By Heather Davis
My cooking is so bad my kids thought Thanksgiving was to commemorate Pearl Harbor.
~Phyllis Diller
It was my hope that I could, between Thanksgiving and Christmas, cook our meals at home. It would be healthier than picking up fast food. It would be more economical than heading out to the chips and salsa place every other night. As I made my Martha-Stewart-esque decision, I had visions of us sitting around the candlelit table using the Christmas dishes and laughing with each other right before we broke into "Silent Night" sung in three-part harmony. Idyllic to say the least...
My cooking is so bad my kids thought Thanksgiving was to commemorate Pearl Harbor.
~Phyllis Diller
It was my hope that I could, between Thanksgiving and Christmas, cook our meals at home. It would be healthier than picking up fast food. It would be more economical than heading out to the chips and salsa place every other night. As I made my Martha-Stewart-esque decision, I had visions of us sitting around the candlelit table using the Christmas dishes and laughing with each other right before we broke into "Silent Night" sung in three-part harmony. Idyllic to say the least...
For heaven's sake, why couldn't I pull off this "cooking at home" bit for a month?
Why couldn't I? Basketball, choir, play practice, Christmas parties, deliveries, shopping, groceries, play dates... But, that didn't stop me from trying.
I could have cooked ahead, but that requires more planning than I am capable of doing at this time of year with the family that I live with (which is my own family, by the way). I could have plugged in the Crock-Pot in the mornings and done some cooking, but the last three times I dumped a dish in the Crock-Pot, I came home to find that the dish had not cooked because I had not turned ON the Crock-Pot. Mornings are not my best time of day.
Despite all the pitfalls that seem to line my life's path on any given day, I decided that cooking at home would be completely and totally do-able. Nooo... I was not drunk when I made that decision. Not even tipsy!
It was one crazy evening where both of our daughters had basketball practice and we'd been up early to get to choir on time and we'd delivered dozens of pounds of pecans and still, in an effort to be economical and healthy, I attempted to cook dinner at home. It was ten minutes till seven and I was still chopping and mincing and boiling and sipping the sangria.... If I was going to be cooking this much, I was going to have to get in the right frame of mind.
I peeked around the corner of the kitchen to find my hubby snoozing in the recliner, my younger daughter doing cartwheels in the living room, and my first-born baby — God bless her precious heart — in the dining room making some sort of mess that I would clean up two days later. I was slaving in the kitchen preparing a healthy, economical meal for my family when a blue box of the cheesy goodness would have been met with more enthusiasm and would have taken half the time.
My older daughter snuck into the kitchen and cozied up to me with her arm around my waist. "Momma?" she began and I sucked in my breath. I just knew she'd ask me when dinner would be ready — the question that drives Mommas the whole world over to scream and throw food in their very own kitchens. Instead, she took a very deep breath and said, "Why are you trying to be Super Momma? Isn't it more important to be with your family than in the kitchen?"
My shoulders slumped. I squeezed her tight to me. A lump grew in my throat and tears pooled in my eyes. I loved my baby. She had helped me to see that even the best of intentions will rob us of the day's blessings. She spoke again, "Why don't you put this meal up and let's go out to eat?"
I kissed the top of her ever-growing head, nodded and said, "Sure, honey. Let's go...."
At which time, she broke free of my hold as if I were holding kryptonite to her Super Daughter act and hollered, "She caved, y'all! Let's go," and in a matter of SECONDS, my baby and my hubby had their coats on and the three of them were sitting in the van.
I quickly packed away my chopped and diced and minced foods for another night and as I stepped into the garage, my smarty-pants daughter rolled down her window and hollered, "Get a move on, Momma! We're starving out here!"
Why didn't Norman Rockwell ever paint pictures of THAT scene?
Why couldn't I? Basketball, choir, play practice, Christmas parties, deliveries, shopping, groceries, play dates... But, that didn't stop me from trying.
I could have cooked ahead, but that requires more planning than I am capable of doing at this time of year with the family that I live with (which is my own family, by the way). I could have plugged in the Crock-Pot in the mornings and done some cooking, but the last three times I dumped a dish in the Crock-Pot, I came home to find that the dish had not cooked because I had not turned ON the Crock-Pot. Mornings are not my best time of day.
Despite all the pitfalls that seem to line my life's path on any given day, I decided that cooking at home would be completely and totally do-able. Nooo... I was not drunk when I made that decision. Not even tipsy!
It was one crazy evening where both of our daughters had basketball practice and we'd been up early to get to choir on time and we'd delivered dozens of pounds of pecans and still, in an effort to be economical and healthy, I attempted to cook dinner at home. It was ten minutes till seven and I was still chopping and mincing and boiling and sipping the sangria.... If I was going to be cooking this much, I was going to have to get in the right frame of mind.
I peeked around the corner of the kitchen to find my hubby snoozing in the recliner, my younger daughter doing cartwheels in the living room, and my first-born baby — God bless her precious heart — in the dining room making some sort of mess that I would clean up two days later. I was slaving in the kitchen preparing a healthy, economical meal for my family when a blue box of the cheesy goodness would have been met with more enthusiasm and would have taken half the time.
My older daughter snuck into the kitchen and cozied up to me with her arm around my waist. "Momma?" she began and I sucked in my breath. I just knew she'd ask me when dinner would be ready — the question that drives Mommas the whole world over to scream and throw food in their very own kitchens. Instead, she took a very deep breath and said, "Why are you trying to be Super Momma? Isn't it more important to be with your family than in the kitchen?"
My shoulders slumped. I squeezed her tight to me. A lump grew in my throat and tears pooled in my eyes. I loved my baby. She had helped me to see that even the best of intentions will rob us of the day's blessings. She spoke again, "Why don't you put this meal up and let's go out to eat?"
I kissed the top of her ever-growing head, nodded and said, "Sure, honey. Let's go...."
At which time, she broke free of my hold as if I were holding kryptonite to her Super Daughter act and hollered, "She caved, y'all! Let's go," and in a matter of SECONDS, my baby and my hubby had their coats on and the three of them were sitting in the van.
I quickly packed away my chopped and diced and minced foods for another night and as I stepped into the garage, my smarty-pants daughter rolled down her window and hollered, "Get a move on, Momma! We're starving out here!"
Why didn't Norman Rockwell ever paint pictures of THAT scene?
http://www.chickensoup.com
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