Fifties Fast Food


I was seven
when my mother welcomed a stranger
into our crowded household--
a spanking new pressure cooker,
like Mrs. McGregor’s next door.
“It’s a time saver,” Mom said.
“They call it Presto for a reason.” 
My father smirked and rattled the sports section.

One night Mom and Presto 
conspired over beef stew.
She sizzled beef chunks
in the gleaming pot,
locked the lid,
and set a weight
on the top
that would rock
like a bell in a church steeple
to summon us to the table. 

As I contemplated 
the black and white 
mysteries of
Karen and Cubby 
on “The Mickey Mouse Club,”
Presto hissed like a crazy man.
I went into the kitchen
to investigate.
“When is din—?”

Ka-pow!
The top exploded with a gush 
of pot roast bay leaf breath.
The fiery lid rocketed past my sister,
who stared open-mouthed as
a piece of steamed potato splatted 
against the refrigerator. 
Mom held my toddler brother away
from grabbing the lid,
where it whirled on the floor
like a loose hub cap
in a clattery spin.
 
The baby gurgled 
and pounded a fistful of Cheerios
on the tray of his high chair.
Pepper the dog licked beef smears
from the kitchen linoleum.
“When is dinner?” I said again.
“Never,” my father said,
“if I have anything to say about it.”
We all started to cry.
“We will never eat dinner again,” 
my mother said.  “It’s too dangerous.” 

For a month afterward,
we each took a turn
standing on the step stool
to clean bits of carrot
from the kitchen ceiling.
The following Christmas,
Dad bought Mom 
a new blender named Waring.