I’m No Betty Crocker
I’m a disappointment to my husband’s grandmother
I created a new dish last night. Broiled Brownies. It is a lot like baked brownies but they smell bad and don’t taste as good. I’m still convinced that the cat somehow jumped from cabinet to floor while shifting the oven dial from 350 degrees to Broil. It is just as likely that I did something that screwed it up. I am no cook.
One time I was asked to enter a recipe for a church cookbook, so I typed up the instructions for making Cheese Toast using Kraft Singles. Cheese Toast is best when cooked on Broil if you have an electric oven. A gas oven just won’t create the perfect Cheese Toast like I grew up eating. My mother once told me that if I had cheese, bread, and Pepsi, I would always be happy. I don’t know how she missed the chocolate!
Broiling the brownies to the point of the entire house smelling like some sort of chemical factory last night made me think of all the times I’ve had cooking mishaps. I reiterate, I am no cook. I can cook. I have cooked. Sometimes, I’ve cooked things that turned out really well and tasty. Last Thanksgiving, I attempted my Mom’s dressing recipe and it was DELICIOUS. Even my kids liked it and said it tasted just like hers. But, it takes a lot of concentration for me. It does not come naturally.
One of the first things Hubby’s grandmother ever said to me when I met her at the age of 15 was, “Can you cook?” I laughed. I thought she was kidding. She was not. She continued to ask me if I had learned to cook until she died. We had been married eight years by then and it was a constant concern of hers that I wasn’t making progress on the cooking front. Hubby has always done most of the cooking. That doesn’t mean there haven’t been moments when I’ve tried.
When we were first married, he was in classes in the evenings. I had made our tiny little duplex with its absolutely horrible carpet as cute as anyone could make it. It was country blues and greens everywhere. There were valences over the windows. It was 1991 and I wanted to be the best little wife one could be. So, often I tried to have dinner ready for him when he came in from class — the whole supper on the table waiting for my man thing. Usually, that meant Hamburger Helper.
We ate A LOT of Hamburger Helper in those days. Sometimes I would make actual hamburgers. One day I was feeling ambitious, though I didn’t really have an idea of how ambitious it was. I looked up a fried chicken recipe in a church cookbook. I mixed up the batter just like the instructions said. I dipped the raw chicken in it and attempted to fry. It was easy! It didn’t take long at all. Soon there were beautiful pieces of light browned and battered chicken. I’m sure there was Kraft Macaroni and Cheese and canned green beans as sides along with rolls. There are always rolls.
Hubby came home. We sat down at our dining room table to eat this amazing meal cooked by the best wife in all the world. When we cut into the chicken, the batter split open to reveal absolutely raw pieces of meat. Pink, still cold, raw chicken wrapped in a pancake. I’ve never tried to fry chicken again.
Not too long ago, I decided I would have dinner on the table for Hubby when he came in from work. I’ve learned my weaknesses, so all I did was turn on the oven, take frozen lasagna out of a box, and put it in to cook. Hubby came home and was just glad that he didn’t have to unwrap and cook it. When the timer went off, I went to take it out of the oven and it was still frozen in places. This had been over an hour of cooking.
“I don’t know what I’ve done wrong. Do you think something is wrong with the oven? The only thing I did differently was the kind of pan I put it on.”
Hubby asked me what kind of pan I used. I had just grabbed the top of the broiler pan. I don’t know if it has a specific name, but it has holes in it. It never occurred to me that those holes would make that big of a difference in how a frozen lasagna baked! I’m no cook. I’m no engineer either. I switched the pan and the lasagna was ready in no time.
When my family gathers for holidays, I’m almost always in charge of bread. It seems the easiest thing to give the one who can’t cook. I usually bring Sister Schubert rolls from the frozen food aisle. When Mom tells me it is time, I take them out of the bag, place them on a cookie sheet, and put them in the oven to heat them just in time for dinner to begin. There have been at least two times in recent years that the bottoms of the rolls were so burned that you couldn’t eat them. I would cook more, but use a knife to cut the bottoms off of the first batch. The kids were happy enough to eat the tops! My sister-in-law enjoys bringing this up every time we are together.
I’ve burnt toast. I’ve let all the water boil out of a pot before I remembered to add the noodles. I’ve absolutely destroyed a microwave just trying to melt some Velveeta. And, last night I invented broiled brownies. They aren’t very good. I don’t imagine it will be the new thing at the fancy restaurants.
It IS possible to salvage them by scooping out the middle — a combination of charred pieces of batter next to liquid batter — and adding three scoops of ice cream on top.
Sorry, Hubby’s grandmother. I still can’t cook.
