Crass

( Onslow, from the BBC production, Keeping Up Appearances)

Uncouth people drive me nuts. People without manners, or who are so oblivious to social convention that they stand out like a sore thumb--and when this is pointed out, no matter. There is something to be said for propriety, and I would like to say it. (Beware, here comes a harrangue!)

I recall eating lunch with someone a few years ago who continually belched loudly with his mouth open, looking straight at my face to get a response. He was in my home, at my table, eating a meal I had prepared for him. He was a weekly visitor--a relative who frequently found his way to my house because he had no other place to go. There he'd sit, smacking his greasy lips together, belching, laughing with his mouth so wide that one could see half-chewed food inside. He was soon not welcome.

Today I ate lunch with someone who asked if it was acceptable to each quiche with one's hands. I don't know where the parents were during the childrearing years of this child, that this information was somehow overlooked. I was horrified and shot a look like a dagger. I confess, I have no patience with poor table manners, particularly when poor manners are touted as preferable to acceptable etiquette.

(Jethro Bodeen from the "Beverly Hillbillies")

When I left home at the age of 21, I had a basic knowledge of proper table conduct: don't chew with your mouth open' wipe your lips on your napkin before you take a drink so you don't leave mouth prints on the glass; use the salad fork for the first course/salad; don't yawn at the table; cover your mouth if you laugh aloud; don't smack your lips; take your soup from the side of the bowl; don't swish your drink through your teeth to clean them; and don't dunk your bread in your milk. That was a good start for proper table manners in America, 1970.

Our family was given specific instructions in table manners by mother. Many were the agonized expressions we saw cross her face as we slurped our soup or played "Lookie, Lookie!" with our siblings. Elbows on the table were fair game for a jab from my father's fork. Belching was not permitted at the table unless, of course, if was my father's hiccup-type accidental burp (he has been heard belching entire words: "Wheeeeeeateeeena!" or, "Ripity-bip-de-bip!" that caused no end of mirth.)

Of particular concern was the way we interacted with hosts and hostesses when invited out to eat in the homes of other families. We were always to compliment the cook on something: the flavor of the greens, the crispness of the salad, the delicious entre. If the meal was a bust, we were taught to compliment the hostess on the attractiveness of the table, or the colorful meal. Anything--just don't fail to compliment the hosts.

We were once invited to have dinner with an older couple originally from the Ukraine. I don't recall recognizing one thing on my plate that day: bitter, unfamiliar foods do not bode well with children. But we had been taught to eat what was put before us, so we dutifully fell to. As if to add insult to injury, at the end of the meal we were served large mugs of tea, the flavor of which nearly made our lives pass before us. While the three older children grimaced and with watering eyes politely sipped this beverage, the youngest sibling charmed us all into looking out the window for some reason. As we turned in our chairs, he upended the sugar bowl into his tea and stirred vigorously. His tea became as thick as syrrup. The hostess was delighted to see him cheerfully drinking from his mug. It was the only bright spot in that meal, unfortunately.

I complimented our hostess on her beautiful table. My sister told her that she loved how our meal had been served in courses. That left my older brother with the "colorful meal" compliment. But the youngest brother had said nothing yet. We were keenly aware of this as we bundled up to leave the house later in the evening. We were hugged and kissed by these dear old folks as we started out the door. Then came baby brother. Our hostess placed both hands on his shoulders and looked sweetly down at him. He swallowed, and here came his requisite compliment: "Thank you for dinner. I liked the salt!" He said it in such a winsome way that she beamed at him. I don't know if she fully understood the import of what he was saying, but we certainly did. Mother winced and Daddy's eyes started to crinkle at the edges. We kids were mad that he could get away with that for a compliment!

"I like the salt" has become our family's code language to describe dishes or meals that we can hardly tolerate. We still eat everything put before us without complaint. My husband was taught the same thing in the same way. I think it was how things were to be done. So when I was faced with a meal of shrimp quesadillas and warm raisin salad, I turned off my brain and ate the quesadillas and dug around the raisins to eat most of the salad. It was miserable, but that's what propriety dictates.

Therefore, when I serve meals here and kids say things like, "Yuck! Can I have a PBJ?" or "I'm not going to eat this kind of food!" or "Whuffl tha psftch" (mouth too full to talk), I feel the hackles come up rather quickly. Perhaps I'm too close to the Great Depression generation, who impressed on us that we are fortunate to have a choice in what we put on the table. When manners were the only thing that distinguished a lady eating boiled potatoes from a common thug eating boiled potatoes.

I don't know exactly how to develop tolerance for crass behavior over the table. I suppose that I could admonish myself to think of that long table in Heaven at which we shall all dine and be served by the Lord, and not be slurping, burping and laughing with our mouths open. Meanwhile, I hope for grace to model and teach where possible (without becoming exasperated).

Do not kill fly on forehead of friend with ax. (Chinese Proverb)