Before my gorgeous toddling granddaughter arrived for the holidays, I forced myself to do a few things I don’t like doing, such as cleaning, baking and pretending I’m neat.
Don’t get me wrong; it’s wonderful having family come visit. There’s no better way to discover you’ve been sleeping on sheets that are too vile for visitors and every towel you own has some mysterious discoloration that’s harmless when drying yourself but could fatally injure a guest.
I scrubbed for days, anticipating the arrival of the prodigal grandchild and her entourage: Mom, Dad, 165-pound Clyde-the-mastiff (world’s most prolific drool factory), and a 55-pound Lab mix who is all but invisible in this group. That’s good, because the holiday hound total—add my regular three dogs and two foster mutts, all in better shape than the towels—easily outnumbered the humans.
My vote, had it counted, was to take all the humans out to dinner and let professionals handle the cooking, but my daughter is the family’s Julia Child. This girl can’t serve a carrot until it’s been fileted into 78 sticks, each sautéed with a hand-tied chive bow.
At no time have I ever felt compelled to spend three hours preparing a vegetable for its untimely demise. When the kids were young and I was working 10-hour days, some shortcuts were unavoidable, but the girls always got fresh veggies. Their favorite dish was “Carrot Surprise.” You may want to jot down the recipe:
Place one carrot in an individual salad bowl. If it won’t fit, snap that rascal in half. Camouflage under pre-washed greens and serve. The first child to spear the hidden vegetable with her fork gets to yell, “Surprise!”
Perhaps that’s what inspired my daughter to start cooking at age 7. A highly perceptive, sensitive child, she feared she might otherwise starve. At least that’s what she told her second-grade teacher, who called me in for an emergency conference. That’s when I handed my apron over to the little ingrate.
Now that she’s an adult, my kitchen is her kitchen. I just stay out of the way unless summoned to provide GPS data on whatever she’s hunting down.
Her: “Mom, do you have a big mixing bowl?”
Me: “I did. Clyde’s drinking out of it.”
Her: “What about 12-inch nonstick frying pans?”
I point to the cabinet containing stuff that sat on the stove the last time I cooked.
“Mother, these pots are from, like, the ’80s,” she laments, reluctantly selecting a somewhat round, wok-ish contraption for boiling gravy. “You have an induction cooktop but not one flat-bottomed pot. They aren’t making proper contact.”
My idea of proper contact is still four bars on the cell phone I use to make dinner reservations. Besides serving food cooked in their own pots, these places have highly trained, hazardous-waste-disposal teams to clear all the mashed Fig Newtons a 1-year-old can fling. No extra charge.
After the holiday, my daughter left happy, knowing what to get me next Christmas. That probably means a connoisseur’s treasure chest of nonstick, flat-bottomed pots and pans that her mother, a woman who chops salads for one, desperately doesn’t need.
So, Foodies, please keep my contact info handy. I’ll trade for an Outback gift card, some nice towels and a few gallons of mastiff drool remover.
Jan Igoe continues to survive amid defective pots and pans, thanks to a great number of pizzerias on speed dial. She wishes everyone a delicious 2015. Write her here.