Turkey Day 2019

Once, back in the day, I cooked meals. When I say meals, I don’t mean the kind of meal your grandmother would have made. Nor do I mean the kind of meal that one would expect to be served in a restaurant. Instead, I mean meals like a BLT or a tuna salad sandwich (using whole wheat bread so that it’s healthy). Sometimes I would eat something from a frozen box—something completely unidentifiable without the picture on the box. Sometimes I would open a can—but I already mentioned tuna.

In recent years my meals have devolved into things even less enjoyable. I might eat nothing all day and then fix myself a PBJ sandwich. Unless I don’t have jelly or jam, in which case I’ll spread peanut butter on bread. Unless I don’t have bread, in which case a jar of peanut butter and a spoon will suffice.

Lately, I’ve begun to cook frozen fish fillets in a toaster oven. The cooking directions are simple: 1) preheat oven to its maximum temperature, 2) place frozen fish on oven rack, 3) turn off heat when thick smoke pours from cracks around the oven door. The fish is now done, but wait a few more minutes unless you want your room to be filled with the aforementioned smoke.

In cooking, I guess I take after my mother in her later years. Allow me to illustrate what I mean with a brief anecdote.

One weekend I drove to my mother’s home to visit her. Soon after I entered the house, I noticed Mom’s microwave oven was missing.

Me: “Mom, where is your microwave oven?”

Mom: “In the backyard.”

Me: “Why is it in the backyard?”

Mom: “Firemen put it there.”

Me: “Why did firemen put your oven in the backyard?”

Mom: “It was on fire.”

I can’t deny the logic of her answer, but it begged more questions. I went to the backyard and examined the oven. The “turntable” (that round glass platter that rotates the food) had small shards of a hard, white substance fused into it. I’m guessing the shards were remnants of a ceramic pot that had become so hot it fused with the turntable. I can only speculate as to how that happened. Perhaps Mom put food in the oven and punched in 99 hours. Nor can I guess what manner of component created the smoke but, amazingly, the oven still worked. I gave it away.

My own cooking failures tend to be smaller. For example, on at least two occasions I’ve succeeded in filling the house with smoke by using the toaster to convert a slice of bread into a glowing ember the size of a Ritz cracker. Upon witnessing these disasters, my oven committed suicide in a fiery burst of electric glory. It was a sight to behold.

When I’m not burning something on the stove or in the oven, I’m burning myself with a splash of hot grease. I need one of those fireproof suits that racecar drivers wear.

“Hey VW, are you going to Nascar?”

“No, I’m going to the kitchen.”

For the sake of neighborhood safety, I was planning to forego cooking on this Thanksgiving day. Then my pal Butch invited me to have Thanksgiving dinner with him and his family. And I did. I was very glad I did.

Butch and his daughter Paula prepared the food. And, hand to heaven, the food was incredible … amazing … delicious. I stuffed myself enough for two people, and then Paula fixed me a take-home plate and I stuffed myself again the next day. I probably put on 10 pounds but who cares? There are only so many meals that good in a lifetime! And I’m not saying that because I know Butch and Paula are going to read this. I’m saying it because I want Paula to begin selling meal tickets for her home-cooked meals.

“What do you say, Paula, can I get two meal tickets? One meal for here and one to go!”

Because dinner isn’t enough. A person has to have a bedtime snack.