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My mother was not a terrible cook; I think grudging and uninspired would be better adjectives. At any rate she once bought a frozen boxed pie, took it out of the box and shoved it into a hot oven. In just a few minutes she knew something was wrong. It turned out she had attempted to bake an ice cream pie.
My mother could rise to the occasion for a holiday meal, or when we had guests. But she had trouble continually pumping out everyday meals.
OMG! LOL! re: the heated up ice cream cake. So good.
Actually, if I were being fair, I would say my mother was more or less the same -- she saw cooking as drudgery. She told me that when she got married (back in the 50s), she cried because she would have to cook every day for the rest of her life. Also, I think that back then there was much less experimentation in cooking -- certainly much less experimenting with various ethnic cuisines -- so maybe it was less fun than it is today. I know we had the same 10 meals over and over and over again.
Before I finally learned to cook, I wanted to make spaghetti sauce. We didn't have any tomato sauce so I figured ketchup would be a great substitute. It's not.
A dear college friend and I shared a house once, and luckily both of us survived it. I cheerfully admit I'm no cook. Jon wasn't either. One day he decided that a big bag of turkey drumsticks must be a bargain and hauled it home. I had no idea what to do with them. They lurked in the freezer for weeks but every time the door opened they loomed into view, reminding us of our failure. We finally had to face them and started experimenting. No matter what we did, chewing one resulted in a calorie deficit. Finally Jon tossed the remainders, along with salt and some seasoning, into a big pot to attempt soup. Didn't improve them much. We didn't even have a dog to feed it to. Jon kept looking at all that "stock" in the pot. Still determined to get something out of his bargain, he suggested I thicken it with flour to make gravy we could freeze for later.
OK, sounds easy enough. I started adding flour. And more flour, and more flour. It must have been cups. Between one minute and the next that stock suddenly decided to go from a liquid to a solid as I frantically tried to prevent it. Jon walked in, contemplated the gluey grey mass in the pan and commented "Probably shouldn't have added quite so much, Al."
We finally put the pan outdoors on the back porch and thankfully closed the door on it. A few days later Jon discovered our "gravy" made excellent fish bait; stuck to the hook like the nutrient agar students concocted in high school chemistry classes. Even now someone in his family recalls the story behind our now infamous "turkey brick".
Last edited by Parnassia; 06-25-2019 at 02:21 PM..
OMG! LOL! re: the heated up ice cream cake. So good.
Actually, if I were being fair, I would say my mother was more or less the same -- she saw cooking as drudgery. She told me that when she got married (back in the 50s), she cried because she would have to cook every day for the rest of her life. Also, I think that back then there was much less experimentation in cooking -- certainly much less experimenting with various ethnic cuisines -- so maybe it was less fun than it is today. I know we had the same 10 meals over and over and over again.
My mother worked 9 months of the year. I just think it was hard to keep those meals pumping out day after day. And I hear you about the same ten meals. In the 50s there were fewer meal prep shortcuts. But I loved eating her Waldorf salad, and I make that to this day. And I also loved eating her Wilted Lettuce Salad as well.
For years at Thanksgiving I heard her say that you had to have sage in the dressing. Sage, sage, sage. And one year she did overdo the sage—even she had to admit she put in too much.
But she also told me that key to potato salad was enough onion, and she was right. Two family members loved her potato salad which she made with sour pickle relish!
But, then again, she once forgot to buy dishwashing detergent, so she put Joy in the little cup, and pressed start. We had suds leaking out of the washer onto the kitchen floor until she finally stopped the machine. So, she had her share of moments of madness.
I invited one of my 88 year old neighbors for a Thanksgiving Dinner. She insisted on bringing something and she did ... a frozen cherry pie.
Fortunately, about 20 minutes prior to service, I noted that it was a frozen pie and I was able to get it into the over for baking. we did everything in our powers to extend dinner so that the pie could bake and come out of the oven and cool for a while.
I do not think that the lady caught on that the pir needed to be baked as she did the same the next time she bought a pie. However, I was expecting that.
I was making dinner at my mother's house (she would invite you to dinner and always suckered you into cooking it). All I asked her to do was to add a little milk to the mashed potatoes while I took the roast out of the oven. They tasted terrible and I asked her what on earth she added. She said, "I didn't have any milk so I added some French vanilla coffee creamer instead and shook on a little more pepper."
Another time, she thought she was shaking paprika on the potato salad but she was vigorously shaking cinnamon all over it instead.
I posted a stupid thing about me but back to topic: my mother thinks she is a great cook... sigh. Yrs. ago my husband and I were visiting them over either Thanksgiving or Christmas (don't recall) - they had plans the night before as did my husband and I. Mother and her husband returned after we'd gotten home and were in bed - she put the turkey in the oven around midnight the night before - ACK. That thing was like sawdust by dinnertime the next day (honestly, it was even hard to swallow a tiny bit when washing it down!!
When I was first married, one of the things they were saying was to put in a little oil when you cook pasta to prevent boil over. Well — it doesn’t work. But on a gas stove, when the pot boils over the water dries, leaving a line of starch that acts like a wick, catches from the flame below, the flame crawls up and then sits on the oil on the top of the water.
Kinda like the Cuyahoga River. Or I believe Lake Erie.
Then one night, I was browning chicken in my cast iron pan — very lightly oiled, and then I over sprinkled on Tabasco sauce. The sauce hit the raging hot pan, and went like an aerosol into the air — home made tear gas.
I’ve gotten better... but i still prefer baking.
__________________ Solly says — Be nice!
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Solly says — Be nice!
