THe HoLiDaYS aRe A GaS

The following comes from one of my favorite bloggers, KREG. In the interest of staying employed not getting cut out of the will keeping this a family blog, the slang word for passing intestinal gas has been changed to Foof, which is a kinder, gentler word. And this introductory paragraph should have been fair warning to you all, Chickens.

Growing up, the yuletide trip to see my paternal grandparents was a forgone conclusion. Everyone from that side of the family gathered on Christmas Day to exchange gifts and eat the holiday fare until gastronomic distress ensued. This was no small family gathering, as twenty four (sometimes more) people packed into the house. Even with all those people, there was never any shortage of food, and tradition demanded that we all stuff ourselves just short of bursting. As BOTH my grandparents were the children of German immigrants (but obviously not the SAME immigrants, because that's horribly illegal and wrong, even by 1910s backwater Oklahoma standards), the cuisine of that region sometimes frequented the menu. Such was the case one year when sauerkraut appeared on one of the many side tables temporarily re-tasked to the noble Holiday chore of holding the glut of food.

I love sauerkraut. El, oh, vee, eee. (A culinary love possibly second only to bacon. And maybe garlic-stuffed olives. And wiesswurst.) I put a considerable dent in that dish all by myself, but couldn't help notice that I was not the only courtesan of the sexy-fine fermented cabbage. Every time I'd return to get more, it was obvious that someone else was devouring it as well, although I could never catch the culprit in the act. Even with the unknown interloping hussy stealing away portions of my pickled love, I still managed to down about a pint of sauerkraut, plus MANY other fantastic foodstuffs.

Hours passed, and we exchanged and unwrapped many presents, posed in front of the tree, drank wine, took naps, told stories, and finally had our traditional 4:00 snack of sausage and fried potatoes before beginning the two hour trek back home. About fifteen minutes into the drive, I began to experience a disturbance in the force. Something unholy was brewing deep within me, and it wouldn't be long until the fury was unleashed. Trying to ignore the kicks of the "baby", I settled back into my seat and tried to sleep...
It was a fitful sleep, and while drifiting in and out of slumber, I seem to recall foofing at some point. At some point thereafter, I was jolted awake by a blast of cold air when my mother rolled down the window. Further, my mother, who is usually a very sweet woman, was using foul language to lament the current smell that smothered every one and thing in the automobile. The window went back up, the swear-storm abated, and I got back to the task of napping.




The return to naptown was shortlived, as I quickly found myself again in another swirl of cool air and profanities. Inner monologue: Christ, that sauerkraut was more potent than I imagined. And apparently I'm foofing in my sleep. Oh well. The window is back up now, so back to napping.
More cold air. More angry comments. Finally, my mother began quizzing us in turn; first my brother, then myself, and finally my father.
"Did you foof?"
"No."
"Nope."
"Huh-uh."

I lied straight to my mothers face, and on Christmas no less. Then I quietly foofed again. This was starting to be fun. So the cycle continued for a few hundred miles; the foofs, the window, the accusations, the interrogation, the denials and lying, the fitful napping.
When we finally pulled into the garage, my mother leaped from the car and bolted into the house, bemoaning the atrocious smell until her livid voice was no longer audible.

My brother looked at me and spoke: "Man, I could NOT stop foofing. I think it was all that sauerkraut I ate."

"Yeah, I think I may have stained the car seat with my tract-gas. Wait! So YOU'RE the other person who ate the sauerkraut!"

My father just looked at the both of us and then grinned whilst emitting one of the loudest and longest foofs I have ever witnessed.

We didn't tell my mother until the following spring.


Merry Holidays to all!


--
Krëg