I was sitting in the living room, watching television, and trying to learn what I could about how cream-filled snack cakes are made.
I already confessed to having a penchant for learning about things that have little importance in the day-to-day course of life, and nothing has changed; I have recently developed an addiction to the program "How It's Made," on The Discovery Channel. I now know how hydroponic lettuce is grown, and what goes in to making graphite fly rods. The downside is, I have lost all interest in eating bacon; now that I've seen how it's made, and where it comes from, the mystery of its delicious, smoky flavor has been removed, and I am no longer interested. Ditto that for sausage.
I was watching a robotic arm squirt filling into the baked cakes when an odd noise invaded my television-induced coma. It was the cabinet doors in the kitchen opening and closing, punctuated by a giggle after each door slam. I reacted as I always do when interrupted; with more than a little irritation.
"Who is that!?" I demanded.
"It's me, Jill."
Another cabinet door closed, and I heard the refrigerator open.
"Well, what the heck are you doin'?"
More giggling.
"Looking."
"For what?"
She appeared in my line of vision, a wry smile on her face.
"Mom, are we in trouble?"
"What do you mean? What kind of trouble?"
"Financial."
"Are you serious? We're always in financial trouble. It's a lifestyle, and it's also an epidemic. Pretty soon there'll be a new section in the newspaper 'Scraping-By Lifestyles.' Or a new program on television called 'Lifestyles of the Poor and Down-Trodden,' but nobody will watch it because it'll be too depressing. Why do you ask?"
"Generics," she replied.
"Huh?"
"Generics! The kitchen is full of them. Come look."
The cakes were being packaged, and a commercial was coming on, so I got up with a sigh.
"I want you to look ..." she said, opening the cabinet over the coffee maker, "there's not a name brand one to be seen."
She held up a box of macaroni and cheese. "Generic," she said. Then came a box of spaghetti noodles. "Great Value brand," she said. "Even the spaghetti sauce has a plain label and no pictures of an appetizing plate of spaghetti, just words."
"Look," I said, "you pay for those pretty pictures. I know what a plate of spaghetti looks like, I don't need a picture. Besides, I probably saved $5 on the makings for that meal by buying generic."
"But, Mom, even the hamburger meat for the meatballs is store brand!"
"So?"
"Look here," she said, opening the refrigerator door. "GRAPE JELLY. No words, no pictures of juicy grapes, just GRAPE JELLY. The same with the ketchup, the mustard, even the hazelnut coffee creamer."
"And?"
"I just find it odd that there's not any name brands. Nothing. Is there no product that can't be bought in a generic form?"
"I certainly hope not."
"We have generic peanut butter, generic cereal, and we even have generic Jello. We have store brand milk, eggs, and breakfast sausage."
"Well, I won't be buying that anymore, now that I know how it's made," I murmured.
"We have generic salad dressing, generic bar-b-cue sauce, generic steak sauce and cream cheese and margarine. The only thing in here with a name brand on it is your beer."
"You just never mind about that! I work hard, and have few pleasures, and I'm not giving up my ..."
"Mom! I'm just saying that aside from your beer, we don't have a single name brand in this kitchen."
"Well, it's always been that way. You get more for your money when you buy generic."
"Does anyone make generic beer?" she challenged, a twinkle in her eye.
"Not if they're smart," I replied tersely. "Look, life is expensive. What with the price of gas and taxes and so on, a person has to cut corners where they can."
"Okay." Said in a tone that implied that she thought I was a stingy miser.
"Hey, when you want to start buying the groceries you can buy anything you want. You can fill your cart with all the luscious graphic arts your little heart desires." I was getting defensive and heated. "You can buy caviar and gourmet popping corn and fancy mustard. You have my blessings."
"Mom, I'm not complaining. I just thought it was kinda funny."
"Well, I guess it is, in a twisted sort of way," I admitted, grinning, as she took a box of generic snack cakes off the top of the refrigerator.
"I wonder if these are any good ..." she muttered, studying the package.
"I don't know," I amitted, "but I can tell you how they're made."
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