...and I'm not talking about the singer. Though...I don't really like him either…Sara, you know.
Welcome back, Readers. Now for tonight's story.
So, I love watching cooking shows. I love watching them and pretending that I have even a modicum of the talent these people do. I oft leave the show feeling like I, too, could hunker down in the kitchen and create an epicurean delicacy.
Unfortch, this NEVER happens.
I am a terrible cook.
I try.
I try HARD.
But, I suck.
I would love to say I am quite the 50's housewife, vacuuming in high heels and pearls, helping little Susy and Scotty with their homework, while little Junior mows the lawn, and delivering a delicious and well-balanced dinner to my growing family each and every night. This does not happen. Ever. (Putting aside the fact that my kids aren't old enough to do homework or mow the lawn…)
Now, there are a few dishes I make that I know are good. I can make a mean lasagna. Rice-A-Roni - you are definitely MY San Francisco treat. Chicken enchiladas? Muy bueno. That may be where the list ends.
On occasion, when the kids give me 5 minutes to plan ahead, I do try to make new things. I always say to my husband, "You HAVE to tell me if you don't like this, because if you don't, I will make it for the next 30 years of our marriage, and you will have to suffer." (Sidebar: the reason I give this little speech is because that is what my father did to my mother - he never told her he didn't like something and now they've been married for almost 40 years, and he only fairly recently told her how he ACTUALLY feels about a dish she has made for FOREVER…)
Usually, my husband is honest. Does he ever gush over something I think came out well? No, but if you know Jason, you know he doesn't gush over ANYTHING. And believe me, he's perfectly comfortable telling me how something could be better. I try not to take it personally - I did INVITE the criticism. Sometimes, though, after slaving over the stove (or microwave as the situation calls for), the last thing I want to hear is how bad something is. Especially when I try really hard to make something different.
This is all build up for what happened the other night when I attempted to make meatloaf.
Now, growing up, I hated the stuff. I choked it down, but it was never my favorite. I would douse it in ketchup and pretend I was eating something else. As I have aged, I have given it another chance, and it's not so bad.
My mom's meatloaf always appeared normal to me. It was circular. She made it in a bundt pan. Always. I assumed this was protocol for making meat loaf. (Please stop yourself from pointing out that a 'loaf' is not circular)
The first time I made a meatloaf (about 4 years ago probably) I did the same. I will never forget the look on Jason's face when he saw me mold the meat into the bundt pan, and proclaimed, "What the HELL are you doing?"
It's really not so odd - it cooks faster and more evenly. If you're skeptical, try it. It doesn't change the taste.
Anyway, the other night I decided to try making meatloaf again. So, I pulled out a recipe from my grandmother, and set to work. I carefully combined the ingredients, chopping and mixing with love (hehe). I greased the bundt pan and packed down the well-blended mixture, and set it in the oven. Sounds normal, yes?
As it cooked, I set about making everyone a salad in their own bowl, pouring milk into sippy cups, and microwaving some mixed veggies, carefully trying to make sure everything was done at the same time. Finally, I gave Jason the go-ahead to bib and seat the kiddos. The kitchen smelled good, and I was under the assumption everything would work out.
It didn't. Not really.
When the buzzer went off and I extracted the pan from the oven, I was confused by what I saw. Water. Or, grease. Or greasy water. A lot of it. In the pan. Covering the meatloaf.
'What the hell?' I thought. 'This doesn't look like Mom's. What did I do wrong?'
Naturally, I did what any good cook would do (read: what any desperate, afraid of poisoning her family cook would do) and grabbed the turkey baster, quickly trying to get rid of the liquid that saturated my loaf. To no avail. Besides, I had no recollection of my mother "basting" her meatloaf.
So, when I had gotten rid of as much liquid as I could, all the while discussing with Jason what could have possibly happened, I said, "Well, she'd serve it on a plate - maybe I need to turn the pan over on a plate and get the meatloaf out that way."
Now, before you all assume that as I flipped the bundt pan over, the overly-juicy meatloaf cascaded to the floor, that's not where I'm going, but thanks for the vote of confidence. (Though that DOES seem like something that would happen to me…) I flipped it, and I flipped it successfully. The meatloaf got on to the plate. And I pulled the bundt pan off to examine it more closely and was greeted by the sight of a mushy, gooey blob of ground beef, sliding around the plate in its own juices.
Sounds good, doesn't it?
We ate it. Maybe that's embarrassing to admit, but we did. It was cooked, so no one got salmonella or any other bacterial infections, and it honest-to-God didn't taste that bad. It would have even been considered good. Except that you could have eaten it through a straw. Not exactly the gourmet meal I had in mind.
It was a failure reminiscent of the time I tried to cook a whole chicken, and discovered (AFTER it was cooked and tasteless and the skin slid off) that I had actually cooked it upside down on the pan and seasoned the wrong side of the chicken. F.A.I.L.
A few days later, my parents visited and I asked my mom nonchalantly, "Ma, how do you cook your meatloaf?" It was when she got to the sentence, "And then after I put the meat in the round pan, I turn it over on a broiling pan to cook so the juices run out…" that I realized that she never actually cooked it IN the bundt pan. She just used the round pan to shape the meat. Oh. I see. Giant step missed.
Bottom line, I'm not going to give up on my meatloaf. I WILL try it again, and when I do, it will actually work, I have faith.
Sort of.
History does have an awful way of repeating itself, doesn't it?
I will forgive you, readers, if you decline any future dinner invitations to my house that don't include the words "pizza delivery" or "chinese takeout."
