Garden Fresh!

My sister Nicole (Jill) with her doll
and me in my suit (1967ish)

My godmother was crazy, or so my parents tell me. I have no idea what ever happened to her, but I do know none of my siblings have godparents. Is this relevant to my story? I am not sure, but I suspect somehow it is, given what happened one lovely day in her garden.

My parents took Nicole (then Jill) and I to visit one afternoon. Nicole was too little, but I was a "big girl" and permitted to play outside with my godsister. We found our way to a huge vegetable garden and plunked ourselves down in the dirt. It was the mother-lode of food joy for me. Forget the sweet carrots. Skip the juicy cucumbers. From an early age I wanted onions, hot peppers, and horseradish. And here, in this garden, were fat, fresh onions. I wanted those.

While I sat munching on the onions still covered in rich dark crumbles of dirt, my friend was plucking fava beans fresh from the bush. After the onions I moved on to the fava beans. Clearly my friend's recommendations had swayed me. This was a good day for me. That didn't last, but you knew it wouldn't. We left my godmother's house. Next stop, the emergency room. I vaguely remember the hallway and someone rushing about. Stomach pump? Too late. The food was past my stomach. The only thing left was to take me home.

The worry was favism, or G6PD deficiency. Untreated and severe enough it leads to coma or death. It is a common deficiency in some parts of the world and is believed to protect against malaria, however there is one very specific food that must be avoided at all costs, fava beans (thus the name). My mother has G6PD as does my brother to some degree, but neither I, nor my sisters, have this (we may be carriers of course).

With death averted my parents were then free to quarantine me in my room. The favas were no longer an issue, but those onions were my downfall. According to my father the stench was unbearable. I took my meals on a folding TV tray for what seemed like days and days. Did any of this stop me? Nope. Less than a year later I was standing next to an Amish farmer just waiting for a taste of the fresh horseradish he was grating.