People get a thrill out of beating other homo sapiens in any sort of game or event. And when you have an older brother, the competition can be almost anything. Rules? We don’t need no stinking rules! And if there are official, legitimate rules of the game, the younger opponent probably won’t even find out the correct version of those rules until he’s, say, 30? Which is why it is so important to go first in any and all sporting endeavors against an older sibling.
A competition was ONCE held at a kitchen table. Yes, a sporting event at the kitchen table. The event? It was an ice cream eating contest. The competitors? Ehm and Ehm.
Please note that I am not a huge lover of ice cream. I’ll eat some, but it is not as high on my list of important food groups as pastries or pizza rolls. I’m thinking this attitude can all be traced back to an incident that took place well into the last century.
My brother Kevin (formerly one of Anchorage’s finest and currently four years older than I) and I sat our skinny backsides on a couple of chairs at the kitchen table.
Our folks were watching something cool on a black and white television—probably Red Skelton—and must have heard us discussing the “ice cream eating contest,” because a voice from the living room yelled:
“Don’t have the contest!”
Meet the original Mr. Party Pooper.
Kevin snarled, “I told you to talk quieter. They heard you.”
Kevin was right, but since I was in the second grade, everything I said was YELLED!
“Now, don’t say anything or they’ll hear us,” he whispered.
The Pooper of the Party continued, “If you boys don’t obey, you’re not going to get any ice cream. You’re going to get a big fat spanking AND go to bed early.”
Hey! There were two prizes for competing? Who knew? Nothing says “treat” like a strawberry sorbet spanking. I can’t recall ever seeing Baskin Robbins offer that as one of their 31 flavors.
The rules were simple: whichever disobedient son of an Ehm could fit the largest slab of ice cream on his spoon and shove it into his mouth without losing a drop would be declared the winner. The stakes were pretty high. If we held more than one contest, why, I might be crowned world champion! But alas, due to some accidental slippage—there would be no championship.
If memory serves me right, Kevin handed me a teeny-tiny teaspoon to begin the contest, and I tried my best to load half the carton on the single piece of silver.
“Not so much,” Kevin warned.
“I can eat it,” my seven year-old self with delusions of grandeur shot back.
“That’s too much!” Kevin growled.
“Shh…” I hissed.
“Kraig!” Kevin whined.
“UH-OH!”
“Boys!”
The “UH-OH” occurred when trying to lift the 10-pound spoon up to my lips. As I rotated the angle of the silver, the pink glacial strawberry slab started sliding at a speed of roughly 100 mph toward the table.
Two sets of Ehm eyes watched the drama unfold. It seemed to take an hour before horror came knocking on the door of regret.
Hitting the table was good. Bouncing off the table and landing on the floor was bad. And that is where the “UH-OH” reared its ugly head. Heathcliff and Freddy the Freeloader were not going to get us out of this mess.
“I thought your dad told you boys not to have the ice cream eating contest.”
“Sorry, Mom” said Kevin.
“Look at the mess you two have made.”
Kevin and I examined the softening ice cream (we lived in Texas at the time, so it melted on contact) and realized our crime. Punishment had not yet arrived on the scene.
“Sorry, Mom” I sniffed.
My mom grabbed a rag (I remember thinking she’d need a blanket to clean up a mess that big) and began cleaning up. Not to worry, I thought. She’ll mop it up, scold us, and then we’ll run along and play like good boys.
“Did you disobey?” asked my Mom.
Uh-oh. She really wasn’t happy.
“Yes. Sorry” I replied.
“Both of you go to the bathroom, take a bath, and then you’re both going to bed early without any ice cream.”
“Waahhhh.”
“Shut up, Kraig. I told you that bite was too big,” declared the loser of the competition.
“I dtfgt meanfht to—stupid spoon,” I offered. It was hard to talk and bawl at the same time.
Kevin and I reached our destination. As he proceeded to hop into the tub, I sat on the counter replaying in my head just what went wrong.
The bathroom door opened and …
I am not at liberty to repeat what happened in there because “what happens in the bathroom after you’ve been told not to have an ice cream eating contest and you have one that, instead, not only creates a colossal mess for your birth mother to clean up but also causes her to miss one of her favorite shows, which thereby involves a not-so-happy Heathcliff bringing the original ‘law and order’ to Dodge, stays in the bathroom.”
As for my desire for ice cream for the rest of the week, who needs a sorbet when you’ve got a sorebutt?
