My Life - Chapter 38 - What's Cooking

Steak and baked potato at Fitzgerald's
Supper Club. 2/12/2016 dwm photo

I don't think my two boys will believe me, but I was better in the kitchen than their paternal grandfather.

Now that doesn't say much and I'm thankful both sons are light years beyond my best day in front of a stove.

I grew up in a house where Dad worked and Mom stayed home.

We sat down together in the morning for breakfast as a family, eating cereal with toast, juice, and hot tea that mom got up early to prepare.  

In third grade, when we lived on the same block as school, I'd come home for lunch where mom had a sandwich and glass of milk waiting for me.

Supper was basic food prepared throughout the day.  Dad called to let Mom know when he was leaving work, meaning we'd sit down to eat in less than 15 minutes.  Mom didn't do a lot of baking.  She showed me how to make chocolate chip cookies one time.  Most of the time, the cookies in our house were made by Keebler elves or the wizards of Oreo.

I learned how to use the oven and during high school was able to fend for myself for the occasional lunch or supper if my folks had a meeting.  Supper was usually a Tombstone pizza with a chocolate malt made with ice cream, Hershey's syrup, and malt.

There wasn't any real training before heading to college, but by the time I had my own apartment my last two semesters, I did my own shopping and made my own meals.

I could make spaghetti, hamburgers, or whip up a plate of Kraft's macaroni and cheese.  There was no three-course meal, but I didn't starve.

While there was a never a conversation along these lines, there must have been an assumption on all sides that my eventual family would look like the home where I lived.  

37 years later, I can't say that's good, but I know I've been blessed.