When my brother Daniel was about three or four years old, his favorite word was "fatness." He would bounce around the house chirping "fatness fatness fatness." It was cute, and although it wasn't the most classy of words, at least he wasn't eating dirt anymore.
Around that time, we had the missionaries over for dinner. The elders in our ward at that time were very ... zaftig, to put it in German. Both of them were easily over three hundred pounds and very friendly fellows.
So what does my little brother start to say as we all sit down to eat? "Fatness fatness fatness." Those poor elders were so gracious and didn't say anything while my mother almost died from embarrassment ... or else from the exertion of struggling not to laugh.
When I was young, I thought the missionaries were so old and wise and wonderful. When I was a teenager, I thought they were cute and dreamy. The mantle, you know. Like Elder Wolverton, sigh. I remember seeing him and his companion while I was out jogging one afternoon, and I tried to look less sweaty and red-faced and fuzzy-haired than I was, and I waved and said, "Hi elders!" in my best "innocent but kind of flirty but not scandalous but still kind of flirty and maybe you'll remember me when you get home and we'll meet at BYU and get married" voice. Elder Wolverton was transferred soon thereafter, and I held myself personally responsible because I'd been such a Delilah.
|Not Elder Wolverton, but my handsome hubby Nathan with his companion, Elder Fretas|
When I was in college, missionaries were my friends and peers. They'd lost some of their luster because I knew what goofs they'd been freshman year, but I felt more connected to my black-coated brethren because they were the same age as me.
Now that most missionaries are younger than my little sister, however, things have changed. They are still wonderful, devoted, and hardworking, yes, but they are also total dweebs. They are so young! Their suits are loose, they bathe in the fountain of youth that is Clearasil, and they eat canned beans for dinner when no members are available to feed them. I could have babysat some of them! Despite it all, though, I am amazed at how great they are at their job. No one else could do it like they do. I love missionaries, and I miss seeing them all over the place in Provo and honking and startling them to show my love.
This week, Nathan and I had the missionaries in our ward over for dinner. Upon Nathan's suggestion, I asked them if there was anything they were sick of being served-they said chicken. Not pot roast or chili or some specific dish--they were sick of chicken. And they're serving in Texas, where I thought the only kinds of meat people ate were rare and medium rare.
I decided to make fish--tilapia. We only had two frozen fillets left, however, so I had to buy more. But my shabby neighborhood Kroger didn't have any, and I was too lazy to come up with something completely different, so I sprang for the frozen salmon ... classy.
Anyway, it was nice and they were so grateful for the salmon (while I was wishing they were eating something cheaper, like chicken), but then I decided to ask them if they had girls writing them. And one of them did, poor boy, and she hasn't written him for four months.
Elder About to be Dear Johne'd: I'm just not sure if I did something wrong, because she won't write me back! (translation: I know I did nothing wrong, I'm a missionary, I'm just desperately hoping this means anything but that I'm about to be Dear John'ed)
Us: Yeah, she's definitely dating someone else, and she's afraid to tell you.
Elder ATBDJ'ed: (looks sadly at his salmon, even though it was delicious with the dill aioli I made) Oh.
And then we had some store-bought apple pie with ice cream, and it was cute when the junior companion asked Elder ATBDJ'ed if he was allowed to have seconds.
Now I'm thinking about when this little guy will be a missionary. It makes me want to feed the missionaries who come to our house filet mignon and homemade apple pie, because I hope the members in Iran (Graham will be instrumental in opening that mission, I think), will take great care of my son while he is serving the Lord.
And because this is my trendy blog, I have declared today and all following Fridays "Foodie Friday," even though I don't have the requisite skill, pride, or Viking range to be a true foodie. Mostly I just need to restrict myself to one day a week to post about food-related topics.
Here is the recipe for my Dill Aioli:
Combine in small bowl:
-1/4 cup mayonnaise
-1/2 cup sour cream (I'm going to try plain lowfat yogurt next time to be healthier-just call me Gwyneth Paltrow!)
-1/8 teaspoon garlic powder
-1 teaspoon fresh lemon juice (fresh? psh)
-2 tablespoons chopped fresh dill (again, fresh? Use 2 teaspoons of dried dill and save yourself about five dollars)
I got this recipe off allrecipes.com, but they just called it dill sauce, which is boring when you have every right to call it aioli because it has garlic and mayonnaise! Wikipedia told me this. Better name = better recipe.