Is it normal or natural for my ex to call on me? I guess we still have a relationship of sorts. She comes to see me about once a month. Ostensibly, she is making sure I am taking care of myself. I suppose that means she is checking to be certain I have not died of food poisoning from consumption of my own cooking.
How dangerous is my much-maligned microwave meatloaf or the sumptuous but often slighted spaghetti from a can. I can make an outrageous omelet; just ask my kids. The flavor is different every time, depending on the current contents of the refrigerator. I may have inadvertently invented petite pancakes when I had batter bits left, and my three kids were still sitting at the breakfast table, licking their lips after devouring the stacks of pancakes I had prepared.
I know how to prepare food. I do not do it often, but there has been past performance. Although I swore my son to utter secrecy whenever he actually caught me in act of a culinary creation, I suppose it does not matter much anymore. So I will now reveal the truth. Dad can cook. The evidence is contained in the story of one fabled feast.
It began with the disaster of all disasters. The much-anticipated meal of the year was in jeopardy! My daughters informed me their mother was infirmed, incapacitated on Thanksgiving Day - a.k.a time for everyone's yearly overdose of turkey's triptophan.
For anyone who has never prepared Thanksgiving dinner, it is a feast not a mere meal. It requires patience, planning and perseverance. The effort is frequently fraught with failure's foreshadow. Who would ever believe a guy and his three kids could overcome ineptitude to accomplish the impossible?
Here is how I saw it. As a loving father, I had a couple of options. I could bundle up the kids and set out in search of a place to eat that was actually open on Thanksgiving Day. Or I could use what was already waiting in the refrigerator and prove to one and all that Dad is at least semi-competent at some domestic duties.
Granted, everything was sort of laid out in anticipation, but it had to be properly prepared and in a select sequence. The turkey was waiting in the refrigerator, thawed, seasoned and stuffed. Sliced potatoes sitting in a bowl of water waited to be boiled in pursuit of the prior perfection of other meals of the year.
I have a secret recipe for mashed potatoes that, quite simply, will make anyone's tongue slap his or her respective eyebrows - kind of like Wile E. Coyote when he anticipates catching the Roadrunner in Looney Tunes.
All four of the range's burners were glowing brightly under various sized cooking pans. The oven, microwave, the side burner on Dad's gas grill on the back deck and the hot plate dear Aunt Emma bequeathed in her Last Will and Testament were all in use.
Bird burning was a continuous concern, overriding orchestrated observation of other side dishes. So at some point early on, checking and then regularly basting the turkey with copious amounts of drippings from the bottom of the aluminum foil wrapping proved vital to ensure it did not dry out in the process of preparation.
In order to avert utter disaster, I did what any father would do. I enlisted the help of my kids, realizing they were still fairly young, but trusting they could watch and carefully stir the contents of a pan when necessary.
I'm not sure whether my son Rob, the oldest, learned some of the things he demonstrated from his mother or at school, but he proved a competent cook. He aptly assisted me in preparing the season's spread, tending to the four pots on the stove's burners. My eldest daughter, Amanda, maintained vigil of the pot cooking outside on the Weber. Sarah, my youngest, tended to the microwave and the hot plate on the kitchen counter.
In the course of the potential chaotic confusion, we functioned as a family in getting the job done. I dare say we may have had some fun in the process. The ostensible objective was more than making a meal. It was also about an exploration of our independence and self-sufficiency. Mom was down, but the troops rallied together as a team, pulling everything together in a pinch. In the process, I also taught my son the secret recipe for mashed potatoes and he executed the preparation flawlessly.
It was early in the afternoon when the table was finally set. I let my son do the honors of carving the turkey. It was the culmination of a collaboration of everyone's efforts in a meticulously managed masterwork. Nothing was burned or botched. Even the rolls were lightly baked brown to perfection.
Amanda asked if she should awaken her mother but, by then, it was already too late. Mom aroused at the smell of freshly roasted turkey and all the other fixings for the fine feast. She was surprised. She asked who made the dinner.
"We did," my kids said in chorus.
"You did?" she asked, then smiled. "Thank you," she said as she hugged each one of them, and then me. "I didn't know you could cook?"
"I can't," I demurred. "It's all Rob's fault."
"Dad!" he complained, and then everyone laughed.
"Hey, the boy was hungry. He asked who was going to make dinner."
I guess my ex has forgotten the day Dad and the kids took care of Thanksgiving dinner. Maybe I am not a great chef, but sometimes I can manage making a meal.
How dangerous is my much-maligned microwave meatloaf or the sumptuous but often slighted spaghetti from a can. I can make an outrageous omelet; just ask my kids. The flavor is different every time, depending on the current contents of the refrigerator. I may have inadvertently invented petite pancakes when I had batter bits left, and my three kids were still sitting at the breakfast table, licking their lips after devouring the stacks of pancakes I had prepared.
I know how to prepare food. I do not do it often, but there has been past performance. Although I swore my son to utter secrecy whenever he actually caught me in act of a culinary creation, I suppose it does not matter much anymore. So I will now reveal the truth. Dad can cook. The evidence is contained in the story of one fabled feast.
It began with the disaster of all disasters. The much-anticipated meal of the year was in jeopardy! My daughters informed me their mother was infirmed, incapacitated on Thanksgiving Day - a.k.a time for everyone's yearly overdose of turkey's triptophan.
For anyone who has never prepared Thanksgiving dinner, it is a feast not a mere meal. It requires patience, planning and perseverance. The effort is frequently fraught with failure's foreshadow. Who would ever believe a guy and his three kids could overcome ineptitude to accomplish the impossible?
Here is how I saw it. As a loving father, I had a couple of options. I could bundle up the kids and set out in search of a place to eat that was actually open on Thanksgiving Day. Or I could use what was already waiting in the refrigerator and prove to one and all that Dad is at least semi-competent at some domestic duties.
Granted, everything was sort of laid out in anticipation, but it had to be properly prepared and in a select sequence. The turkey was waiting in the refrigerator, thawed, seasoned and stuffed. Sliced potatoes sitting in a bowl of water waited to be boiled in pursuit of the prior perfection of other meals of the year.
I have a secret recipe for mashed potatoes that, quite simply, will make anyone's tongue slap his or her respective eyebrows - kind of like Wile E. Coyote when he anticipates catching the Roadrunner in Looney Tunes.
All four of the range's burners were glowing brightly under various sized cooking pans. The oven, microwave, the side burner on Dad's gas grill on the back deck and the hot plate dear Aunt Emma bequeathed in her Last Will and Testament were all in use.
Bird burning was a continuous concern, overriding orchestrated observation of other side dishes. So at some point early on, checking and then regularly basting the turkey with copious amounts of drippings from the bottom of the aluminum foil wrapping proved vital to ensure it did not dry out in the process of preparation.
In order to avert utter disaster, I did what any father would do. I enlisted the help of my kids, realizing they were still fairly young, but trusting they could watch and carefully stir the contents of a pan when necessary.
I'm not sure whether my son Rob, the oldest, learned some of the things he demonstrated from his mother or at school, but he proved a competent cook. He aptly assisted me in preparing the season's spread, tending to the four pots on the stove's burners. My eldest daughter, Amanda, maintained vigil of the pot cooking outside on the Weber. Sarah, my youngest, tended to the microwave and the hot plate on the kitchen counter.
In the course of the potential chaotic confusion, we functioned as a family in getting the job done. I dare say we may have had some fun in the process. The ostensible objective was more than making a meal. It was also about an exploration of our independence and self-sufficiency. Mom was down, but the troops rallied together as a team, pulling everything together in a pinch. In the process, I also taught my son the secret recipe for mashed potatoes and he executed the preparation flawlessly.
It was early in the afternoon when the table was finally set. I let my son do the honors of carving the turkey. It was the culmination of a collaboration of everyone's efforts in a meticulously managed masterwork. Nothing was burned or botched. Even the rolls were lightly baked brown to perfection.
Amanda asked if she should awaken her mother but, by then, it was already too late. Mom aroused at the smell of freshly roasted turkey and all the other fixings for the fine feast. She was surprised. She asked who made the dinner.
"We did," my kids said in chorus.
"You did?" she asked, then smiled. "Thank you," she said as she hugged each one of them, and then me. "I didn't know you could cook?"
"I can't," I demurred. "It's all Rob's fault."
"Dad!" he complained, and then everyone laughed.
"Hey, the boy was hungry. He asked who was going to make dinner."
I guess my ex has forgotten the day Dad and the kids took care of Thanksgiving dinner. Maybe I am not a great chef, but sometimes I can manage making a meal.
Embellished a bit but mostly true.
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