A great idea, I guess in theory but not in real practice. You see, he did not grow up in the house and he didn’t have to eat the stuff. I am not saying that my mother was a bad cook, but I have often joked that we said a blessing on the food after we ate instead of before. She was very good at cooking many things, particularly if the process involved boiling or frying. All vegetables were boiled beyond their useful measure until they were devoid of any color or taste. Then, at the insistence of my father, they were always covered with a white sauce. Therefore cooked veggies were always creamed veggies. Creamed corn, creamed cabbage, creamed Brussels sprouts, creamed carrots; you could hardly tell one from another. There were never any leftovers. We just called them “evidence”
Pot roast was a Sunday special. The process involved taking a blade pot roast, covering it in flour and beating the crap out of it with a hammer, back side of a meat cleaver or any other heavy object available at the time. The meat was then seared (mostly blackened) in a pan on both side and then simmered (boiled) in water for approximate 7 hours or until the meat no longer resembled beef. The gravy was always great.
It didn’t matter that she had a broiler pan as part of her gas oven, all meat was fried. Steaks, chops, burgers, hot dogs, fish, duck, rabbit and the occasional pheasant. The only meat I ever remember being cooked in the oven was a turkey. Most chicken was boiled, not fried. In retrospect, I guess stewing hens were cheaper than fryers.
Mother was always an advocate of the hearty breakfast. Her father always had a bowl of Cream of Wheat cereal. Never with milk but just with a half a stick of grade A butter. She was always shoving a large steaming bowl of oatmeal, Cream of Wheat or Roman Meal (i.e. dog food) in front of us at breakfast. No matter how hard I tried, there was never enough sugar to make it palatable. I would usually let mine sit until it had hardened into the shape of the bowl and could be used as a door stop. I left home at age nineteen and have never eaten a bowl of hot cereal since.
So, I rest my case hoping that my nephew will reconsider, since if we don’t view history in all its truths, history is bound to repeat itself. Thanks for listening, I feel much better.
