Oh my word. What am I going to do with my husband? Some days he's practically a saint who can do no wrong (in the eyes of his kids and grandkids anyway). I have lived with him for 50 years so I know better and some days I feel like I could strangle him. Today is one of those days. (He's still here so biting my tongue is my best option.)
Now that our granddaughters are growing up, going to college, acquiring boyfriends, or committing matrimony, it's getting hard to plan a family Sunday dinner.
For several years we'd meet here at our house for lunch after church or we'd congregate at one of the few restaurants in this town that can accommodate our large growing family.
Then, our son got a job that doesn’t give him every Sunday off. Slowly but surely our get-togethers became fewer and farther between. On the one hand, it took some of the strain off from feeding a couple of dozen family members every Sunday; on the other hand, I miss the cacophony.
It took some doing and about a week's worth of negotiations but this week we finally nailed down a day and time for a gathering.
I had to threaten to withhold our new grandson- in-law's birthday gift if he went riding on his motorcycle instead of enjoying a late lunch with Nana and Papa.
The most requested meal is meatloaf, fried potatoes (extra crispy), macaroni and cheese, creamed peas and cottage cheese.
When I have time I try to make homemade hot rolls and a dessert. I didn't get the hot rolls made for lack of yeast, but I do have a pecan pie in the oven. A bigger pie plate should do the trick. It's better, anyway, or I may have to give up pie baking. I'm tired of scraping charcoal pie remnants off the oven floor.
Anyway, that's about as fancy as I get. I was raised on plain, simple Southern cooking. My idea of seasoning is a little salt and pepper.
The reason for my urge to commit mariticide and why I'm biting my tongue today is...get this...he decided to give the dog a bath in the kitchen sink while I was assembling the pie!
And if that weren't bad enough, he laid the dog on a towel next to where I was working to dry her.
I counted to 10 and reminded myself to pick my battles, bit my tongue, made sure he sanitized the sink and countertop, and shoved the pie in the oven, giving it a threatening curse should it bubble over like last time.
It wouldn't be so bad but this isn't the first time he's unconsciously sabotaged my kitchen activities.
Several years ago, just as I was in the process of assembly line making eight pies, four pecan and four pumpkin, David decided this would be the time to replace our overthe- stove microwave.
Don't get me wrong; I love anything new and shiny, but timing is everything!
And pulling out the stove into the middle of our small kitchen floor, leaving a hole where the microwave used to be, and running to the local home improvement store while I'm elbow deep into baking is NOT the right time!
So here I sit sweetly asking for his assistance while I slave over the stove frying potatoes while the meatloaf in the oven sends steam my way. Biting my tongue isn't so bad.