If the kitchen is the heart of the home, then mine has regular heart attacks. Once in a while it flat lines, but I manage to jolt it back into regularity with a quick call to Pizza Palace. If you have ever held the title of “chief cook and bottle washer”, this one’s for you.
“Why are the kids demanding dinner again tonight? I just fed them yesterday!”
It’s one of my favorite jokes, for as you know, kids graze non-stop. They will wait until you’ve just finished the breakfast dishes and then ask what’s for lunch. Who works under this kind of pressure?
I feel like a meal planning, coupon clipping, grocery shopping, kitchen cleaning, food prepping, dinner cooking, meatloaf serving, dishwasher loading, leftover saving, whirling dervish.
If I goof up big time, fire me. Please.
There was the time when I was very efficient and made a chicken pot pie from scratch on a day when I had plenty of play time in the kitchen. I put it together and froze it for a future day when I knew I would have zero kitchen time but would still want a nice dinner. Go me!
When the big day came, the pot pie landed fresh and steamy on our table surrounded by cheerfully expectant faces. As grace was said, it occurred to me that it looked mighty shiny. Like the crust had a fancy egg wash over it…something only Martha Stewart would have bothered to do on a day like this.
And then it dawned on me. I had removed the foil from the pan and tossed the dinner into the oven without seeing or removing the additional layer of seran wrap that sealed it. The plastic had melted completely over and into the pot pie. There really was no way of salvaging the meal, no matter how ridiculously tasty it smelled and looked. I was serving up a dinner of doom.
I’ve already confessed leaving the sugar out of my pumpkin pies. It was a very sad day. No amount of whipped cream could make up for it.
This is the sort of thing a cooking rookie pulls, not a veteran. When I was young and naïve, I decided to roast myself a whole chicken. I’d grown up watching mom do this my whole life. How hard could it be? I even called her up for some tips.
Not until the bird in all of its glory sat upon the table in golden crispy goodness did it occur to me to look inside of it.
Who does that?
Who expects that a chicken is killed, cleaned, and processed and then someone decides…I know…let’s put all the insides back into the chicken! Hahaha! Oh those silly chicken factory workers! Are you feeling my pain here? All of that time, money and drool for a practical joke.
Makes you want to think twice about biting into a jelly doughnut.
Nowadays the kids are growing and grown and gone. Gone are the days when I knew exactly where they would be at 6pm: sitting down around the family dinner table. I bake a homemade meal and no one shows up for it. I skip dinner and the kids arrive with volleyball teams in tow. We have Pizza Palace on speed dial.
This whirling dervish is starting to turn slower to take the curve balls, and frankly, the less I juggle, the less I drop. I suppose that’s a win-win.