Running Free

Running Free

Saturday, September 26, 2009

Kibble Loaf

I admit it. I am not the world’s greatest cook. Martha Stewart, Rachel Ray, Julia Child (rest her Butter lovin’ soul) have absolutely nothing to worry about from me in terms of competition. But, if they knew they would probably shudder and refer me to the Food and Drug Administration for family endangerment – if they knew.

But they don’t. In any case, it all is nonsense really. I am not a good cook. My family knows that. My friends know that. Practically every friend I ever had knew that. Past tense being the operative word here.

Once these former friends tasted the (ahem) comestibles from my kitchen, well, those of you wise and vintage enough to recall the song from the Sugarhill Gang from the early ‘80s just might remember the following lines:

have you ever went over a friend’s house to eat and the food just aint no good
the macaroni’s soggy, the peas are mushed
and the chicken tastes like wood….

The above lyrics, from the 1979 hit called “Rapper’s Delight” pretty much summarize how most folks feel about my cooking. And I am right there with them. I wouldn’t eat my cooking either- if only I were rich enough to afford a live-in cook.

I give me credit for trying- again the operative word – trying. Take for example the other evening- a typical dinner in the household of DH and his mini me- also known as DS – (Dear Son for those of you just tuning into this riveting blog). I served up a dinner of vegetables- asparagus I believe, salad and meatloaf.

I got a bit creative this time since I can never remember exactly what the recipe calls for anyway. So I added a dab of this and a smidge of that and served it up piping hot to my ravenous boys. So follow along if you will and picture the following.

The scene:

[The kitchen table, low light, father, son and mother sitting down about to eat. Son says evening blessing, “Thank you for our food. Amen.” Short, sweet and to the point you might say.]

Son: Mom, did you do something different to the meatloaf? It tastes a little well, strange.

Mom: No, not really.

Dad: Seriously honey, what did you add to it? It does have a different flavor. (Here he tries to swallow a mouthful – it appears to be somewhat painful.)

Son: Mom, is there kibble in this meatloaf?

(DH tries to not choke on his asparagus as son spots out these words.)

Mom: No, there is no kibble in here.

Son: Mom, did you put some of Hercules’ cat food in here? It does have a certain texture to it tonight I mean…

(Son and Father are in hysterics by this point over the possibility that I have indeed put kitty kibble into the evening meatloaf.)

Mom: Well, I can see that this is another successful meal.

Dad: Now honey, don’t take it personally. We still love you.

Mom: Indeed, I did not see you nor hear you for that matter jumping to my defense which by default makes you as guilty as said son.

Dad: But I didn’t say a word.

Mom: Perhaps that is the problem. Perhaps you could have asked our son to be well, less well, more grateful anyway.

Son: Hey that’s it Mom, our evening grace will from now on be:

"Thank you for our food and may we not be served kibble again. Amen."

I think I will end this scene here, with 'moi' grinding the evening meal down the garbage incinerator.

[Son and Husband are still laughing as they stick two spoons into a half gallon of chocolate ice cream and head off to watch an episode of the Disney show, The Suite Life of Zac and Cody.]

Sweet life indeed....

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