Monthly Archives: January 2024

Jackie Wells-Fauth

There was an old show years ago called “Green Acres.” On that show Eva Gabor played a socialite-turned-farmwife who was a terrible cook. She made one particular dish that she pronounced something like “hoss-cakes.” They were pancakes (or hotcakes)  that she cooked so horribly that they came out like hard, white hockey-pucks.

I was thinking about this the other day as I was whipping up a batch of pancakes for lunch on one of those cold, cold days. Because as I took the pancakes out of the pan, they very much resembled those “hoss-cakes.” They were thick, and hard and tasted like chalk and I’m pretty sure that a reasonably skilled hockey player could have hit one into the goal without much damage—at least not to the pancake. And that’s not even the worst cooking disaster I have ever had.

Now, I’m no socialite like the hapless Eva Gabor, but my cooking talents are much like hers. I’m not sure exactly how I got the cooking job in our family, but I think it’s because my husband likes cooking even less than I do.

And that is why he attempted to eat those hockey pucks without complaint. I had one bite and got up and, with that bite lying heavily in my stomach, proceeded to scramble some eggs—something even  I rarely mess up.

My husband politely took a small helping of the eggs, but after another bite of the “hoss-cake” he emptied the egg platter and made himself a piece of toast to go with it. I put the rest of the pancakes down on the floor next to the dog dish. She sniffed it once and then looked at me like, “You have to be kidding if you think I’m touching those. How about some eggs?”

Another cooking disaster to add to the long list of cooking disasters that I have written about so fondly over the years. And the list is so incredibly long.

I’m not completely ignorant, you know. I know there are people out there who cook very well. My own family has some wonderful cooks. My cousin, Diane, makes a homemade jelly that she could sell to Buckingham Palace and my cousin, Melody cooks masterpieces for which she uses no recipe. Then there are the husbands out there who happily take on the cooking chores because they “like cooking.”

I keep telling my husband that he needs to take some of the cooking chores. I’ll happily mow the lawn and change the oil on the car if he will just throw something on the stove that comes out edible. I know he can do some things, because he frequently volunteers to do the grilling of the steaks because he doesn’t like to eat shoe leather and he does make a better fried egg breakfast than I could ever do. So, I have spent some time trying to rearrange the chores around the house—and don’t tell him but the way I would change the oil on the car is to take it to the mechanic’s shop.

I guess it’s too late to teach this old dog some new cooking tricks and I have never figured out a way to enjoy the work. If the baked fish isn’t underdone in the middle, then I manage to singe the edges all the way around on the bacon. I can slap a potato in the oven for baking, but don’t ask me to mash it (smoothly) hashbrown it (evenly) or French fry it (at all). Cooking just ain’t my thing.

So now, with the “hoss-cake” episode added to my major cooking disasters, I will continue the argument Roy and I keep having about what I should do: he says I should take some cooking classes and I say I should hire a cook! I’ll let you know how that comes out and if you want my pancake recipe, you’ll find it at the bottom of my garbage can!

Jackie Wells-Fauth

As I have grown older and my daughter has had children, I have discovered that I must learn a new language. That language is called “Grandson.” And despite my headline, I do not speak it fluently, even after 13 years, but I do try. It doesn’t help that the language changes as the grandson ages.

My eldest (hereafter referred to as Eldest so he can’t sue me for libel) grandson has always relied heavily on gestures and looks. He’s really very good at it. For instance, he has perfected the “Grandma’s done lost her mind,” look.

The “Grandma’s Done Lost her Mind,” look appears when I give him something that he thinks may be beneath him in maturity. For Halloween, I thought it would be cute to get each of the grandsons a skeleton to hang on their doors and thus be festively prepared for the holiday. The younger two opened their skeletons and immediately played with them or tried to scare each other with them or whatever. Generally, they were having fun and at that point, not questioning Grandma’s sanity.

I have a photo, however, of the Eldest. He is carefully unwrapping the skeleton, removing all pieces of paper that are stuck in the ribcage or wrapped around the feet. And the look on his face communicated it all: “Grandma has done lost her mind. What am I going to do with this collection of bones?” He was polite and he said to me, “Thanks for the…skeleton thingy.” I know that expression. When you call something a “thingy” that means it’s probably beneath your contempt, but you love your Grandmother (even though she’s done lost her mind), so you try to be polite.

He also has some sighs that convey quite a message. When he was here in October, he decided he wanted some apples from our tree to go home and make an apple crisp. I was charmed. While he was picking the apples, I said to the Eldest, “Now, when you get the apple crisp made, be sure to take a picture and send it to me.” Eldest heaved the biggest, long-suffering sigh you’ve ever heard, shook his head slowly and solemnly and said in his most patient voice, “Oh, Grandma.” Yes, yes, I know, Grandma’s done lost her mind!

The little one (hereafter referred to as Wild Man—you figure it out) is much simpler in his Grandson language, even though he has command of fewer words. His theory has always been “Grandma’s old and fading fast, so be direct.” On a recent visit, I awakened in the morning to find him by my bed, peering into my face. As soon as I came back down from the ceiling where I leapt with a scream, he got down to business. “Hi, Gamma. Wild Man awake.” (He used his own name, but I don’t want him to sue me either).  

After scaring the life out of me, he took my hand, and led me from the room. “Okay,” I said, figuring my heart was off to a good start, “let’s go get you dressed for the day.”  He let go of my hand long enough to grab a package of baby wipes as he walked by, “Pants yucky,” he announced in his usual direct fashion. It’s just as well to have that conversation and interaction when you are still half asleep!

I have always depended upon the middle one (hereafter known as Middle Ground) to be the easiest on his grandmother when it comes to Grandson language. He’s a pretty easy-going guy most times. He’s quick with a smile and a hug and he dearly loves to beat his grandmother at War. In recent times he has, however, taken up the hobby of Lego-building. He’s quick at it, nimble in his operation and never fails to make his point with what he builds.

That’s why Middle Ground kind of threw me for a loop this weekend. He visited my house when I was not there and spent the night as a break on a longer journey. No doubt, he was working on some Lego projects, or even dearer to his grandmother’s heart—reading a book. However, Middle Ground left some of his Legos behind on my desk. If you check the picture above you will see them…exactly as he posed them when he left them there.

Now, I’m not entirely sure what this means in Grandson language, but Middle Ground has left me with something of a dilemma: I’m supposing one of those characters is supposed to be his grandmother—do I want to be the dinosaur who is such a monster she eats people; or do I want to be the poor schmuck getting eaten? So far, his only verbal comments are a laugh and the admission that he is the guy who staged the scene. So I ask you—is he trying to tell me in grandson language that I should be worried???? I need to work on my fluency!