When Dad got up on Valentine's Day, he found a box of his favorite candy and cards from me and Dillon at his place at the table. He came into the kitchen where I was fixing my coffee. "You can just go ahead and put my name on the black list now," he began. "I didn't do anything for you for Valentine's Day." "You'll pay for it later," I assured him.
Apparently, he took my threat seriously. When I got home for lunch, there was a beautifully wrapped box of candy and a very sweet card at my place at the table. "That was very nice of you," I thanked him. "I thought I did a particularly good job on the bow," Dad replied. It was a gorgeous bow and obviously made by a professional.
"You did such a good job on the bow that you can be in charge of making all the bows for our wreaths from now on," I played along. "You can only achieve perfection once," he answered. "Practice makes perfect," I assured him.
I baked him a simple version of a black forest cake that weekend. I used a sugar-free Pillsbury chocolate cake mix and topped it with Cool Whip and sugar-free cherry pie filling. It makes a pretty cake. Last year's cake was too dry, so I doctored it up this year adding sour cream and pudding mix. I told Dad the cake was for him.
"Last year, you told me it looked better than it tasted," I said pointedly. "I guess that wasn't too smart of me," he said. "Not if you want me to keep baking for you," I agreed. There's a time and place to let someone know you'd rather they not make a particular dish for you again. He didn't choose his wisely last year.
Wednesday, February 27, 2013
Where is my hat?
I had a special bell practice last night, so instead of cooking supper, we had stuffed hot dogs, slaw and baked beans for lunch. I fixed everything on Sunday before I realized there was a screw in my tire that necessitated a trip to the tire shop on Monday. That completely screwed up my schedule.
I wrote down the cooking instructions for Dad, complete with notations to take the lid off the casserole dish the baked beans were in and to remove the foil covering the hot dogs. You can't take anything for granted when Dad is doing the cooking. Or heating in this case.
I gave Dad the news while he was eating his breakfast. "You're cooking lunch today," I began and then went on to review his instructions and timetable. He scowled. "Does this mean I have to find my chef's hat?" he quipped. "I think we can dispense with the hat," I assured him. I had to give him credit, that was a pretty funny line to come up with first thing in the morning.
It was nice to come home to a hot meal in the oven. Asking him to put it on the table would have been asking too much. I told him he'd done such a good job we might have to see about expanding his repertoire. "I'm not so sure about that," he groused. Still, I'm thinking that putting chicken pot pies in the oven shouldn't be beyond his capabilities.
I wrote down the cooking instructions for Dad, complete with notations to take the lid off the casserole dish the baked beans were in and to remove the foil covering the hot dogs. You can't take anything for granted when Dad is doing the cooking. Or heating in this case.
I gave Dad the news while he was eating his breakfast. "You're cooking lunch today," I began and then went on to review his instructions and timetable. He scowled. "Does this mean I have to find my chef's hat?" he quipped. "I think we can dispense with the hat," I assured him. I had to give him credit, that was a pretty funny line to come up with first thing in the morning.
It was nice to come home to a hot meal in the oven. Asking him to put it on the table would have been asking too much. I told him he'd done such a good job we might have to see about expanding his repertoire. "I'm not so sure about that," he groused. Still, I'm thinking that putting chicken pot pies in the oven shouldn't be beyond his capabilities.
Wednesday, February 13, 2013
What do you mean I can't eat that?
When I came home for lunch today Dad was in the kitchen. He'd just finished making his sandwich. The scent of toasted bread filled the air. He was in the act of getting his soda out of the refrigerator. I took one look at his sandwich, told him, "You can't eat that," picked it up off his plate and dumped it in the trash. The look on his face was priceless.
"What do you mean I can't eat that?" he protested, outraged. "That turkey salad is too old. If you eat it now, you risk another upset stomach." I'd made the turkey salad Sunday night so he could have it on Monday. Monday morning he woke up with an upset stomach, so turkey salad was not on the menu. Tuesday we had hot dogs and baked beans. Today was garbage day and I was planning to throw out the turkey salad.
It was made from scraps of the Christmas turkey that I'd almost waited too long to freeze, so it had a limited shelf life. Three days was too long. I'd intentionally hidden the container in the meat bin underneath a couple of other things. Dad usually gives the contents of the refrigerator a cursory look and if whatever he's looking for isn't eye level on the front of the shelf, he claims he can't find it. I didn't know he even went into the meat bin.
"Well what am I supposed to eat?" he demanded. "I don't care, but you can't eat that. Don't you have any more cans of soup in the garage?" He keeps his stash of soup separate from the soup I store in the pantry. Don't ask me why. "Yes, but I had my mouth set for turkey salad," he said. "Too bad," I said as I went in search of the peanut butter.
He rummaged in the refrigerator and came out with 1 slice of American cheese. "We don't have another package," he announced with disgust. "I didn't know you ate that. You could always use a knife and slice yourself some real cheese," I told him. He looked even more disgusted. Clearly the thought of having to slice his own cheese was too much work.
He went to get the plate his sandwich had been on. "You can't use that plate," I told him, taking it away from him and putting it back on the counter with the dirty dishes left from breakfast. "Why?" he demanded. "It has some of the turkey salad on it. You're risking contaminating your cheese and crackers and winding up with another upset stomach or food poisoning." Muttering and shaking his head, he got another plate out of the cabinet.
I was doing a NC Bar Association continuing education webcast during my lunch, so I took my peanut butter and jelly sandwich back to my study. Dad poked his head in the door a few minutes later. "The jar of peanut butter in the cabinet that you dated 9/12, can I eat that?" "Yes, you can eat that." "Well since you don't want me to eat anything else, I figured I'd better check." You'd think I was trying to starve him to death instead of prevent him from getting food poisoning. "You should be thanking me, not complaining," I called after him.
When I was doing the dishes tonight, I noticed that the turkey salad container wasn't on the counter to be washed. I looked in the meat bin. There it was. With just enough turkey salad left for one more half a sandwich. Obviously Dad had been planning on having another turkey salad sandwich tomorrow. I threw it out, laughing all over again when I remembered the look on his face when I dumped his sandwich in the trash.
I had one more package of frozen turkey scraps in the freezer. I mixed up another batch of turkey salad so he can have a turkey salad sandwich tomorrow. He can pretend it's a box of chocolates. Happy Valentine's Day.
"What do you mean I can't eat that?" he protested, outraged. "That turkey salad is too old. If you eat it now, you risk another upset stomach." I'd made the turkey salad Sunday night so he could have it on Monday. Monday morning he woke up with an upset stomach, so turkey salad was not on the menu. Tuesday we had hot dogs and baked beans. Today was garbage day and I was planning to throw out the turkey salad.
It was made from scraps of the Christmas turkey that I'd almost waited too long to freeze, so it had a limited shelf life. Three days was too long. I'd intentionally hidden the container in the meat bin underneath a couple of other things. Dad usually gives the contents of the refrigerator a cursory look and if whatever he's looking for isn't eye level on the front of the shelf, he claims he can't find it. I didn't know he even went into the meat bin.
"Well what am I supposed to eat?" he demanded. "I don't care, but you can't eat that. Don't you have any more cans of soup in the garage?" He keeps his stash of soup separate from the soup I store in the pantry. Don't ask me why. "Yes, but I had my mouth set for turkey salad," he said. "Too bad," I said as I went in search of the peanut butter.
He rummaged in the refrigerator and came out with 1 slice of American cheese. "We don't have another package," he announced with disgust. "I didn't know you ate that. You could always use a knife and slice yourself some real cheese," I told him. He looked even more disgusted. Clearly the thought of having to slice his own cheese was too much work.
He went to get the plate his sandwich had been on. "You can't use that plate," I told him, taking it away from him and putting it back on the counter with the dirty dishes left from breakfast. "Why?" he demanded. "It has some of the turkey salad on it. You're risking contaminating your cheese and crackers and winding up with another upset stomach or food poisoning." Muttering and shaking his head, he got another plate out of the cabinet.
I was doing a NC Bar Association continuing education webcast during my lunch, so I took my peanut butter and jelly sandwich back to my study. Dad poked his head in the door a few minutes later. "The jar of peanut butter in the cabinet that you dated 9/12, can I eat that?" "Yes, you can eat that." "Well since you don't want me to eat anything else, I figured I'd better check." You'd think I was trying to starve him to death instead of prevent him from getting food poisoning. "You should be thanking me, not complaining," I called after him.
When I was doing the dishes tonight, I noticed that the turkey salad container wasn't on the counter to be washed. I looked in the meat bin. There it was. With just enough turkey salad left for one more half a sandwich. Obviously Dad had been planning on having another turkey salad sandwich tomorrow. I threw it out, laughing all over again when I remembered the look on his face when I dumped his sandwich in the trash.
I had one more package of frozen turkey scraps in the freezer. I mixed up another batch of turkey salad so he can have a turkey salad sandwich tomorrow. He can pretend it's a box of chocolates. Happy Valentine's Day.
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