I'm on the way to Maui with my mom…Dad and Mom usually go down together but Dad is working this week and so asked if I would “fly down with my mother,” as if, having successfully raised two children, created an immaculate home, held down a variety of jobs, and has taken care of everyone else including my father for many years, my mother were suddenly rendered incapable of traveling alone. But of course I agreed-who turns down Hawaii in February?
We are flying Air Canada. This is by far the most expensive flight I’ve ever taken to Maui, and it’s also been the least pleasant. The plane isn’t crowded-there are empty seats everywhere, so overcrowding à la Air Transat, my carrier of “choice” to London, isn’t the problem. But the plane is dirty and a little decrepit, and of course the Air Canada staff are just oozing buckets of charm to make up for it.
Air Canada long ago stopped offering hot meal service on their Maui runs, which are about 6 hours in duration. However, they do offer a “café” style snack, which in our case consisted of a shrink-wrapped Quizno’s Chicken Caesar or Prime Rib sandwich, 630 calories per sandwich, a can of Pringles, and a chocolate bar. Of course, since I’m off bread, processed meats, all sauces and garnishes, sugar, salt, and just about everything else edible, I had come prepared with my own salad and grilled chicken. So my mom was very surprised when I announced I would be having a Chicken Caesar sandwich. I was adamant that I was getting what we paid for, and not cutting Air Canada an inch of slack. I figured $1200 entitled me to a sandwich, even if I wouldn’t eat it. Ditto the chocolate bar and Pringles. I plan on taking them home and adding them to the stash of chocolate and goodies that I am hoarding…another unfortunate side effect of this super-diet: in addition to compulsively baking things I can’t eat, I also hoard food which I don’t eat, just to look at. It gives me a sense of satisfaction to open my freezer and stare grandly at all the Hedgehogs, Toblerone bars and various treats that people have given me in the past few months which I cannot eat. Sick, I know, but there you have it.
We are sitting in Row 33, near the back of the plane. We waited and waited for the little meal cart to reach us, craning our necks to see what the people in front of us were getting and to muse on our choices. Finally the attendant wheeled directly beside my seat, put her step-brake on, and went into the back of the plane to grab more drinks. My mom and I stared at the open cart, with its row upon row of ciabatta goodness staring at me, and at the open box of “Turbo Sticks,” those little honey-mustard sesame crunchy thingies (also not Dani-friendly). I ultra casually reached forward and grabbed a sandwich and several bags of the Turbo Sticks and put it behind my back. My mother immediately cracked up.
“What are you doing?” she said between fits of giggles. “Nothing,” I said nonchalantly. “But they didn’t have any pillows and my back is sore.” In fact, the ciabatta-pillow did just the trick for my lower back pain. The attendant came back and we chose our sandwiches-I happily took another one. I considered the first one to be in lieu of a pillow, essential to my comfort, and not really a food choice.
“You can eat this at the beach tomorrow,” I said to my mom happily, leaning back. She was at this point choking with laughter.
The attendant started to move on, without giving us our Pringles (apparently there was another option of a bag of cashews-310 calories a bag) OR our chocolate bar.
“Excuse me,” I said loudly. “I’d like my Pringles or nuts.”
“We don’t have any left,” she said, and started to move on.
“I think that trolley in the other aisle has some,” I said firmly. “My mother would like some nuts.” (my mother, of course, had expressed no such wish, but continued to laugh heartily at my display).
The attendant shot me an icy look, turned on her heel, and went and foraged in the other trolley, returning to dump a bag of cashews in my lap rudely.
“There aren’t any more than that,” she said. She quickly kicked the brake on her cart and reversed out of my sight. I happily put the cashews in my carry-on along with my sandwich (my ciabatta-pillow firmly in place). “I’ll eat them someday,” I said to Snorty McGiggles in the seat beside me, “but keep it down wilya? You’re going to blow this for both of us.”
The next attendant in line was very friendly and offered us (gasp!) an entire can of Diet Coke each. She was very nice and so I broached the subject that everyone was hoping I wouldn’t.
“So, I thought we got a chocolate bar and some Pringles,” I said. “How can you just have run out…Jan?” I said, taking a quick glance at her nametag.
“I know,” she said, acting disgusted. She looked left and right, then leaned in and in a conspiratorial tone lamented on the state of things, that the plane wasn’t even FULL and here this crew had run out of food. She said this wasn’t a “run” she customarily did and felt that this team had some “kinks” it had to iron out. I clucked sympathetically and shook my head. I had obviously hit a nerve with ol’ Jan or had tapped into some existing dissension amongst the flight crew. At this point my mother was almost peeing her pants.
“Tell you what,” Jan said. “If I find anything in the back, I will put you first on my list.”
“That would be great, Jan,” I said sweetly. “Thank yoooou.”
About 10 minutes later, Jan sidled up the aisle with a cardboard box that she had covered with a blanket. She looked to see if anyone was watching, then leaned in close to my mother and I.
“OK,” she whispered urgently. “I broke into the stuff for the return flight, and I found 2 chocolate bars and a can of Pringles. I’m going to give one chocolate bar to a little boy up front who was crying, but I brought you one of each. Just-keep it hidden! Keep it on the down-low!” Yes, the flight attendant, a white forty something woman wearing a red banana clip in her hair, hissed at me to “keep it on the down-low.” I nodded vigorously in assent.
She surreptitiously lifted the blanket, and slid a can of Pringles and a Dairy Milk into my lap, which I immediately covered casually with my jacket, then slid into the carry-on of stolen goodies when the coast was clear, as my mother cackled. She was laughing so hard she nearly choked on her Turbo Sticks.
“Stick with me Ma,” I said cheerfully as I patted her on the back. “Just stick with me.”
Mom is sleeping now with her head against the window, and I’m plotting how I’ll steal an entire six-pack of Diet Coke from the canteen on my next trip to the loo at the back of the plane. Who says an Air Canada flight isn’t worth the fare?
