Basket Case

In memoriam of erstwhile celebration: GiaB writing prompt #2–7 celebrations

My mother’s taste in décor was unremittingly rustic. Earth tones only; whites and brights need not apply.

Wood of all colors was welcomed, especially if suffering severe distress.

Also accepted was old-time red-clay brick.

I’d always walked on the bright side of the paint chip aisle as Mom perused the neutrals.

We’d meet briefly by the coral reef; she scanned terracottas whilst I sought vibrant creatures that lay beneath my sea of aquamarine.

Mom had a penchant for wicker baskets. One, containing seashells, tempted my demented dad one morning.

Upon spying the crunchy mélange of scallop, snail, and clam casings, Dad defected from his usual bowl of Wheaties.

He fetched a spoon and proceeded to pour on a pint of milk to moisten the morsels. Most of the milk wickered its way down to the newly cleaned rug.

It took me years to realize — not to disparage Mom’s elegant taste —that I cannot abide wicker baskets.

To get rid of those I‘d thoughtlessly accumulated, I put a moratorium on the purchase of gift bags until the last of the wicker contingent had wended its way to a more welcoming home.

In the years after I’d divested myself of the collection, my distaste for baskets naturally dissipated; in their absence, I had no occasion to dislike them.

On December 22, 2011, my dormant negativity underwent a startling polar shift.

My association of baskets with the unappealing accoutrements of rustic décor was transformed into one of celebration of a treasured friendship.

On that momentous occasion, I found on my doorstep a wickered offering over-filled with my favorite treats. Juicy Fruit and Big Red gum. Almond Joy bars and Lindt truffles. Paul Newman’s Sockarooni sauce.

There were two pairs of earrings made from jigsaw puzzle pieces, replacements for ones I’d lost; Michael had craftily tracked down the crafter.

The basket was accessorized with items pertaining to our favorite funny-only-to-us-jokes; one featured a plastic “spork,” one a “two-for-$10” tag from Stop & Shop.

Topping off the artful display was a photo of my granddog, Puplet, who’d oft accompany us on multi-mile meanderings.

Puplet — though having since devolved from stroller to lounger — remains robust.

He’s outlived, by nine years, the friendship between Michael and me.

On June 13, 2012, simmering resentment — we’d contributed equal parts to the pot — boiled over.

That end-date was decreed retrospectively, five years thereafter, for by the end of the summer of 2012 we’d repaired our rift.

The celebration of our friendship continued whilst we eked it out for five more years.

2012: Same gum, same candy, same sauce. Absent were its prior whimsical, meaningful touches; a red bow replaced the spork, a green one replaced the price tag. No photographic garnishes.

2013: same contents, minus the bows.

2014: conversion — praise the Lord! — from basket to bag.

2015: smaller bag; hold the sauce.

2016: bar of Lindt café-au-lait; hold the bag.

2017: nothing.

I knew there’d be none; the friendship had been officially declared dead on December 18th, having suffered irreversible damage over the five years preceding.

I never told Michael that in the five years that followed the glorious gift of 2011 I quickly gave away not only the baskets, but their contents.

Though perhaps I’d have eventually tired of the treats regardless, my zest faded in tandem with the friendship.

I gave up Juicy Fruit, switching to Trident Tropical. I swapped Big Red for Orbit Cinnamon. I traded up from Almond Joys to Cashew Delights, traded down from Lindt Milk to Dove Dark.

As to Sockarooni: Paul Newman is dead.

Paul’s sauce has survived him; regardless, I’ve moved on, worshipfully, to Victoria’s marinara — fiercely guarded in stockpile.

Speaking of the Queen, in 2017, shortly before our friendship imploded, I presented a jar of her royal ragù to Michael, who found it indistinguishable from the store-brand.

I was floored at the time, but upon reflection I find it understandable.

It’s to be expected that Michael’s once-refined palate flat-lined in synch with our friendship.

Paul, alas, is dead. Long live Victoria.