
Becky, one of the stylists, called from the back room for another stylist to help her get something from a top shelf, adding “I used to be tall enough to get the stuff, but I guess I’m shrinking.”
Ruth, who is the oldest of the group added, if this keeps up, we’ll have to stand on one another’s shoulders in order to get anything from the top of the cabinets.”
Our latecomer continued, “I had to ask my son to get a bowl out of the cabinet over the refrigerator. I swear that I could reach it only last week. That particular bowl lives with a lot of equipment that I rarely use and when he reached up for it he disturbed a stack of Jello molds, bringing back one of my worst fears …”
“What was that?” I asked,
“Unmolding the Jello. I never could get it out of the molds so that it wasn’t watery on the surface or just falling apart. Tried all the tricks. Just not a part of my culinary skill set.”
I told her that is something we have in common, as I had started making Jello in eight-inch-square pans and cutting it into square serving pieces, telling people that was all the rage in Rio de Janerio.
“I don’t know if they believed me,” I said, “but it absolved me of that fear of bringing a dish of indistinguishable gelatin and fruit to the table.”
One of the clients who was waiting for her color to take, stood up and laughing, said, “I’m shaking just remembering this – I once brought what began as a ring mold on a serving plate to the dinner table when we were entertaining. It was a recipe from a book called ‘The Joys of Jello.’ By the time it reached that table, it looked like something out of a science fiction movie. It seemed to be moving on its own. The pièce de résistance was that as I was about to place it on the table, what was left of it, slid off the plate on to one of the guest’s lap.
“Die a thousand deaths – that’s what I did. Never made a Jello mold again.”
One of the other gals in the waiting room asked if anyone made Jello any more.
“My grandkids won’t eat it,” said said. “They said it reminds them of eating worms. Now when did they eat worms?”
Ruth, who was now finishing her client’s coiffeur laughed, and said, “Talk about Jello molds – my aunt had one dessert that she proudly would bring to family functions. She would get a big can of sliced pineapple, empty the juice out and replace it with lime Jello.
She never seemed to catch on to why some many decided to forego dessert. It was awful.
“I had an uncle, said the woman who was sitting next to me, “who sculpted margarine.”
Margarine? was the unified response.
“Yes, but you would have to be old enough to remember there was a time when you bought this bag of white stuff with an orange, cherry-like bubble in the middle of the bag. You would break the bubble and dye would pour out onto the stuff in the bag. You then worked the dye into the white stuff until it looked like margarine. Well, my uncle took it one step further. He would open the bag, shape the margarine into some unrecognizable animal and then pour the dye over it. It was gross. He thought it was art.
Two of the clients were now finished, but lingered as they were replaced by two from the waiting room.
One of the newly-finished gals asked, “Do you remember Toni home permanents? My mom was the queen of home permanents. I have pictures of my three sisters and myself …. all with home permanents. All looking like we had just stuck our fingers in a light socket.”
The subsequent question of whether anyone use home permanents anymore was then brought up, and met with a chorus of “no,”modified by a few “good griefs.”
Ruth laughed, and added a “Thank God.”
Our fourth in the waiting area summed it up.
“We wouldn’t have this time and this place to discuss world affairs, Jello and margarine sculpting if we were home ruining our hair with home permanents.”
And I said, ”Amen.”
Ann Ferro is a mother, a grandmother and a retired social studies teacher. While still figuring out what she wants to be when she grows up, she lives in Marcellus with lots of books, a spouse and a large orange cat.
