Fold My Laundry Please

My family is very food-centric.  It’s been that way for as long as I can remember.  The sort of obsession over food that my family harbors can have some negative consequences.  Can you say "weight gain"?  It can also have some fun ones.  Well, fun to everyone except the person it happens to.  I’m referring to the inevitable cooking fiasco that happens to almost everyone.  The tales of past mishaps echo throughout the years, most notably during the holiday season.  I suppose it’s because the holidays involve so much food that you can’t help but remember all the times it went so very wrong.  And besides, watching someone squirm under the spotlight is always good times!

For example, when they were newlyweds, my mother decided to make hamburgers in the oven for my father.  She was trying to be the "perfect" wife.  Dressed nice, house clean, and dinner on the table when Dad got home from work.  He walked into the kitchen, said, "What’s for dinner?", and then opened the oven to take a peek.  "Ah.  Hockeypucks."  You guessed it.  Burnt. To. A. Crisp.  And being a loving husband, he ate them anyway.  But now we get to hear (and laugh) about it until the end of time.  That totally makes up for it!

Thinking about my own cooking history, I’ve been pretty lucky.  Nothing horrible really leaps to mind.  The secret of my success?  I don’t cook very much.  Like, almost never.  Shhhh!  Don’t tell anyone!  So I polled my family members to see what they could dredge up. 

I asked my five year old son if he could think of any time when Mommy messed up something I was cooking.  "Remember that time when you messed up the eggs for our french toast?  That was pretty bad."  Okay, a small error.  Apparently it was a HUGE thing for a five year old.  But really?  Not too bad.

I sent my husband a text message while he was at work asking if he could think of anything.  Not 30 seconds later my phone beeped with this reply.  "First married chicken rawness you cried."  (Notice he said, first chicken rawness.  It has happened many times since.  You put your chicken and side dishes on your plate.  You hungrily cut into your chicken.  You discover it is still very raw on the inside.  I no longer cry about it.)  I only vaguely remember the incident.  I do, however, remember how very much I wanted to prove to my new (and very handsome) husband that marrying me was the best decision he ever made because, hey, I could cook up a mean chicken!  I can’t remember if he ate it anyway, but I’m willing to bet he didn’t.  He most likely put the chicken back into the oven and finished cooking it.  And I can’t say I blame him.  There’s being blinded by love and then there’s being poisoned by salmonella.  And playing Chicken Roulette is never a good idea.

My son then piped up again to remind me of his fifth birthday party.  Apparently I didn’t put the right ingredients on top of his cake.  Or so he says now.  I seem to remember him gobbling up mass quantities of cake that day.

I called my mother.  Here’s a tip.  Don’t ask your mother to recount incriminating evidence from your past for you.  I got way more than I bargained for.  But we’ll stick to the food related one.  "Well, you did burn the caldo once."  For those who don’t know, caldo is a Polish ham, bean, and cabbage soup and I’m positive that I’m spelling it wrong.  It’s really delicious, provided you don’t burn it.  Have you ever smelled burnt cabbage?  Believe me, you know instantly when cabbage starts to burn.  The odor filled the house so quick we almost had to evacuate!  And it was during Christmas-time at my aunt’s house, so there were about a million relatives there to witness the carnage.  Also, no candle, air freshener, or scented oil can cover up that kind of stink!  But everyone gets a good laugh every year about it.  "Caldo?  I love caldo!  Just don’t let Melissa cook it; she burns caldo."  It’s been more than fifteen years people!  Sheesh!

Then my son reminded me of yet another incident.  I won’t call it a food fiasco so much as a personal journey of discovery.  A few Thanksgivings back, I was hosting dinner for the very first time.  This means I was also cooking my very first turkey.  Did you know that turkeys come with gross things in little bags inside them?  I never saw that on any nature show, that’s for sure.  I tried to be brave.  I stuck my hand inside that bird and prepared to pull out the sac of giblets.  I closed my eyes, held my breath, and grabbed…a neck.  A neck!  I promptly began dry heaving.  My husband had to do it for me and I couldn’t even watch without my stomach threatening to return breakfast.  Yes, that was when I discovered that I could never survive living on a farm.  There goes that childhood dream.

Eventually, my son ran out of memories and I proceeded to sweep up the fragments of my shattered ego.  Despite the embarrassment these events may cause me, there is no permanent scarring (such as occured the first time I tried to use oil to fry my own french fries).  Luckily, I’m able to laugh at myself easily.  I just wish I was the only one!