When it comes to cooking, some people’ve got it, and some just don’t.
Take my step-daughter’s mother. According to my daughter, her mom makes whipped butter instead of cream (by accident; at least she didn’t add salt instead of sugar) and something about soupy-burnt waffles? I sort of stopped listening so I could focus on not throwing up in my mouth. (Does that make me a bad parent?)
My father-in-law’s idea of a casserole is a box of KD, a can of corn, and perhaps a can of pork and beans. Basically whatever is in the cupboard.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m all for experimentation (although I am a firm believer that if you are going to eat KD, you need to eat it just as it is. Don’t add wieners or extra cheese (especially processed cheese slices!) or anything else you think might make it taste better. It’s not that great to begin with—it’s just a good choice for comfort food around that time of the month. Followed by a Reese Peanut Butter Cup chaser).
When it comes to recipes, I take one of two approaches:
I like to think I get my mad cooking skills from the two most important ladies in my life—my mom and my Nana (who’s no longer with us, but she ran the Riverside Grill in Selkirk, MB for 45-ish years with my grandpa).
Tonight, however, I’m not sure I want my mom’s cooking skills.
While working up in my office, I got a call from my parents alarm company. Apparently their smoke alarm was going off and no one was answering at home, so the company called to let me know what was going on and that the fire trucks had been dispatched.
I’m kind of worried, but not too worried. (This isn’t the first time I’ve received a call about their alarm going off.) First, I decide to call my parents at home. Just in case.
After three or four rings, there’s a loud sizzling sound. I’m wondering if this is a sick joke from their alarm company? And then my mom answers. She’s just a-cookin away in her kitchen. Of course. I know that sound. I know the smell. And I know how smoky the house gets but how amazing everything tastes a few days later when we finally get to eat it.
My mom was making cabbage rolls and meatballs, preparing for Thanksgiving.
And then the fire department came.
My first thought was, “Crap. Dad’s gonna be pissed when he finds out.”
When the firemen arrived, apparently her first words were, “Crap. What’s Peter going to think when he gets home? He’ll be home any minute. Oh, and by the way, I was just cooking. No fires. I’ve got all the windows open to let the smoke out.”
Naturally, when the firemen found out what she was cooking, they invited themselves over for Thanksgiving Dinner (which I’m OK with. There’s going to be so much food. And firemen typically have nice bodies. I can say this because my husband has me watch wrestling with him and that is filled with ripped guys in teeny-tiny trunks. What, does he not expect me to look? Please, it’s so not all about the wrestling for me! I watch it for the “articles.” Yeah, that’s it!)
In the meantime, Mom, you’re a great cook, but as someone who reads the Bible, you should know this:
“Man cannot live on food burnt to a crisp alone.”
Take my step-daughter’s mother. According to my daughter, her mom makes whipped butter instead of cream (by accident; at least she didn’t add salt instead of sugar) and something about soupy-burnt waffles? I sort of stopped listening so I could focus on not throwing up in my mouth. (Does that make me a bad parent?)
My father-in-law’s idea of a casserole is a box of KD, a can of corn, and perhaps a can of pork and beans. Basically whatever is in the cupboard.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m all for experimentation (although I am a firm believer that if you are going to eat KD, you need to eat it just as it is. Don’t add wieners or extra cheese (especially processed cheese slices!) or anything else you think might make it taste better. It’s not that great to begin with—it’s just a good choice for comfort food around that time of the month. Followed by a Reese Peanut Butter Cup chaser).
When it comes to recipes, I take one of two approaches:
- I take a look at the ingredients, get out what they suggest, and just sort of throw everything together, plus a few extras that I think work (and that does work well at times—I have an amazing pasta sauce I make from scratch that’s to die for (although it rarely tastes the same twice…) which is why I sometimes make it around the holidays, bottle it up, and give it away.)
- I follow the recipe to the extreme. Every little thing, I do. In perfect order I might add. Only need a ¼ tsp of something? That’s all you’re gonna get! (unless it’s vanilla extract—I always add more of that because I love the smell so much) I’m like a recipe Nazi (that was an inside joke for my husband. I’m not really a Nazi (even though I’m German and spent my childhood getting called one because my dad came over from there. Man, kids can be cruel)).
I like to think I get my mad cooking skills from the two most important ladies in my life—my mom and my Nana (who’s no longer with us, but she ran the Riverside Grill in Selkirk, MB for 45-ish years with my grandpa).
Tonight, however, I’m not sure I want my mom’s cooking skills.
While working up in my office, I got a call from my parents alarm company. Apparently their smoke alarm was going off and no one was answering at home, so the company called to let me know what was going on and that the fire trucks had been dispatched.
I’m kind of worried, but not too worried. (This isn’t the first time I’ve received a call about their alarm going off.) First, I decide to call my parents at home. Just in case.
After three or four rings, there’s a loud sizzling sound. I’m wondering if this is a sick joke from their alarm company? And then my mom answers. She’s just a-cookin away in her kitchen. Of course. I know that sound. I know the smell. And I know how smoky the house gets but how amazing everything tastes a few days later when we finally get to eat it.
My mom was making cabbage rolls and meatballs, preparing for Thanksgiving.
And then the fire department came.
My first thought was, “Crap. Dad’s gonna be pissed when he finds out.”
When the firemen arrived, apparently her first words were, “Crap. What’s Peter going to think when he gets home? He’ll be home any minute. Oh, and by the way, I was just cooking. No fires. I’ve got all the windows open to let the smoke out.”
Naturally, when the firemen found out what she was cooking, they invited themselves over for Thanksgiving Dinner (which I’m OK with. There’s going to be so much food. And firemen typically have nice bodies. I can say this because my husband has me watch wrestling with him and that is filled with ripped guys in teeny-tiny trunks. What, does he not expect me to look? Please, it’s so not all about the wrestling for me! I watch it for the “articles.” Yeah, that’s it!)
In the meantime, Mom, you’re a great cook, but as someone who reads the Bible, you should know this:
“Man cannot live on food burnt to a crisp alone.”
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