By Judy DeCarlo
I have not failed. I've just found 10,000 ways that won't work.
~Thomas Edison
I sure didn't buy it for the love of cooking. Meal planning and preparation were things I did more out of duty than pleasure. At the time, our daughters Christine and Mary were about nine and seven. They needed healthy, homemade meals, while I wanted them fast and easy. I was also in the throes of a mild addiction to televised home shopping.
I have not failed. I've just found 10,000 ways that won't work.
~Thomas Edison
I sure didn't buy it for the love of cooking. Meal planning and preparation were things I did more out of duty than pleasure. At the time, our daughters Christine and Mary were about nine and seven. They needed healthy, homemade meals, while I wanted them fast and easy. I was also in the throes of a mild addiction to televised home shopping.
So when I saw a "one-pot" cookbook offered on TV, I grabbed the phone and ordered one. The book had recipes for seemingly luscious meals with creative names that I was sure my family would love.
Three days later, the cookbook arrived. My supportive and consistently hungry husband, Frank, was enthusiastic that I give the recipes a try. Since his own father often worked the second shift, most of Frank's childhood meals came in the form of TV dinners.
"Mom, what's for dinner? I'm starving!" Christine, my older daughter, was right at my heels, practically climbing into the pot.
"Give me some space, here. I'm trying to cook this new recipe from that cookbook I bought on TV. Call your dad and sister, will you? It's almost ready."
"But what is it? And how can you buy a book from TV, anyway? There's no one to pay."
I caught the edge of disapproval in my daughter's questions. The girls weren't overly fond of my television shopping habit, especially when it interrupted their favorite cartoons.
"Since you're not calling them, I will. Come and get it!"
In waddled Mary, clutching "Bearie" to her chest.
"No stuffed animals at the table," I admonished. "Everybody wash their hands?"
"Yes," three voices responded.
"Good." Nearly preening with delight, I set a steaming casserole on the table.
Three pairs of eyes stared at it.
"What have we here?" my husband asked. I noted his smile looked forced.
"A one pot favorite," I quipped, poking a soup ladle into its mushy center. "It's a layered macaroni casserole. Everything's in here. There's pasta and hamburger, vegetables and seasoning — all in one pot!
"But I don't like my food touching!" Mary squealed.
"Me either, Mom. You know that," Christine complained.
"When I was a kid, I didn't like my food to touch either, but it doesn't matter," Frank said.
I smiled, thinking of those compartmentalized TV dinners.
"It doesn't matter because it all goes to the same place, anyway," he continued.
"Ew, Daddy. Gross."
After spooning out portions onto everyone's plates, we began to eat. It might not have been the most appetizing-looking dish, but it tasted fine, though the elbows were a little overdone.
"There are so many good recipes," I enthused, my fork in mid-air.
"What kind, Mommy? Could you let us know before you try any more?" Mary asked, intent at the task at hand. She had succeeded in separating her peas, carrots, and elbows into tiny piles on her plate.
"How does Continental-style country ham and noodle casserole sound? You girls like ham."
"Ham's okay, but not continental country stuff," Christine said.
Ignoring them, I dipped in the ladle for another serving.
Later that night, taking out a bag of trash, I spotted something red and shiny in the garbage can. I plucked it out and charged angrily into the girls' bedroom, not caring if they were asleep.
"What's the meaning of this? I found my new cookbook in the garbage! You never throw a book away, especially not one of mine."
Under the covers, Mary's little voice squeaked. "We don't like one-pot favorites, Mommy."
Christine piped up. "You can keep the book. Just don't make anything from it. We like it when you use lots of pots."
"We're sorry," came the chorus.
I couldn't be mad, not when they looked nearly angelic lying there. Bending over to kiss them good night, their hair smelled of grass and spring air.
Now both girls are grown and on their own, strapped for time, just like me all those years ago. I often ask them what they're eating, hoping they're not living on cereal and pizza.
Christine's go-to dish is stir-fry, using chicken, vegetables and rice. Mary simmers vegetables and sauce, and then adds them to boiled pasta. How ironic — both dishes are made in one pot.
Three days later, the cookbook arrived. My supportive and consistently hungry husband, Frank, was enthusiastic that I give the recipes a try. Since his own father often worked the second shift, most of Frank's childhood meals came in the form of TV dinners.
"Mom, what's for dinner? I'm starving!" Christine, my older daughter, was right at my heels, practically climbing into the pot.
"Give me some space, here. I'm trying to cook this new recipe from that cookbook I bought on TV. Call your dad and sister, will you? It's almost ready."
"But what is it? And how can you buy a book from TV, anyway? There's no one to pay."
I caught the edge of disapproval in my daughter's questions. The girls weren't overly fond of my television shopping habit, especially when it interrupted their favorite cartoons.
"Since you're not calling them, I will. Come and get it!"
In waddled Mary, clutching "Bearie" to her chest.
"No stuffed animals at the table," I admonished. "Everybody wash their hands?"
"Yes," three voices responded.
"Good." Nearly preening with delight, I set a steaming casserole on the table.
Three pairs of eyes stared at it.
"What have we here?" my husband asked. I noted his smile looked forced.
"A one pot favorite," I quipped, poking a soup ladle into its mushy center. "It's a layered macaroni casserole. Everything's in here. There's pasta and hamburger, vegetables and seasoning — all in one pot!
"But I don't like my food touching!" Mary squealed.
"Me either, Mom. You know that," Christine complained.
"When I was a kid, I didn't like my food to touch either, but it doesn't matter," Frank said.
I smiled, thinking of those compartmentalized TV dinners.
"It doesn't matter because it all goes to the same place, anyway," he continued.
"Ew, Daddy. Gross."
After spooning out portions onto everyone's plates, we began to eat. It might not have been the most appetizing-looking dish, but it tasted fine, though the elbows were a little overdone.
"There are so many good recipes," I enthused, my fork in mid-air.
"What kind, Mommy? Could you let us know before you try any more?" Mary asked, intent at the task at hand. She had succeeded in separating her peas, carrots, and elbows into tiny piles on her plate.
"How does Continental-style country ham and noodle casserole sound? You girls like ham."
"Ham's okay, but not continental country stuff," Christine said.
Ignoring them, I dipped in the ladle for another serving.
Later that night, taking out a bag of trash, I spotted something red and shiny in the garbage can. I plucked it out and charged angrily into the girls' bedroom, not caring if they were asleep.
"What's the meaning of this? I found my new cookbook in the garbage! You never throw a book away, especially not one of mine."
Under the covers, Mary's little voice squeaked. "We don't like one-pot favorites, Mommy."
Christine piped up. "You can keep the book. Just don't make anything from it. We like it when you use lots of pots."
"We're sorry," came the chorus.
I couldn't be mad, not when they looked nearly angelic lying there. Bending over to kiss them good night, their hair smelled of grass and spring air.
Now both girls are grown and on their own, strapped for time, just like me all those years ago. I often ask them what they're eating, hoping they're not living on cereal and pizza.
Christine's go-to dish is stir-fry, using chicken, vegetables and rice. Mary simmers vegetables and sauce, and then adds them to boiled pasta. How ironic — both dishes are made in one pot.
http://www.chickensoup.com
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