Dutch Treat

My friend, Barb, was leaning dangerously close to a small pile of olives I’d picked off my salad. I cocked an eyebrow across the table at her son who shook his head sadly.
         “One time she asked for a doggie bag for the onions I didn’t put on my hamburger. It’s a Dutch thing.”

A Dutch Thing?   I don’t get it.

First, I had to ask someone where Dutch people come from. Deutschland comes to mind, but that’s actually German for Germany. It’s the Netherlands. I guess they didn’t want to be called Nethers because that means “lowest”. My grandmother always called her potty-parts, her “nether regions”. Nanny was a little off – or maybe she had a bad experience with a date who made her pay half and she’s been politely calling him an ass ever since.

So Dutch people are FROM the Nether…um…Lands and, for some reason I can’t seem to get a straight answer on, CAME to Michigan. They must have had some stroke with Immigration because they all seemed to have skipped the Renaming Line at Ellis Island. Those crafty Calvinists made it through with all the Van’s and Der’s and Sma’s intact. And way more than their fare share of unnecessary vowels and extraneous consonants. They’re kinda showing off, I think. Vandersmithsma? Oeltjenbruns?

Actually this abundance of alphabet is incongruously extravagant for Dutch people. (not unlike that sentence…) If I may generalize, and I love to, Dutch people are notoriously frugal. Like, really-really.

My husband wore Wonder Bread bags on his feet to keep them dry in his boots. I almost didn’t believe that because I know his mother would never buy Wonder bread when the store brand was cheaper.

I once caught her sifting through the trash for the Ziploc bags I had tossed. I saw them later propped open and upside down in the dish drain.

In the summer, we conspire to get her out of the cottage so we can purge the fridge of tiny half servings of week-old zucchini.

These are pretty small examples. I hope y’all will blow up the comment section with your own family’s legacy of frugality.

I have to tell ya, that isn’t how we do things down South. The only thing passed down is the silver baby rattle and a nice mink mouton. If you got it, you flaunt it. If you don’t, you better, by god, fake it. “Fake it ‘til you make it” This means big cars, big houses, big diamonds. You gotta keep your hair, heels and hooters nice and high. And all that doesn’t come cheap.

We do so love the excess. Obviously, ole Anita has had to tone it down a smidge. Nosebleed heels are gathering dust.  Big, fat gaudy rings don’t fit under my gloves. Sad, really. I did get some fake leopard leg warmers off eBay the other day. That should cause a stir.

In the meantime, I need to get ready for dinner. (i.e. put on my Dressy Birkenstocks) We’re going with some friends we met up here. They said they want to go Dutch. In Dallas, that means we would split the check. Turns out, here, it means it’s our treat.

Anita Dawgeebagg