Mollypops or spinach

Food from our childhood — what an important part of growing up. Sunday dinner at Grandma's house in the 1960s was always a treat. Real fried chicken, biscuits from scratch, gravy, mashed potatoes, green beans.
And of course, dessert. Cobblers, banana pudding, strawberry shortcake. Home grown, home canned and homemade are all so fondly remembered.
Fast food? What was that?
There were no drive through windows to grab a hamburger and no pizza delivery. What was pizza?
We loved some food. We made faces at others. Then the absolute worst made us pretend we were sick.
My parents placed at least one bite of the 'worst' on our plates.
And yes, we were reared during the time when we heard the dreaded words.
"You don't leave this table until you clear your plate."
Those words were always heard during the meals that consisted of greens, turnips, spinach, cabbage or hominy.
Though I eventually learned to eat fried squash, fried okra or scrambled eggs, I smothered them in ketchup.
Oh, yes, and liver. (Another ketchup food.) "You have to eat every bite." and perhaps …
"Don't make that face. It will not make any difference."
I was a face maker, and once the face was spotted, there was no pretending that you were suddenly full or just happened to be feeling ill.
My parents watched from that first face until mealtime was over.
We rarely kept snack foods in the house and since we ran around outside most of the time, we were constantly hungry.
The greatest foods were the ones that nature provided — not just the ones we grew in our gardens of summer, but also the ones that grew wild in the woods, in the fields or beside the roads.
Scuppernongs, muscadines, blackberries, wild strawberries, blueberries (huckleberries) and mollypops. Most people have heard of all of the previous except the last one.
That was the name we gave the oblong fruit of the passionflower. As my siblings and I walked from the school bus, we passed the vines growing along the edge of the road.
I think the plants came from seeds that Grandma had planted, and they returned every spring. I had been waiting for a particularly large fruit to turn yellow and sweet and watched it everyday.
"Race you." Jack yelled as he passed Sylvia and me in his usual competitive enthusiasm, lightly tapping each of us on the head with a book.
"I'll catch you!" I returned, knowing fully well that I could not. I just had to say something. I happened to be a very slow runner.
Jack reached MY mollypop first.
"Look what I found. And it's perfect for eating." He began to open the pod and scoop out the oval seeds. I determined later that they resembled clusters of tadpole eggs in a pond.
"You don't even like them that much. You just want it because I want it. Go ahead. Everybody knows that the first one of the season always makes you sick." These last words popped out just as he swallowed the last bite.
"Does not."
"Does too."
Sylvia stayed out of our battle and went on to Grandma's house to start her homework.
Close to suppertime Jack appeared at the table more slowly and less talkative than usual.
Mom believed him when he told her that he was feeling ill, because we were having spaghetti for supper which was his favorite.
I made up the tale about the season's first mollypop making someone ill, but it sure seemed peculiar that he got sick after I said it.
It didn't stop me from eating the first one after that, but I hesitated … just a little before popping the sweet fruit of that mollypop into my mouth.

Debra Leigh Cloer is a member of the Morganton Writer's group, an avid writer, grandmother of five and a lifelong resident of the Oak Hill community. She hasn't had a mollypop in years.