And now, a word from our sponsor.

Since we're going to be talking about some difficult and potentially divisive church topics, I think we should tackle one of the elephants in the room right up front.

Yes, I'm talking about Jell-O.

Did you think it was going to be women and the priesthood? That's what all the other Mormon blogs are talking about, so I decided to provide a little break. Don't worry, we've got time. I'm pretty sure we'll get to it before it gets resolved...just a hunch.

As a kid growing up Mormon, I was a victim of Jell-O terrorism. I think we all were. Don't get me wrong -- it's not that I don't like Jell-O. I mean, it is basically a dessert that you get to eat right along with your meatloaf. And then you still get to have real dessert after! What's not to like about that? In fact, at my house Sunday dinner preparation always included making enough whipped cream for the main course (Jell-O + whatever-else-it-was) and the dessert. Incidentally, we whipped our cream with an old rotary egg beater. It's not as if electric hand-mixers hadn't been invented, it was the 1970's! I think my parents were probably trying to teach us to work, which was admirable, right? Or maybe they were just resistant to new-fangled technology -- sort of like the way I kept my flip-phone for about 6 years after it became a relic (while my kids rolled their eyes...well, partly just to make them). Anyway, I don't think any of my friends even owned a rotary beater, so there was a little resentment. Not the only thing that made me feel like an outsider, by the way. Most of them probably didn't eat Jell-O six days a week either, but I digress.

The problem with Jell-O was that people could do terrible things to it. People you otherwise love and trust. And sometimes they would then abuse their position of authority and make you take 3 more bites before you could go play. And Jell-O-gone-wrong can make you gag.

I'm not sure how Mormons and Jell-O became so entangled. I've spent a lot of time perusing magazines from the 1930's-1950's, so I know that it became popular as a thrifty dessert with show-off potential. A package of Jell-O and the right mold can give you something pretty eye-catching for the ward dinner buffet table, and if you have a can of fruit cocktail in your pantry, you can even make it on Sunday without having to go to the store. I can see how it got started. I'm just not sure why it was allowed to thrive.

My mother's relationship with Jell-O is particularly troubling. It remains a beloved dinnertime staple in her home, yet she lacks the patience to make it correctly. You know, you have to stir it for awhile...until your spoon no longer crunches when you scrape the side of the bowl. Otherwise, the undissolved gelatin collects along the bottom and becomes a substance very much like the sole of a giant red clown-shoe. You can't see it but when you put it in your mouth, you know it's there immediately. You just don't know what to do with it. It's hard to spit out Jell-O discreetly. But it's also scientifically impossible to gag and swallow at the same time. A table-manners conundrum. The kind that can get you sent to your room.

Unfortunately, her misunderstanding of the mechanics of Jell-O is not limited to its production. My brother missed dinner plenty of times when we were young as a result of ball practice of one kind or another, so my mother would put a plate in the oven for him on warm. With the Jell-O on it. We laughed together over many late servings of casserole adrift in a sea of sweet red syrup. Well, to be honest, he didn't always laugh. Because you might think that kind of thing would be a one-time mistake. But then that would be assuming it was a mistake.

My mom's a highly accomplished woman. But I have a theory that people didn't evolve to grow tastebuds until the 1960's and even then some never managed to get fully retrofitted. A lot of people of her generation didn't really understand Jell-O. For instance, they were confused by its colors and its association with other foods. The fact that a thing is green (celery, onions, olives, etc.) does not mean that it "matches" green Jell-O. Jell-O is not wallpaper. No matter how pretty it looks on the table, it is still required to earn its place in the meal by being edible. I know some otherwise sane people who don't mind carrots in their orange Jell-O, and I don't mean to insult them. But I just don't think vegetables belong in dessert. Would you put whipped cream and sprinkles on your green beans? Of course not.

And meat in Jell-O? Some things are too difficult to talk about at all. Even here.

In the interest of full disclosure, I will admit that I do make one Jell-O dish per year. You can take the girl out of Utah, but you can't take the Jell-O out of her recipe file. Something like that. I make a cinnamon applesauce Jell-O that is the guest of honor at my Thanksgiving table. Except to the 2/3 of my children who hate it. To them it is a jiggly insult of a guest who can't seem to get the hint and just keeps showing up. They won't touch the stuff. And as an enlightened, 21st century parent, I don't make them. More for me. It has red hots and lemon juice in it and is the texture of...well, I can see how the texture could be a little troubling. But somehow the way the spicy/tangy intersects with the whipped cream is just...wait...am I one of them? I left Utah decades ago! Look -- I don't use a mold. I swear, I don't even own one. I'm a feminist! (Pssst...let me know if you want the recipe.)

The first time I met my husband's extended family, it was at a dinner party hosted by his grandmother. She served a lime Jell-O concoction with all kinds of crunchy vegetables in it, and a dollop of Miracle Whip on top. I posit that Miracle Whip should by law be limited to sandwich use. I survived, but only because I had worked hard all my life to develop a resistance to the weapons of stealth Jell-O warfare. Not long after, I was invited to dinner at her home again. (Let me pause here to say that despite a few cooking crimes against humanity, she was an amazing woman and I have a great story to tell you about her in a future post.) This time she served a tomato-raspberry Jell-O salad with avocado dressing. It was Christmas, so I understood the green/red thing. She meant well. It was cut into generous squares, each arranged on a pretty plate atop a lettuce leaf. It looked lovely, but I could see I was in deep trouble before I even got to my seat. This grandma had a rule that she wouldn't clear your plate until you cleaned your plate. It was the ultimate test. It was a make-or-break situation, and I've never forgotten it. If I close my eyes, I can conjure the taste to this day. Raspberry...but with the hidden surprise of...canned tomatoes?!

In a strange way, it was probably exactly the moment at which I knew -- I'd found home.

-S.