the country. You can’t keep us on diets while traveling; it isn’t practical.
Antoine’s, here I come!”
“No,” said Mother.
“Yes,” said Daddy.
So we went to California. I was ready to throw my weight (which was still
too much) in with Daddy, when California was mentioned. I hadn’t expected to see
Cliff until fall. I put thoughts of bouillabaisse and Shrimp Norfolk out of mind;
Cliff won, but it was nearer than I like to think.
The trip was hardly a case of merrie-merrie-be. Junior sulked because he
wasn’t allowed to take along his lifting weights, and Mother was loaded with charts
and reference books and menus. Each time we stopped she would enter into long
negotiations, involving a personal interview with the chef, while we got hungrier,
and hungrier.
We were coming to Kingman, Arizona, when Mother announced that she didn’t
think we could find a restaurant to take care of our needs. “Why not?” demanded
Daddy. “The people there must eat.”
Mother shuffled her lists and suggested that we go on through to Las Vegas.
Daddy said that if he had known this trip was going to be another Donner party, he
would have studied up on how to cook human flesh.
While they discussed it we slid through Kingman and turned north toward
Boulder Dam. Mother looked worriedly at the rugged hills and said, “Perhaps you had
better turn back, Charles. It will be hours before we reach Las Vegas and there
isn’t a thing on the map.
Daddy gripped the wheel and looked grim. Daddy will not backtrack for less
than a landslide, as Mother should have known.
I was beyond caring. I expected to leave my bones whitening by the road with
a notice: She tried and she died.
We had dropped out of those hills and into the bleakest desert imaginable
when Mother said, “You’ll have to turn back, Charles. Look at your gasoline gauge.”
Daddy set his jaw and speeded up. “Charles!” said Mother.
“Quiet!” Daddy answered. “I see a gas station ahead.”
The sign read Santa Claus, Arizona. I blinked at it, thinking I was at last
seeing a mirage. There was a gas station, all right, but that wasn’t all.
You know what most desert gas stations look like- put together out of odds
and ends. Here was a beautiful fairytale cottage with wavy candy stripes in the
shingles. It had a broad brick chimney-and Santa Claus was about to climb down the
chimney!
Maureen, I said, you’ve overdone this starvation business; now you are out
of your head.
Between the station and the cottage were two incredible little dolls’
houses. One was marked Cinderella’s House and Mistress Mary Quite Contrary was
making the garden grow. The other one needed no sign; the Three Little Pigs, and Big
Bad Wolf was stuck in its chimney.
“Kid stuff!” says Junior, and added, “Hey, Pop, do we eat here? Huh?”
“We just gas up,” answered Daddy. “Find a pebble to chew on. Your mother has
declared a hunger strike.”
Mother did not answer and headed toward the cottage. We went inside, a bell
bonged, and a sweet contralto voice boomed, “Come in! Dinner is ready!”
The inside was twice as big as the outside and was the prettiest dining room
imaginable, fresh, new, and clean. Heavenly odors drifted out of the kitchen. The
owner of the voice came out and smiled at us.
We knew who she was because her kitchen apron
had “Mrs. Santa Claus” embroidered across it. She
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made me feel slender, but for her it was perfectly right.
Can you imagine Mrs. Santa Claus being skinny?
“How many are there?” she asked.
“Four,” said Mother, “but-” Mrs. Santa Claus dis
appeared into the kitchen.
Mother sat down at a table and picked up a menu. I
did likewise and started to drool-here is why:
Minted Fruit Cup Rouge
Pot-au-feu a la Creole
Chicken Velvet Soup
Roast Veal with Fine Herbs
Ham Soufflé
Yankee Pot Roast
Lamb Hawaii
Potatoes Lyonnaise
Riced Potatoes
Sweet Potatoes Maryland
Glazed Onions
Asparagus Tips with Green Peas
Chicory Salad with
Roquefort Dressing
Artichoke Hearts with Avocado
Beets in Aspic
Cheese Straws
Miniature Cinnamon Rolls