When I think of childhood dinners I still want to vomit. Everyone else I know has fond memories of warm yummy home cooked meals with their mom wearing an apron and a cheerful welcoming smile. Not at my house. My mom worked and that was the reason she did not know how to cook. It was also the reason we ate on plastic plates and drank from plastic cups. I was red, Jon was blue and Jeff was green. Even our toothbrushes were color-coded. The “no cooking skills, I work” excuse never made sense to me either, but that’s her story and she’s still sticking to it. Just ask her.
My poor dad never complained. He was no fool. He just kept his mouth shut and tried to gag down whatever concoction my mom had decided to “fix.” My dad arrived home every day at 5:45 like clockwork. My mom was a nurse and she arrived home a few hours earlier. I can still picture my dad driving up, getting out of the car with his sleeves rolled up and his red plaid thermos tucked under his arm. I always remember his arrivals home in warm weather because we were usually out front playing kickball in our court. Our driveway was first base. My dad was always tired, but happy to be home. He gave us all hugs and kisses and went inside to relax and read the paper while he waited for the nightly food horror show to begin. He never seemed to notice that the meal was disgusting. Maybe he had his taste buds removed to make his life easier. Now that’s true love.
My mom was always tired and pissed off to be home because her day wasn’t over yet. She had to make “dinner” and believe me, she wasn’t happy about it. I remember that one day, long ago, that she was happy about cooking dinner. She had made pot roast with carrots and potatoes. It was wonderful! She had even set the dining room table and was smiling at everyone. I started to cry because I thought for sure she was going to tell us that she was dying and this was her way of breaking it to us. She thought I had lost my mind. I am still wondering if I dreamed the whole thing.
My brother Jon liked my mom’s cooking so naturally he was her favorite child between the hours of 5 and 7pm. Jeff and I were gagging and whining and begging for a PBJ during those hours. I always tried to hang out at my friends houses as long as possible in hopes of a dinner invitation, but some days going home for dinner was unavoidable. Many of our meals were beige. One night we had macaroni, cauliflower, and boiled chicken. No, we didn’t live in a hospital cafeteria. They served much better food than my mom did.
Spam casserole…with green pepper, cream of something soup and egg noodles served in that white Corning wear dish with the metal rack and the glass lid. If I saw that dish I knew it was going to be a bad night. I can still smell it in my head and it still make me sick. I remember walking into the kitchen and smelling the dreaded Spam casserole and hearing Jeff begin to cry. “Not Spam casserole! I hate it! Run Jane run!” If it wasn’t Spam it was fish sticks and frozen French fries on a cookie sheet served with peas….mushy canned peas. We have a picture of Jon sitting on the kitchen floor eating peas out of a huge mixing bowl. What a suck-up. For years I thought I hated French fries….until I tasted French fries. OHHH! That’s what people have been talking about! Yummy! I love you McDonald’s!
I also thought I hated baked potatoes until I ate one that had actually been cooked through all the way. I also discovered sour cream and real butter. I also thought I hated baked potatoes because she only baked them when she baked her dried up gray meat loaf. She didn’t want to waste a hot oven by just baking potatoes so we had to bake something else at the same time. Remember, this was before the microwave oven was invented.
Her macaroni and cheese was the worst. I think I’m the only person living in the south who hates mac and cheese. My mom crushed cornflakes on top of her very dry mac and cheese and one day she ran out of them. She crushed…brace yourself….CHEERIOS on top, ‘cause, hey, cereal is cereal, right? No, I am not making this up. She also made salmon casserole and left the bones in …because they are soft YOU CAN CHEW THEM RIGHT UP!!!!! I still get chills. She also left plenty of shell in her egg salad. “Jane you are so picky. What’s a little shell? Just pick it out and eat the sandwich! You are the Princess and the Pea!” Crunch where there shouldn’t be crunch…gagagagagagaaaaaaaa.
She insisted that a certain brand of margarine with a crown on the box tasted just like real butter! I don’t know what crusty cow she had been getting her butter from, but that bitch was ripping you off, mom. No brand of margarine tastes just like creamy, yummy, fresh dairy butter. I had never consciously tasted real butter before, but when I did all hell broke loose.
Nanny lived on the coast of Maine, was the best cook on the planet. She used to bake bread every day and she served it with real butter straight from the dairy. How could my dad like my mom’s cooking when he grew up in a house where nanny cooked all of his childhood meals? I thought Nanny had magical powers until I was around nine years old. I found out that fateful summer why Nanny’s bread was sooo extraordinary...it was the butter. I gained 10 pounds in two weeks when I visited that summer in Maine. I went up there as an adult when I was six months pregnant and gained so much weight that my doctor had me tested for everything when I got back. I tried to explain to him about the magical food fairies I visit up there but he insisted on the tests. I was totally normal, just fully stuffed with Maine goodness.
Nanny made my dad’s favorite homemade chocolate cake daily. She baked cookies and steamed lobsters and clams fresh from the ocean. My grandfather had a huge garden and we feasted from it and my Uncle Bob picked fresh blueberries and my Aunt Wilma made blueberry pies. Yes, Maine is beautiful, but you need to taste it to appreciate its true magic. I loved going to Maine every summer. I thought the entire state ate all day long. I followed my Maine relatives everywhere and begged them to teach me their magic. They did and now I cook every family meal and every holiday. I think this was my mom’s plan all along.
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