In days of yore when corporal punishment was a suitable means of disciplining your child . . . you know, when a kid couldn’t pick up the phone, call the cops and then have them show up on your doorstep to arrest you for child abuse; like waaaaaay back when I was a wee snip of a girl.
When I was growing up, my 4’13” mommy demanded and commanded respect. How did this petite woman, who weighed all of 100 pounds soaking wet, manage to wield such authority? By beating the crap out us willfully insolent brats. . . duh.
Hanging from a hook on the wall was a paddle. No, a wooden spoon wasn’t good enough for my mom. She required a tool specifically designated for encouraging acceptable behavior and, dammit, she could use that thing like a pro! Ouch!
Sometimes, when it was paddlin’ time . . . which is more often than I care to admit . . . my mom would make me go to my room to ponder my indiscretions before carrying out the sentence. Those were the times when I was lucky enough to prepare for butt-whacking session that was soon to follow. Those were the times when I would have the time to fortify my dupey with several layers of underpants to cushion the forthcoming blows.
Now, you may not think that . . . uhm . . . accidentally breaking your mom’s manicure kit would warrant a paddling. And, you would probably be right so long as the perpetrator was smart enough to fess up to it. But say, you were a wily kid that knew you wouldn’t get caught. For example, by flushing the evidence down the toilet. No proof, no harm, no foul. Assuming that said manicure kit didn’t cause a massive clog in the plumbing . . . on *gulp* Thanksgiving Day . . . causing the contents of the septic system to back up into the basement. Supposing that such a thing didn’t occur . . . all would be well and good.
But, let’s just say, for the sake of argument that this calamity actually occurred. My mother uttered . . . with the barest amount of control . . . through clenched teeth to “go fetch the paddle . . . right now!”. That’s when I knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I was buried up to my chinny-chin-chin in a steaming pile of doggie doo-doo. It was on occasions such as that that there was no time to prep the tushy . . . those were the times when the beatings would commence immediately. Definitely NOT good times!
You’d think I would be smart enough not to incite even more rage by antagonizing her further; by simply standing still and taking what I had coming to me. Yeah, well, sometimes I wasn’t the sharpest tweezers in the manicure kit.
If I was feeling particularly spunky, I would bounce around in an attempt to avoid the inevitable blows. Of course, this only served to further piss off mother-dear which resulted in harder and faster wallops. Then, in an attempt to deflect the hits, I would try to cover my rump with my hands. I can tell you from intimate experience that a wooden paddle smacking against the flesh of bare hands hurts like a bitch!
I recall one particular incident when my crime had been exceptional heinous and the beating was extraordinarily enthusiastic that the paddle actually split in half. That didn’t help my situation in the slightest. My mother was further infuriated. I got whumped with both halves of the paddle. Nice, huh?
Ah, that reminds me of another fervent thrashing. That, it just so happens, was also the last whoopin’ I ever got. Mommy-dearest . . . OMG, she absolutely hated it when I called her that . . . was issuing the punishment as was deemed appropriate for whatever transgression I had committed . . . it wasn’t the Manicure Kit Incident, by the way. Anyhoo, I was feeling especially feisty and was trying to avoid the spanks by running around the room while she chased after me with the paddle, getting in a good whack whenever she could. She eventually managed to grab hold of my arm and, instead racing of willy-nilly around the room, I was running round and round with my mom at the axis. Holy shmokers, that REALLY and TRULY pissed her off but good! She started spanking me with all the force she could muster . . . which was considerable considering her size.
Anyhoo . . . for some unknown reason, in the midst of all the running and walloping, I got a raging case of the giggles. I couldn’t control myself and just laughed and laughed. If I thought she was livid before, then I was seriously mistaken. That woman could paddle like nobody’s business! The giggling and the beating continued and even escalated. After an eternity, she finally got tuckered out. My belly hurt from laughing, my butt hurt from the whoopin’ and I was out of breath from running. My mom? She just mumbled something about going to my room and never coming out again. I was more than happy to!
After that, either I was a more well-mannered child or she just decided that corporal punishment was not longer an effective means of punishment. I suspect it was the latter.
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German Red Cabbage
- 1 Medium Head Red Cabbage, Cored And Sliced
- 2 Large Tart Apples, Peeled And Sliced
- 1 Medium Sweet Onion, Sliced
- 1 1/2 Cups Water
- 1 Cup Cider Vinegar
- 1/2 Cup Sugar
- 1 Tablespoon Butter
- 1 Teaspoon Salt
- 1 Teaspoon Pepper
- 1/2 Teaspoon Allspice
- 1/2 Teaspoon Ground Cloves
- 2 Teaspoons Cornstarch
- 2 Teaspoons Cold Water
In a Dutch oven, toss cabbage, apples and onion. Add water, vinegar, sugar, butter and salt, pepper, allspice, cloves.
Bring to a boil. Reduce heat; cover and simmer for 1-1/4 hours. In a small bowl, combine cornstarch and cold water until smooth; stir in cabbage mixture. Bring to a boil; cook and stir for 1-2 minutes or until thickened.
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