Cooking

I can’t say that I like to cook because something always goes wrong. It has to be done once in a while though. Unfortunately, part of my soul leaves the immediate vicinity of my body once I consume a meal I've cooked. Experiments count.

My mind is convinced that my soul is just jealous. After all, the soul gives me occasional twinges of conscience when I steal bread from my husband's plate; however, it hasn't kept me from stealing candy from his hidden stash.
My mind deserves a lot of credit. It is my mind who decides to lie about the candy. I call that success but eating my own cooking is something I can't lie out of. My husband says nothing equals punishment for stealing his candy like eating my own cooking. That includes Ken's North Beach Diet potato chip sandwiches.

Our 50 years together have not altered his opinion in the slightest but he lies about it. He claims the damage to our Kitchen Aid smooth top range doesn't hold a candle to the tasteless food I prepare. I really don't know why he compares the two. Exploding eggs and scorched water should not count. I simply get distracted baby-sitting the computer.

Our grandchildren do not fear my cooking but our children do. Knowing soon they'll be going home our sons-in-law make do with potato chips, chocolate cake, Horse Radish, peanut butter and chicken & dumplings. The mere threat of cooking hog jowl instantly alters their attitudes from hopeful resignation to friendly suggestions we eat out. Trends of this sort serve as source data for my resident food critic.

The last occasion I cooked on a large scale was Christmas 2004. That was when Santa Claus fell down the chimny wearing my bra (he couldn't find No.3 daughter's) as a parachute. He was only moderately successful which added fuel to the fire of my rage. It was the only bra that fit me. While I knew discretion was the better part of valor and that Santa deserved some kind of reward I was not amused when Tattoo latched onto the event with his Super-Glue mentality.

So I set about cooking a cheese omlette for a grand Christmas breakfast. I knew we had an exotic cheese that our thoughtful No.1 daughter brought with her from Tampa - something called Charles Lindberg. I knew she would be pleased it would be the foundation for herbernaro peppers blended with two chicken eggs. I grated two hot peppers, a Vidalia onion and added a can of chicken broth. Then I slowly folded 1/2 bottle of Tabasco sauce and a pint of garlic powder. To avoid washing so many pans I peeled some potatoes and apples and cooked them inside the omlette.

Soon after I started cooking Grandpa thumped through the kitchen flinging open doors and windows as he thumped. I have larned it is the better part of wisdom not to comment on his behavior in these situations.

Just as I taste-tested the omlette (it was slightly on the spicy side) the aroma escaped to the bedrooms and our sons-in-law surfaced. One quickly closed his bedroom door, opened the windows wider and hunkered down. Another eased out the front door cell phone in hand on his way to a business conference from his car and the other emerged from his "restful" Christmas Eve night sleep fully dressed on his way to Lowes to buy a picnic table. (And everybody knows Lowes is closed on Christmas Day.) No's. 2 & 3 daughters were camped out at Wal-Mart and the Longboat bringing No.4 was two hours overdue because Gracie was driving. Apparently No.1 daughter was more than overcome... she fainted. And at noon Poppy dared anybody to even burp and waste the food.

I always wanted a picnic table.