I was an adult before I realized my dear mother was not always a terrific cook.
When I was young, she was a single working woman in her twenties with a full-time job, two feral children, and little money. I can't imagine the crushing responsibility, and have enormous admiration for what she accomplished in those days. However, haute cuisine was not among her accomplishments.
Typical fare: a bologna roll—a tube of pink meat goo tied into a ring—that Mom boiled in water, sliced, and served with catsup. Canned spinach on the side, sprinkled with vinegar. That was dinner.
Another regular meal was frozen cheese pizza doctored up with a tin of anchovies. I can’t explain the anchovies except that Mom always loved them. They were a great treat! To this day, my sisters and I are the only people I know who like anchovies on pizza.
We ate breakfast for dinner: pancakes, eggs, cereal. A lot of fast food: McDonald’s, A&W, Dairy Queen, Pronto Pup corn dogs.
We loved all of it, but now I wonder if Mom felt bad because that was the best she could do for us. More likely, she was grateful to fill our bellies so cheaply and easily.
When I was a teenager, around the time my much younger second sister was born, Mom took cooking classes and got legitimately good. Her sauce-stained recipes remain in the family and bring back many happy culinary memories. But occasionally I miss eating pancakes for dinner.
* * *
PLEASE SUBSCRIBE! I am sharing these little "250 Words On" essays via Substack, which will email a new one to your In Box every Tuesday morning. Just follow this link and enter your email address. It's free, and I promise to never use your address for evil purposes.
1 comment:
I love pancakes for dinner. My mother used to call it "Pancake Night," and we mostly ate it when my "meat+3" father was away.
Post a Comment