Mush

Sitting in my high chair, I would stare longingly:

toned and tanned arms moving quickly, 

cradling bright red apples and gripping gleaming sharpened steel. 

A blur of chops, slices, and dices all shoved in a black blender 

to whir around with cinnamon or bananas. Pureed, poured in a bowl. 

Excited, greedy fingers grasped for it and giggling, I shoveled my

baby food into my hungry mouth and missed,  smearing the

fragrant mush across chubby cheeks and my high chair.

Sometimes, running short on time, 

a familiar “pop” preceded a can of Gerber. 

Apples and cinnamon, mixed fruit, or green stuff purees. 

Devoured gleefully, the Gerber baby food always a welcome snack. 

Glass containers were stashed:  I snuck apples and cinnamon

to school,  mixed fruit was for church, green stuff eaten

furtively after swim practice.

Old enough to stop needing

food for babies, the cans began to disappear. 

The cans did not accompany me on the

long plane ride to a strange new land 

I missed them.

I missed them

when new faces spoke that strange language.

I missed them when we moved again.

I missed them until my brother was born.

A new baby meant a new chance to instill

love for homemade mush and industrial mush.

He didn’t like apples and cinnamon.

He didn’t like mixed fruit.

He didn’t like the green stuff.

I snuck into the pantry, confused and eager,

I bit my lip with the anticipation.

Pop.

Apples and cinnamon - childhood manna at last!!!

Gleefully cradling the can and spoon,

I licked my lips and swallowed.

Eyebrows crinkled and lips pursed,

I checked the expiration date.

I re-read the label.

I bought more at the super market,

one in every flavor, and ... terrible.

They all tasted terrible.

Was this my fault?

Had I grown too old to enjoy mush?

Walking through aisles, I often wish to be back in my highchair

in Venezuela - back when the baby food was made with 

love and even Gerber tasted heavenly.