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Tough Love

by Paul D. Molyneux

The first time my girlfriend took me to her parents’ home, we celebrated Easter with a fine meal cooked in outstanding German tradition.

After the meal, we all relaxed at the table and schmoozed in the good old universal tradition of American laziness after a holiday feast. Eventually, Linda’s father and I retired to the living room while the women finished up in the kitchen.

A few minutes later, I heard Linda’s mother’s voice carry through the doorway between the rooms.

“Do you really like this fellow?”

Silence. I assumed that Linda was nodding her head in agreement.

“Do you want to keep him?”

More silence.

“Then don’t cook for him.”

Although this evoked some terror within me, it did not come as a complete surprise. I had been around long enough to know that Linda possessed a limited repertoire in the kitchen. Sandwiches and that disgusting boxed macaroni with powdered cheese were the main dietary staples for her and her daughter, Ashley.

Seeing my ears perk at that last statement, Linda’s father quickly informed me that the last guy to dated her ended up in the hospital after eating a meal that she had cooked. Even after her father explained that the poor guy’s hospitalization came from a coincidental attack of appendicitis and not from the evening’s culinary concoctions, I still felt uneasy. I dearly love to eat.

On the rare occasion when Linda felt inspired to make an entrée, the repertoire consisted of just two possibilities. One was ham with macaroni—nothing else—just ham and macaroni. A little seasoning would have done wonders for the palate.

The crowning glory of her culinary expertise was her tuna salad. It’s not what you think. If the recipe were printed in conventional format, it would look something like this:

Ingredients

1 box macaroni 2 large carrots lindadiced

1 can tuna celery lindadiced (optional)

Directions

Place entire box of macaroni (spaghetti, linguini, whatever) in a pot. Add just enough water to cover. Cook over medium to low heat. That way you never worry about it boiling over.

Perform the lindadice on the carrots and the optional celery. Lindadice means no more than 15 seconds is allowed for dicing the vegetables. Any pieces smaller than 2” are a mistake and should be discarded. The fewer knife strokes, the better.

When you grow tired of waiting for the pasta, it’s done. Dump everything into a bowl—hot pasta, raw carrots, and tuna. Stir three or four times. Add mayonnaise two or three drops per stir. Don’t overdo it; creamy is not the goal here. Use just enough to make the whole thing sticky. Forego all seasoning—it might upset your stomach.

Serve immediately (or later).

We plighted our troth the following July and our life together proceeded with few hitches. Since I was a teacher, the summer vacation allowed me time to prepare the meals. Both Linda and Ashley learned to eat new things and we all escaped any serious nutritional deficiencies. However, one other disaster from the early days remains in my memory because it manifests itself regularly in a recurring nightmare.

When school started, Linda assumed many of the cooking duties. Because I had marching band practice after school, she prepared the evening meals. One Tuesday, after a particularly frustrating practice session, I looked forward to a calm supper and a quiet evening with my family.

As I opened the front door, a delicious aroma filled my nostrils. I knew that something was amiss when Ashley met me at the door and whispered, “Don’t say anything. Just eat it!”

As Linda approached I noticed tear stains cheeks on her cheeks. As soon as our eyes met, the tears returned. As I took her in my arms, she blubbered, “I just wanted supper to be special, but I ruined it.”

“It can’t be that bad,” I said, remembering Ashley’s warning. “Let’s take a look. I’ll bet it's salvageable.”

She followed me reluctantly into the kitchen. Full place settings, a tablecloth, candles, and flowers graced the table. At two of the places were full plates of barely touched food, but no signs of serving dishes with more "stuff." I inwardly resolved to eat whatever she placed in front of me, no matter what it was.

I sat in my usual chair and asked for a sample of the fried chicken that I noticed on the other plates. It's golden brown appearance was quite tempting.

When Linda brought out the platter, I grabbed a thigh and, with a flourish, tried to gnaw off a bite. The flavor was terrific, but the vulcanized texture defied penetration. I glanced at Ashley and she hid her face to avoid any possibility of giggling.

“The flavor is great. It tastes like my mother’s recipe,” I said and laid down the misshapen B.F. Goodrich reject. “Remember how I told you that my brother and I raised all the chickens in the freezer?”

“Yes.”

“You just picked the wrong chicken, that’s all. This is that three-year-old rooster that we kept for a stewer. It needs to be pressure cooked for about two hours.”

I got no response, so I plowed on. “What do we have to go with it?” I asked, forcing a grin.

Without a comment, Linda produced two bowls from the refrigerator. The green beans weren’t bad, once I removed the three-quarter inch layer of butter that had solidified on the top. The mashed potatoes were quite lumpy and they contained so much butter that they were bright yellow. With a moderate amount of labor, a lot of resolve, and some help from the microwave, I managed to make the veggies disappear.

“These potatoes would be really great with some gravy on them.”

I wanted to bite off my tongue. As soon as those words escaped my lips, the tears doubled, accompanied by sobbing, and a weak, “I tried.”

“Honey, don’t cry. Show it to me. There are a lot of ways to fix gravy problems.”

She cried harder and plodded across the room to the wastebasket. Reaching down inside, she retrieved a large cooking spoon. Glued to the end of it was a huge piece of gravy which was exactly the size and shape of our cast iron skillet. “I didn’t know how to make gravy,” she said, “so I called your mother and she helped me over the phone.”

“Okay.” The sight of her standing there holding that huge grease lollipop nearly caused me to lose my composure. “You must have misunderstood something. What did she tell you?”

“She said to mix a little flour in some water and then add it to the stuff in the pan.”

“How much flour did you use?”

“Only one cup.”

That did it. I lost it; I laughed out loud. Ashley fled the scene, panicked at what disaster I might have evoked. Linda was so furious that I honestly saw my death as imminent.

Only quick-thinking genius could saved my hide. I stood up and gave her a hug to protect me from the possibility of physical attack. I took out my car keys and announced, “Anybody for Ponderosa?”