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 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 disappeared 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 Soufflй
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
Hot Biscuits
Sherry Almond Ice Cream
Rum Pie
Pкches Flambйes Royales
Peppermint Cloud Cake
Devil's Food Cake
Angel Berry Pie
Coffee Tea Milk
(Our water is trucked fifteen miles;
please help us save it.)
Thank you. Mrs. Santa Claus
It made me dizzy, so I looked out the window. We were still in the middle of the grimmest desert in the world.
I started counting the calories in that subversive document. I got up to three thousand and lost track, because fruit cups were placed in front of us. I barely tasted mine - and my stomach jumped and started nibbling at my windpipe.
Daddy came in, said, "Well!" and sat down, too. Junior followed.
Mother said, "Charles, there is hardly anything here you can touch. I think I had better - " She headed for the kitchen.
Daddy had started reading the menu. He said, "Wait, Martha! Sit down." Mother sat.
Presently he said, "Do I have plenty of clean handkerchiefs?"
Mother said, "Yes, of course. Why - "
"Good. I feel an attack coming on. I'll start with the pot - au - feu and - Mother said, "Charles!"
"Peace, woman! The human race has survived upwards of five million years eating anything that could be chewed and swallowed." Mrs. Santa Claus came back in and Daddy ordered lavishly, every word stabbing my heart. "Now," he finished, "if you will have that carried in by eight Nubian slaves - "
"We'll use a jeep," Mrs. Santa Claus promised and turned to Mother.
Mother was about to say something about chopped grass and vitamin soup but Daddy cut in with, "That was for both of us. The kids will order for themselves." Mother swallowed and said nothing.
Junior never bothers with menus. "I'll have a double cannibal sandwich," he announced.
Mrs. Santa Claus flinched. "What," she asked ominously, "is a cannibal sandwich?"
Junior explained. Mrs. Santa Claus looked at him as if she hoped he would crawl back into the woodwork. At last she said, "Mrs. Santa Claus always gives people what they want. But you'll have to eat it in the kitchen; other people will be coming in for dinner."
"Oke," agreed Junior.
"Now what would you like, honey?" she said to me.
"I'd like everything," I answered miserably, "but I'm on a reducing diet."
She clucked sympathetically. "Anything special you mustn't eat?"
"Nothing in particular - just food. I mustn't eat food."
She said, "You will have a hard time choosing a low caloric meal here. I've never been able to work up interest in such cooking. I'll serve you the same as your parents; you can eat what you wish and as little as you wish."
"All right," I said weakly.
Honestly, I tried. I counted up to ten between bites, then I found I was counting faster so as to finish each course before the next one arrived.
Presently I knew I was a ruined woman and I didn't care. I was surrounded by a warm fog of calories. Once my conscience peeked over the edge of my plate and I promised to make up for it tomorrow. It went back to sleep.
Junior came out of the kitchen with his face covered by a wedge of pink striped cake. "Is that a cannibal sandwich?" I asked.
"Huh?" he answered. "You should see what she's got out there. She ought to run a training table."
A long time later Daddy said, "Let's hit the road. I hate to."
Mrs. Santa Claus said, "Stay here if you like. We can accommodate you."
So we stayed and it was lovely.
I woke up resolved to skip even my twenty - eight calories of tomato juice, but I hadn't reckoned with Mrs. Santa Claus. There were no menus; tiny cups of coffee appeared as you sat down, then other things, deceptively, one at a time. Like this: grapefruit, milk, oatmeal and cream, sausage and eggs and toast and butter and jam, bananas and cream - then when you were sure that they had played themselves out, in came the fluffiest waffle in the world, more butter and strawberry jam and syrup, and then more coffee.
I ate all of it, my personality split hopelessly between despair and ecstasy. We rolled out of there feeling wonderful. "Breakfast," said Daddy, "should be compulsory, like education. I hypothesize that correlation could be found between the modern tendency to skimp breakfast and the increase in juvenile delinquency.