As a young girl and being the oldest of four sister and brothers, it was up to me to cook basic meat and potato suppers as Mom and Dad worked long hours. By this I was to put a pot roast in the oven and turn it on and then cut and cook the potatoes, enough for 6 of us. It was to be like this until I moved out at the age of 18. My first night alone in my apartment I ate my supper but had so much leftovers of pot roast and potatoes. You see my brain was still wired to cook for six people. I phoned my mom in tears (yup, tears) and asked her what I should do with the rest of the food. We had a good laugh about what I did and got off the phone. Not being trained in the culinary delights of food I was to go on and burn many a dish…always. It was as if I would prepare and set everything on the stove and then walk away and pretend like it never existed.
Life went on for me and I perfected my technique of cooking, tackling turkey where I left the gizzard bag in the cavity. Who knew? There were times though that I burned food where smoke was thick and black but not enough for the fire department to show up. Oh but let me tell you they eventually did make there way to my home one evening. That eventful night I decided to make a meatloaf and stuck it in a pie tin. Can you imagine as it cooked and splattered oil from the hamburger and spilled over the 2 inch pie plate that it started to burn in the oven. Black smoke hung in the air and my son who was 7 years old at the time came out of his room and said to me, “Supper’s burning…AGAIN!” I made the mistake of opening the oven door and lo and behold the fire started to get bigger. Both of us bumping into each other and both of us yelling at each other to phone the fire department and being the responsible parent I promptly did.
The firemen came running up my front steps, taking control, opened all the doors of my home, got the birds and cat into my sons room where he continued playing Mario Brothers. He was totally blase about the whole situation. Me, on the other hand, was mortified as I walked into my small kitchen and had four of them crouched over peering into the oven and asked what was I burning. “Meatloaf” I answered. “In a pie plate?” one asked. “Do you know that the grease from the meat was overflowing and hit the burners and didn’t I have a meatloaf pan?” I replied that indeed I did but wanted a different shape to it. One of the firemen said, “Oh, its a different shape alright!”
I still continue from time to time burn a dish or two and make myself stay rather close to the kitchen for fear of forgetting and wonder later what is that smell? May I say that this gal loves to eat out and a lot?