It’s not a bagel, I told myself. It’s just oddly shaped toast. Don’t think about real bagels. It was a kind gesture. Appreciate it.
I said that to myself every morning the first time I visited my in-laws in Kansas. My husband, who after 4 years of living in New Jersey finally understands what I mean when I say “bagel,” had suggested to his mother that she didn’t have to buy bagels for the Jersey girl. That really, I would be perfectly happy with bread. Even plain old white bread. But my mother-in-law is as strong-willed as she is kind, so she bought me bagels at the grocery store. The kind that come pre-sliced and in plastic wrapping – the only kind there is at the average rural Kansas supermarket.
Which anyone raised in Jersey or New York will tell you isn’t a real bagel at all.
I ate them anyway, a smile pasted on my face. Meanwhile I thought snobby East Coast thoughts about bagels, pizza and art museums. I had lived in Kansas City for 9 years, but after moving back to NJ I forgot everything I had learned in the Midwest. And my husband would be quick to tell you that “the city” (as in Kansas City) was a far cry from the small rural communities my in-laws have lived in their entire lives. You can actually get a decent bagel in Kansas City, for example.
Anyway, visiting my in-laws for a week was tough for me. When we’d lived in KC, we’d visit for an afternoon and then return to what I called “civilization.” Flying out from NJ was a different ball game. There was no civilization. My in-laws do not have internet access. Or city water (this means that it is indeed possible to run out of water and wait until my father-in-law hauls some more from the well). They do have an extremely peaceful deck, though.
I was relieved when they came to visit us the next time. I planned a dinner out at a local barbecue joint because I knew they liked barbecue (it’s a requirement for being a Kansas native, I think). After dinner, my mother-in-law thanked us for dinner and chuckled about the “east coast” barbecue. “But, but, it’s supposed to be authentic Kansas City barbecue!” I sputtered. Not being a Kansas native, I don’t really know anything about barbecue. I just like how it smells. I looked at my husband.
He shook his head. New Jersey had failed on the barbecue front. And my mother-in-law had been honest enough to point it out while still being gracious about the dinner. Something I had to master before I was forced to eat any more Kansas bagels.
This is an original post for Jersey Moms Blog by Triplezmom, a.k.a JerseyGirl89.
Photo credit given to Always Hungry NY.
Good story, TripleZ! I am totally with you on the bagel thing. For the entire 20 years I lived on the West Coast, I insisted that what you get there cannot be called bagels, just round bread. So glad to be back in the land of true bagel happiness!