So I have been in a bit of a dinner rut lately. I would say going on about.....5 months. I even had a pj party for the Girl Scout troop over winter break and I completely forgot to have any real food for the adults. All I served was dinosaur shaped chicken nuggets, pancakes, and mimosas. After my recent post of burned baked cookies (which were made from refrigerated Pillsbury dough) I hit a new low. Tonight I decided to turn the tide and put forth at least a tiny bit more effort into our evening cuisine. I bought pork chops, not my husband's favorite, but I figured part of the problem is that we are burned out on dry chicken breasts and mystery ground something in tacos, chili and spaghetti. All of which appear weekly on the McGurk Menu.
The pork chops were coated in panko Italian breadcrumbs so at least they looked spectacular. My breading always falls off. This stuff is like the gorilla glue of breading. I took the Dale Evans mash potatoes out of their black plastic container and heated for 4 minutes in the microwave in an earthenware dish and they were predictably far more delicious and less messy then me peeling, boiling and creating an inferior if less sodium filled product. Last but not least, I actually made a salad; from scratch.
I put it all on the table family style. We sat down at the same time and I felt quite pleased by the Norman Rockwell-esk scene I had created. Of course this was short lived. I cut into the chops and there it was, an unmistakable hint of pink. Shit. The MacDaddy of all cooking sins. I could hear Gordon Ramsey in my ear, "These pork chops are RAW!!!! Close the restaurant before you send all your patrons to the hospital." These were the very thin chops and there are some that just cook pink. I had cooked the hell out of these because John is very picky about not eating anything rare. I waited to see if he would send the plate back. Whew, it slid by. Hopefully we will all be alive tomorrow. Even if we get sick, it will not be blamed on the chops. It will be blamed on the salad.
I admit, I am lazy about putting utensils in the salad. Before kids, John and I always grabbed with our fingers straight out of the bowl. I sort of thought maybe I should look for the prongs but got side-tracked, sat down and promptly forgot. John got his helping, Lauren got her helping, Helen got hers and finally me. I just bought some Green Goddess dressing and couldn't wait to enjoy. I was about 4 or 5 bites in when Helen, who was late to the table because she was taking a dump, says, "I got poo on my hand in the bathroom. It was so gross." "Helen," I say, "the time to disclose that information is not after you have taken said hand and rolled it around the entire salad picking out all the bell peppers." It was then the grand inquisition began. With eyes burrowing into her skull from both John and I, "DID YOU WASH YOUR HANDS!!! WITH SOAP!!! THROUGH THE ALPHABET TWICE!!!! WE ARE SERIOUS, YOU BETTER NOT BE LYING!!!" John, big help that he is, "That is exactly why I take my portion first, before anyone contaminates anything." Thank you honey. Thank you for that. I am normally just sitting down to the table when you are halfway done. You know those rumors about cooks spitting in the food....not that I ever would...but it is not bad to make them wonder occasionally.
Dinner deteriorated after that. John and I finished and started clearing our portion of the table. The snails stay at the table picking, with prongs that have magically appeared. Helen is now feeding herself with the salad prongs and is slithering under the table like her bones are either non-existant or backwards. Their manners are truly atrocious. I threaten etiquette school like I always do. "Noooo, Mom, not that!!! Anything but that!!!" John looks at me, "You know, this was my snooty Grandmother's job when I was growing up. She was in charge of our manners." "My God John you are right. Somehow we have to figure out how to resurrect Poochie." "Yes," says John, "but if that doesn't work, the closest thing we have to a snooty grandma now is your Mom. She is in charge of their manners." I start to comment because of course this is brilliant. But before I can say anything. Lauren dies laughing and says "Yeah Mom, then when you get old, you will be the snooty Grandma and it will be your job."
And that is where our dinner story ends. The snails have now turned sufficiently pruney in the tub. I need to get them out and to bed so I can spend hours pinning marvelous sounding recipes on pintrest, only to serve fish sticks and rice tomorrow night. The one thing I will change, we won't have left over salad. I will be serving canned green beans from the pot. On the stove. That only a spoon will touch.
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My mother, your grandmother, always put forth a lot of effort to make really nice meals at supper time. It was sort of lost on the rest of the family. We were mostly interested something to fill us up. For example, my father's breakfast and lunch consisted of 6 hard boiled eggs and bacon thins for more than 30 years (this was probably the reason he had a triple bypass). We did not spend the money on food in those days that people do now. My mother was very thrifty. She would was and reuse tinfoil. My great uncle owned a slaughter house nearby. We would get the cuts his customers did not want....liver, brains, tongue, sweet breads. These were often the fare for Sunday's meals. I do not remember any of us telling her that she her we enjoyed the meal or complementing her efforts. She never slacked off. I think that the reason was that she took pride in what she did, even if it was not confirmed by the rest of the family. I regret that.
ReplyDeleteDad, I think every Mom cooks to a less then appreciative audience. Maybe that is why Margaret always praised Mom's meals so much. Bottom line, I don't think she ever felt like you were an unappreciative son. I saw how she lit up when you were around, she probably knew there is only so much you can do with liver, brains and tongue. Kinda like today's boneless, skinless chicken breast.
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