July 7, 2000

It’s not often that I ask my husband for his assistance in taking something out to the car for me, and when I do, I remember why it’s not often. The problem is, we’re working at cross purposes. My goal is to get the stuff out there without breaking or spilling it while Mel’s idea is to carry it all in one trip and in record time.

He juggles things, hold them under his chin, between his teeth, tucks them under his arm, balances them on his head—whatever—to get the job done. Then he grunts for me to clear the aisles and open doors for him, whereas I consider these obstacles before I’m burdened down with all the stuff.

“Now tell me, how do you think that is going to stay up there?” is the question I always ask when he plops a simmering casserole right on top of the little hump in the front floorboard and shoots out of the driveway.

By now, he knows I’ll grab for it and hold it. Here again, we’re at odds. I just want to get the food safely to the function while he wants to be the first one there so he can park in the spot nearest to the front door.

Getting a dish to the car is only half of it. With Mel at the wheel, getting it there all in one piece or without redecorating the car’s interior is the next trick. It’s a challenge keeping chili from sloshing out of a crockpot with Mel’s sudden stops, swerves, sharp turns, and unannounced decisions to take a cross-country “shortcut” on a bumpy gravel road. It’s even harder to hold it all together when he hits a cattle guard or pothole going 50 m.p.h.

Back in the days when we carted food to school for bake sales or ball games, it was all I could do to keep the top layer of a cake from sliding off while bouncing across Bosque County in Ol’ Green. I soon learned about the only thing that’s foolproof is Rice Krispie Treats, but it’s scary to think what might be stuck to them by the time you get there.

Then there’s crumbs everywhere when you drop a platter of fried chicken and odors that linger for weeks following a major spill. Mel’s philosophy is simple, “I wouldn’t worry about it. The ants’ll clean it up.”

I’ve experienced lots of burns, bruises and stains over the years while trying to hold hot containers of food in place between my feet or in my lap enroute to a family reunion or church social. When I complain, Mel says I need to take the lemons life hands me and make lemonade.

“Why don’t they build cars with a special place for transporting food?” I argued. “Car makers could build in a couple of consoles—one for hot and one for cold food. Then somebody could design and sell a line of pots, pans and dishes to fit...Now that’s an idea. Maybe we ought to do it...”

“Now yore on the right track. I been tellin’ you ’stead o’ bellyachin’ ’bout problems, look for ways to capitalize on ’em,” Mel chirped. “Jist thank. If you’d been payin’ any attention at’all, you mighta been the one ’at invented the Pineapple Upside Down Cake an’ today, you’d have you a chauffeur ’at follers orders!”