I AM NO JULIA CHILD

 

  As turkey day approaches and I think about all of the wonderful food that goes with it, I have to admit something to you all. I cannot cook for shit- trust me. Ask my poor family. Now and then I have a bright moment but my failures far outweigh my successes.

  Let’s blame my mother- that is where everything starts, is it not?? She was the master- she could cook anything.  She set the bar too damn high. I remember one year my dad giving her crap about putting ice cream in the oven to make a baked Alaska- she showed him –it was terrific! We did not have a lot of money growing up but the food was always plentiful and fantastic. Except for her New England dinner- it had turnips in it. I still don’t like those bastards.

  I also was never home as a teen. My schedule was- band practice, volleyball practice,  archery practice, dating the band director practice, choir practice, play practice, parties in the boonies practice, etc. I WAS NEVER HOME. Then my mom had to go and get cancer when I was a junior in high school so all cooking training would have ended there anyway. Yeah, let’s keep blaming my poor mother.

  Fast forward a few years and to my move to Colorado. It was the week before the dude ranch opened to guests- thank God- and I was helping the cook with dinner for the staff. She was making spaghetti and I asked her if I should throw the meat into the sauce. She told me yes. What she failed to mention is that I was supposed to cook the meat first. Who knew? It sucked, the guys ate it anyway and I was banished from the kitchen the whole rest of the season. Well played, I think!

  After leaving the dude ranch, I wanted to make some of my grandmother’s bread pudding. This is a cold pudding that is not cooked- weird, I know as it has eggs in it. Well, I got done with the pudding and it was very runny- not at all like hers. So, I called her. She went over the recipe with me- Did you let the eggs get to room temperature? Yes. Did you add the bread- yes.  Did you whip the whipping cream? No. Then, in her sweetest, yet most disgusted voice she says- WHY DO YOU THINK THEY CALL IT WHIPPING CREAM? How in the hell should I know? I never attempted to make it again. I still have the recipe in her handwriting and will never get rid of it, but I will never attempt to do it again.

  A few years after that fiasco I attempted to bake my first turkey. Why would I think there would be body parts inside of the fucking thing that I had to take out? Who does this??? People are sick bastards. They kill them and then stick their parts back inside- is this some kind of ritual? I don’t think if affected the taste much- but who knows. And let’s not talk about the time I baked the ham with the plastic still on it- it kept the ham nice and moist- trust me.

 

 

 

  Then, trying to be the sweet newlywed wife I attempted to make Bob my mother’s red velvet cake. I got  two 8” round pans all ready to go- I cut out the wax paper just as I had seen my mother do, greased and floured the pans, put the paper down in the pans then poured the batter into them. As they cooked, there was a problem arising-haha. All of a sudden there was batter pouring over the top of the pans and into the bottom of the oven. Then it hit me- this was a 3 layer cake- DUMBASS!  After the 2 layers cooked, I attempted to make my mothers’ homemade icing recipe. I did not remember there being huge ass lumps in it. Again, I never attempted to make this again. EVER. But it is still my favorite cake ever in the whole world.

 

 

  The one thing I could make that tasted good to me was my mothers’ potato stuffing. I always have loved it, but after making it for 10 years and realizing I was the only one who would eat it I stopped making it. Then my friend brings over her stuffing one year and my family scarfs it down. What could her magical concoction be made out of, I wondered?  Fucking  Stove Top and cooked sausage. Really people? It took me a good hour to make the home made crap and she walks in with this? Needless to say I have never made my mother’s stuffing again. And since she always cooked enough for the 7^th Fleet   I have not figured out how to make just a little. Oh well.

 

 

  So, my peeps, as you are eating your goodies on turkey day, be grateful you are not at my house and have to politely struggle to eat my food.

 

Happy Thanksgiving to all who all who celebrate!

 

THE GREAT BLACKOUT OF 2004

Okay, so it wasn’t really a great blackout. You probably wouldn’t even be able to call it a rolling brownout. But nonetheless, it was still a traumatic experience for me.

My husband and I arrived home from work at the same time. I thought that I would be the dutiful and ever loving wife and make dinner that evening. So I sauntered into the kitchen and flipped on the light switch – nothing. I called to my husband and told him the electricity was off. He shouted back that the lights in the bedroom were fine. Mystery.

Hubby headed to the electrical panel, figuring one of the circuit breakers had tripped. He came back into the kitchen and said everything was fine, but the kitchen lights still weren’t working. But, on testing, the lights in the living room came on. The mystery grows.

While hubby pondered the problem, I decided to proceed with making dinner, before total darkness settled in. About the time I turned on the oven, the lights in the kitchen came back on. ‘The lights are working,” I informed my husband. “Great job on whatever you did.”

To which he replied, “The lights just went out in here in the living room. What did you do?”

“Nothing, honest!” I proclaimed. So I turned the oven back off. The lights in the kitchen went out and the lights in the living room came back on.

We both agreed that this was totally weird. He thought we should call the power company. I thought we should call an exorcist. For some reason, there are no exorcists listed in the yellow pages of our phone book, so I ended up calling the power company. After pressing one for English, two for electrical problem, three to get set and four to go, the sweet automated voice on the other end took down our address, contact information, account number, heights and weights, hair and eye color, number of children, number and type of pets, what I intended to make for dinner, types of beer in the fridge and finally the nature of our problem. The voice then informed me that a service technician specialist and a SWAT team would be there sometime in the next one to forty-eight hours.

I gently slammed down the phone only to find my husband playing with the oven switch on our electric stove. He would turn the oven on, and the lights in the kitchen would come one. But the lights in the living room would go off. He would turn the oven off, and the lights in the kitchen would go off and the lights in the living room would come back  on. He was thoroughly enjoying himself watching this electrical phenomenon.

For some reason, this seemed to totally enchant my husband. Had I not made him quit, I am sure he would have stood there playing with the switch to our electric oven for the next one to forty-eight hours, until the service technician specialist and the swat team showed up.

Now totally freaked out, I decided to forgo cooking dinner and to instead order a pizza and some green pea soup for dinner. I would also comb through the phone book looking for that exorcist while waiting for out supper to arrive.

I thought I had best get out the plates, silverware and pizza condiments before I did anything else, before total darkness settled into our kitchen. I turned on the oven, which also turned on the kitchen lights, and it was then that I caught a whiff of gas. Alarmed, I called out to my husband. “Dear, I smell gas out here in the kitchen.”

He told me it was just my imagination and to grab him a beer out of the fridge before they got too warm. Now the smell of gas was getting stronger and I was getting scared, concerned and pissed off at my husband. I told him the smell was getting stronger.

His laughter really pissed my off. It is a good thing he has quick reflexes, because the beer bottle might have hit him in the head otherwise. He laughed even harder and I got even angrier.

“Dammit,” I yelled. “I am sure the pilot light on the stove is out and it is spewing gas into our kitchen. The damn house is going to explode and all you can do is laugh.” By now he was literally rolling on the floor, howling with laughter and tears streaming down his cheeks.

“The pilot light is out,” I screamed. “The house is going to explode at any minute and all you can do is roll on the floor and laugh like an idiot?” I was sure the gas had gotten to his head. Maybe I should call 911!!!

Finally he calmed down enough and told me to settle down.

Settle down! Our damn house was going to explode. Maybe I should just kill him now and wait for the explosion to cover up the crime.

I was getting light headed and somewhat nauseated from the gas smell. I didn’t think that a little old unlit pilot light could spew that much gas.

My husband staggered into the kitchen weak from laughter but unconcerned about the gas smell. “Think about what you are saying,” he told me.

“I smell gas,” I insisted. “The pilot light must have gone out on the stove and it is leaking gas into the house!”

“Think about it,” he said again.

“Gas!” I insisted.

In looking back on it, I guess I can understand his reaction. And I can forgive him for laughing so hard. But in my defense, how was I to know that electric stoves do not have pilot lights.

For you who are curious, it had been an exceptionally dry summer. The ground around the house had settled so much that it had pulled one of the electrical lead wires out of the electric meter. This was causing only one phase of the electrical current to flow into the house. I don’t really understand the whole electric thing, but it seemed that when the oven was on, half of the house would get electricity and the other half wouldn’t. When the oven was switched off, the flow was reversed and the other half of the house would get the power. Who knew??