To entertain my older siblings, I put on an old hat, sunglasses, and wrapped myself in a shawl. Clutching a large, empty purse, I knocked and entered the bedroom my sisters, Mary and Betty, shared. In a high-pitched, whiny voice I announced, “My name is Mrs. Humperditzel, and I’m here to drink a cup of tea with you.” My sisters screamed with laughter and began to ask my alter-ego questions. Mrs. Humperditzel answered in a snooty voice, “Yes, of course I live nearby; in the haymow. I’ll have my tea with lots of sugar!“  

I grew up with several siblings who were much older me. Life had handed me an excellent invitation to be an entertainer, and I took advantage of the opportunity with gusto. My repertoire included several eccentric individuals. Mrs. Humperditzel was an old woman who liked to dress up and make Sunday afternoon visits. Erma Peabody on the other hand was an outgoing woman who did unexpected, outlandish things. My favorite persona was Rosie Spearmint. She was a young girl who lived in the orchard in an apple tree. Her solemn father liked to twirl a button on a string, and his full name was Spearmint Spearmint.

One drought-marred summer afternoon, I took on the persona of a famous mud pie chef. It was so oppressively hot that July day, I didn’t even bother to give him a name. After gathering the ingredients needed to make a mud pie, I gratefully sank down on the grassy lawn in the shade of a backyard tree next to one of Mom’s meticulously tended flower beds. High overhead, the hot July sun glared down on the farm. The dappled shade provided by the young tree gave me scant relief from the scorching summer heat, but I knew that if I stopped moving around and stayed in the shade, I would eventually feel cooler.

I slowly organized my equipment and ingredients on the grass next to where I was sitting. Mom’s old kettle, usually used to carry scraps to the chickens or barn cats, was my mixing bowl. Instead of using a stick to stir, I lifted an old spoon from the kitchen. Mom had used it for so many years that one side of spoon’s bowl was rubbed flat.

I’d put several dry lumps of soil from the cow yard into the kettle. Then, at the well near the barn, I held the kettle under the faucet for water. I gathered dandelion fluff, pretty leaves, small sticks, and gravel stones from the area between the well and my makeshift kitchen. I intended to make a mud pie unlike any mud pie anyone had ever seen.

The cow yard dirt was light brown to start with, but the water quickly brought out its dark brown color and the scent of cow. When the mixture was the consistency of chocolate pudding, I put in the dandelion fluff. Being totally focused on stirring, I failed to notice that clouds had gathered in the sky and covered the sun.

The chef in me decided the mud pie needed more structure, so I added the small twigs.  A humid breeze whipped around me on its way through the farmyard as I mounded the mud pie in the center of the kettle. After using the gravel stones and leaves to decorate the pie, something still seemed to be missing. I glanced over at the flowerbed next to me. Leaning forward, I broke off several Sweet William flowers to trim the mud pie. That was the ingredient I had needed, now I had a masterpiece. It looked perfect.

A flash of lightning and a long roll of thunder made my chef persona disappear. Mom leaned out the back door of the farmhouse and shouted, “Kathy! Come into the house. A storm is moving in!” Surprised by how dark the yard looked this early in the afternoon, I quickly dumped my mud pie into the flowerbed and ran to the house carrying the kettle and spoon.

Storm clouds became darker and darker. The hot, humid air cooled, and a sudden strong breeze made the treetops dance about wildly. Pounding rain quickly followed more flashes of lighting and crashes of thunder. I felt safe and happy inside our cozy farmhouse.

When I remember that afternoon in my childhood, I often wonder if in the following years my mother noticed an uncontrollable surge of dandelions growing in that flowerbed. The name of my persona that afternoon should have been ‘Chef Weed Seed’. Using manure-fueled dirt that was infused with dandelion seeds not only revolted my sisters-as I intended-but surely produced dandelions with blossoms the size of sunflowers.