Would you like a Donut with those Ants? Memories of Me Monday

 

{photo from flickr, by kaszeta}

TODAY’S MEMORY JOGGER:  “"Which of the following would you characterize as your taste: sour-crunchy, sweet-sugar,  or sugar-fats?"

Hm!  That’s a tough question . . . because I think I’ve been ALL of those at some point in my life {and for most of my life I’ve been all of them all the time} but, because I’m still focusing these posts on my growing up years, and because I have very limited time this evening to get this post written, I’m simply going to mention a very (and I mean VERY) funny thing that happened when I was about 12 or 13 years old.

There was a chocolate donut involved.

When my family lived in Redondo Beach, in the late 60’s and early 70’s, I had my own bedroom (a benefit of having been born smack in between two brothers).  My bedroom was the smallest, because I was the only of the five kids who didn’t have to share with a sibling.  It was located at the front of our house, just inside our front door.  In fact, my louvered window opened onto our front porch (handy for sneaking out late at night, but that’s another story).  The only disadvantage was that my room also held the door that lead from inside our house into the garage, so to go into the garage without having to go outside and open the big double garage doors, everyone passed through my room.

Most of the time it was no big deal.  My mom and dad always knocked first, and I know they tried to minimize the number of times they came through out of respect to my privacy.  Sometimes summer Saturdays were a pain, if the younger kids were home, because they’d be constantly running in and out from the garage and their bikes, to the kitchen to get snacks or to the den to watch t.v., and dragging half the kids in our neighborhood with them.

Still, it wasn’t that big a deal, and they never bothered any of my stuff.

My brother, Mike, however, was another story.  He had sticky fingers. 

For money, for school supplies if he happened to need a notebook or pencil, for notes from my friends which he loved to read and then tease me about, but most of all – for anything sweet.

Candy bars, gum, licorice, Hostess fruit pies, anything with sugar, had to be hidden or the next time he strolled through my room to the garage to get his bike?  Gone.

One evening I had in my possession a chocolate donut with chocolate frosting and liberally sprinkled with chopped peanuts.  My all-time favorite donut then, and still my favorite.  I remember deciding to save the donut to eat the next morning and placing it carefully on a small plate on my nightstand.

Early the next morning, just as it was getting light, I was awakened by my door opening and swinging silently inward.  Someone came into the room.  It was Mike.  He walked quietly past my bed and though slitted eyelids I watched him stretch out his hand to open the garage door. 

His hand stopped mid-reach.  In the dim light he’d spotted that donut.

Before I could say anything or stop him, he’d grabbed it up and taken a huge bite.  More than half my donut disappeared, just like that.

Then he let out yell.  Threw the remaining donut back onto the nightstand.  Spit out what was in his mouth.  Slammed out through the door.

I sat up.  What the heck?

I switched on my bedside lamp and began to laugh.

The donut was a seething mass of black ants.

In the darkness they had been impossible to see.

I got a lot of mileage out of that incident!  Finally, something to hold over my brother’s head, to throw back at him whenever he teased me, something that sent me into endless bouts of hysterical laughter every time I told the story, or even thought about it.

Still does.

I lost far fewer sweets after that.  

{hysterical laughter}

FOR NEXT WEEK:  “Did it snow where you lived as a child?  What kinds of things did you do in the snow?”