Breakfast With Mark
By: Linda DePeel (c.)2008
I had taught my kids how to fix their own breakfasts when they were quite young. That way, if I came home tired from working all night and the sitter hadn't given them anything to eat, they could fix it themselves. They weren't allowed to use the stove or oven, but they could make toast like pros, and six-year old Mark loved scrambled eggs cooked in the microwave.
One night I called in to work, as I had a bad case of the Twenty-four Hour Flu. I was violently ill all night long. Finally, at about four a.m. the crisis passed and I fell into an exhausted sleep on the sofa in the living room. I was wide awake about two hours later--and violently ill again.
Mike had opted for toasted peanut butter sandwiches, but Mark wanted his usual scrambled eggs. Ugh! I have never been an egg fan, and to me, scrambled eggs cooking in a microwave is absolutely revolting. It just has this--rotten odor and this odor seems to permeate an entire house!
"Mark!" I could barely croak. "Not--" I couldn't finish my sentence, as a huge wave of nausea washed over me.
"They're good, Neenz!" Mark beamed at me, his huge dimples showing. "You want to try some? Maybe they would make you all better!" He started coming into the living room (we lived in a trailer), and I held up a hand. "No, no!" I cried. "Not right now, sweetheart! I'm going to lie back down again. Ooooohhhhh!" "Okay," he said, and started scarfing them down.
Twenty years later, and he still likes his scrambled eggs in the microwave. I visited him in Omaha last summer, and he proudly showed me his brand new microwave. "It even speaks Spanish!" he announced proudly. "That's why I bought it!"
"Why didn't you just take Spanish in high school when you had the chance?" I shook my head. He speaks French, German and Greek fluently, but took those courses in college.
"Well, I didn't like the teacher," he replied. "And besides, the Spanish they teach isn't the kind of Spanish spoken in the US."
"Mark, sometimes I wonder about you," I said, rolling my eyes.
"Yeah, yeah." He still has those big dimples. "But, hey! Guess what I'm fixing you for breakfast in the morning?" My stomach began to churn. I knew it was going to be scrambled eggs in the microwave--excuse me--wavels. I managed to talk him out of it.
Showing posts with label cooking. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cooking. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Monday, July 7, 2008
The Best and The Worst Ever
The Best and the Worst Ever
By: Linda De Peel (c.)2008
When my husband and I were first married, we didn't have a lot of money. We scrimped and scraped and barely made ends meet. Even after my husband landed a job as a computer programmer/analyst we still had to watch our spending. That meant my husband didn't run across the street to Macky D's or the Gin Mill for lunch or dinner. He Brown Bagged it. I always tried to send sensible and nutritious lunches for him; he was 6'1" and only weighed 125 pounds. I would come up with interesting things, like my "ship-wreck stew", which he referred to as "second-time around stew", peanut butter and radish sandwiches (he actually enjoyed that).
One day he wanted a jello salad, but not just the plain old boring jello with fruit cocktail. He wanted "Pizzazz". No problem! Of course, all I had was jello and fruit cocktail, but I also had Cool Whip on hand. So I got busy, and mixed it all together. But after looking at it for a few minutes, I decided that it needed some more pizzazz. I looked in the pantry for food coloring, but all I had was blue. So I added it in, and I thought it didn't look too bad. I knew I could depend on my husband to comment on it. "Oh, this is like Mom always made!" Or: "Ugh! I wouldn't feed that to a stray dog!" I sent him off to work (he was working 2 pm-10pm for awhile).
He came home around 10:30 and said, "Honey, that Jello salad was wonderful--best I've ever eaten!"
"Really?" I said. "Well, I'll make more!"
"No, please don't!" Now he's messing with my head! Sometimes I could get into the Head Games, but sometimes not. Tonight was not the night for it.
"So, if it's so wonderful, why don't you want me to make more?" I demanded, feeling quite grumpy. "Just say what you mean!"
"Well--um--the Jello was good--real good. But there was a problem." He stared down at the floor, and I knew he was holding out on me. My voice cracked on him like a whip.
"What was wrong with the jello salad?"
"Well, um, people in the office said it looked really awful, and some of them thought I was eating spoiled food."
"What?" I screeched. "I would never--"
He held up a hand to call a truce. "Honey, believe me, it was really good, but the blue food coloring made it look like there was this huge layer of mold all over it. And, I, um, well-- I had to close my eyes to eat it, because it wasn't really appetizing to look at."
I felt all of three inches tall. I went out and looked at it again. It really did look bad. You see, I'd used grape-flavored jello, and apparently that made it worse.
So, anyone want to hire a cook?
By: Linda De Peel (c.)2008
When my husband and I were first married, we didn't have a lot of money. We scrimped and scraped and barely made ends meet. Even after my husband landed a job as a computer programmer/analyst we still had to watch our spending. That meant my husband didn't run across the street to Macky D's or the Gin Mill for lunch or dinner. He Brown Bagged it. I always tried to send sensible and nutritious lunches for him; he was 6'1" and only weighed 125 pounds. I would come up with interesting things, like my "ship-wreck stew", which he referred to as "second-time around stew", peanut butter and radish sandwiches (he actually enjoyed that).
One day he wanted a jello salad, but not just the plain old boring jello with fruit cocktail. He wanted "Pizzazz". No problem! Of course, all I had was jello and fruit cocktail, but I also had Cool Whip on hand. So I got busy, and mixed it all together. But after looking at it for a few minutes, I decided that it needed some more pizzazz. I looked in the pantry for food coloring, but all I had was blue. So I added it in, and I thought it didn't look too bad. I knew I could depend on my husband to comment on it. "Oh, this is like Mom always made!" Or: "Ugh! I wouldn't feed that to a stray dog!" I sent him off to work (he was working 2 pm-10pm for awhile).
He came home around 10:30 and said, "Honey, that Jello salad was wonderful--best I've ever eaten!"
"Really?" I said. "Well, I'll make more!"
"No, please don't!" Now he's messing with my head! Sometimes I could get into the Head Games, but sometimes not. Tonight was not the night for it.
"So, if it's so wonderful, why don't you want me to make more?" I demanded, feeling quite grumpy. "Just say what you mean!"
"Well--um--the Jello was good--real good. But there was a problem." He stared down at the floor, and I knew he was holding out on me. My voice cracked on him like a whip.
"What was wrong with the jello salad?"
"Well, um, people in the office said it looked really awful, and some of them thought I was eating spoiled food."
"What?" I screeched. "I would never--"
He held up a hand to call a truce. "Honey, believe me, it was really good, but the blue food coloring made it look like there was this huge layer of mold all over it. And, I, um, well-- I had to close my eyes to eat it, because it wasn't really appetizing to look at."
I felt all of three inches tall. I went out and looked at it again. It really did look bad. You see, I'd used grape-flavored jello, and apparently that made it worse.
So, anyone want to hire a cook?
Wha' Happened?
Wha' Happened?
By: Linda DePeel (c)2008
This was back in 1983. Mark was a year old and Mike was 4. My husband loved lemon meringue pie, and I'd never made one before, and was just a bit apprehensive. But he whined and complained that all I ever made was cherry and apple and (my favorite) peach! So, like a dutiful wife, I caved.
I made my crust, added the filling, then sweat, swore and swore some more as I made the meringue. I prayed hard and put it in the oven to bake, keeping the boys out of Harm's Way. I worried and fretted and stewed. What if something went wrong? I'd never hear the end of it, and I often accused my husband of being a fish wife in another life.
Timer went off and I flew into the kitchen, still praying. I carefully removed the pie from the oven, treating it as if it were pot of nitroglycerine, and set it on the counter to cool. It looked fine, but how would it taste. That would be the ultimate test. Well, nothing to do now but turn off the oven and wait for my husband to get home.
I had made a roast, complete with potatoes, vegetable, fruit, and of course, lemon meringue pie. My husband beamed. "I can't wait to taste it," he said. Then, before we knew what was ha ppening, Mike climbed up onto the stool and onto the counter. "I want to seeeeeeeee, Mum!" he said.
"Michael Allen, no!" my husband cried, but it was too late. The pie went sailing to the floor, and I could have fallen down in a heap to weep. All my hard work, all the anxiety--gone in one fell swoop! My husband picked up the pie. "Uh--dear," he said, clearing his throat. "It-it seems to be okay. There's not even a dent in it!" Huh? How was that possible? It should have been scrambled! I had been standing there, with my head in my hands, and I peeked between my fingers. Sure enough, he was right! I looked at the floor. Nothing. What in the world was going on here? My husband shrugged. "Well, uh, I guess we'll, uh, see how it tastes." I thought Well, don't sound too enthusiastic about it.
Little was said during the meal and after what seemed an eternity, it was Pie Time. I handed my husband the knife. I just couldn't bring myself to do it. I thought maybe we'd need a chain saw. But, no problemo! And it was "delish"! I kept saying, "Wha' happened?" I guess it didn't matter. My husband loved it and asked me to make another. My response: "Nope. I'll let you do it!"
By: Linda DePeel (c)2008
This was back in 1983. Mark was a year old and Mike was 4. My husband loved lemon meringue pie, and I'd never made one before, and was just a bit apprehensive. But he whined and complained that all I ever made was cherry and apple and (my favorite) peach! So, like a dutiful wife, I caved.
I made my crust, added the filling, then sweat, swore and swore some more as I made the meringue. I prayed hard and put it in the oven to bake, keeping the boys out of Harm's Way. I worried and fretted and stewed. What if something went wrong? I'd never hear the end of it, and I often accused my husband of being a fish wife in another life.
Timer went off and I flew into the kitchen, still praying. I carefully removed the pie from the oven, treating it as if it were pot of nitroglycerine, and set it on the counter to cool. It looked fine, but how would it taste. That would be the ultimate test. Well, nothing to do now but turn off the oven and wait for my husband to get home.
I had made a roast, complete with potatoes, vegetable, fruit, and of course, lemon meringue pie. My husband beamed. "I can't wait to taste it," he said. Then, before we knew what was ha ppening, Mike climbed up onto the stool and onto the counter. "I want to seeeeeeeee, Mum!" he said.
"Michael Allen, no!" my husband cried, but it was too late. The pie went sailing to the floor, and I could have fallen down in a heap to weep. All my hard work, all the anxiety--gone in one fell swoop! My husband picked up the pie. "Uh--dear," he said, clearing his throat. "It-it seems to be okay. There's not even a dent in it!" Huh? How was that possible? It should have been scrambled! I had been standing there, with my head in my hands, and I peeked between my fingers. Sure enough, he was right! I looked at the floor. Nothing. What in the world was going on here? My husband shrugged. "Well, uh, I guess we'll, uh, see how it tastes." I thought Well, don't sound too enthusiastic about it.
Little was said during the meal and after what seemed an eternity, it was Pie Time. I handed my husband the knife. I just couldn't bring myself to do it. I thought maybe we'd need a chain saw. But, no problemo! And it was "delish"! I kept saying, "Wha' happened?" I guess it didn't matter. My husband loved it and asked me to make another. My response: "Nope. I'll let you do it!"
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