Tag Archives: cooking

Have some teriyaki sauce with that apple braid

Last week, I went to the grocery store, as usual. I bought a dozen eggs, three cans of tomato sauce, some cinnamon and some teriyaki sauce for stir fry. I came home and opened my food cupboard doors and tried to put these items in (except the eggs) and they came flying back out, along with a number of other items already in the cupboard, including tomato sauce, cinnamon and teriyaki sauce. The eggs, I put in the refrigerator…on top of two other cartons of eggs.

Roy picked up the two bottles of cinnamon spice from the floor and asked, “Why did you buy more of things you already have? They won’t fit in the cupboard as it is.”

“That’s the problem,” I began defensively, “I don’t have enough cupboard space and that means I don’t know what I have, so I buy more of it. I should really have a pantry.”

“If we had a pantry, you’d have enough stuff in it to survive a nuclear holocaust and the zombie apocalypse,” he predicted. “Clean out these cupboards and use some of what we have.”

I threw a package of butterscotch pudding at his retreating back. It’s okay, I could spare it since I have four others and that one was expired anyway.

I’ve always had a reputation as a bit of a hoarder, but it’s really only because I’m disorganized. Without telling Roy that he was right, I decided to go ahead and clean those cupboards and get an inventory. That way, I could plan meals around what I have. Makes sense, doesn’t it? Cupboards were cleaned and the first meal from the contents of it was on the table that evening.

“What’s this?” Roy said, approaching the table with caution. “I smell…well, I can’t really decide what I smell.”

“I made a little sauce for the chicken,” I told him proudly. “I made it with the ingredients of the cupboard and a few eggs…I seem to have a lot of eggs.”

We sat down to the meal and Roy took several manful bites before he put down his knife and fork in some haste.

“Okay, I’m not sure what’s in your sauce, but the flavors don’t seem to be working together,” he began, feeling his way cautiously through this food mine field.

“I used powdered sugar, dry brown rice, brown sugar, teriyaki sauce and pumpkin pie spice,” I said. “It’s a daring combination.”

Before I was done giving him the list, he was up and scraping his plate in the garbage. “Why in the world would you use a combination like that?” his face was screwed up in distaste.

“I had three bags of brown rice, five bottles of teriyaki sauce, a container and three more bags of brown sugar and eight of those containers of pumpkin pie spice,” I answered unhappily, adding, “You said use what I have.”

“And the powdered sugar?” he asked testily, patently ignoring my attempt to shift the blame onto him. “Why did you put that in?”

“I have three bags in the cupboard and about eight more in the freezer,” I said, counting on my fingers, “I could coat the entire driveway with a layer of powdered sugar.”

“Maybe you should,” he said through gritted teeth as he made himself a peanut butter sandwich…using the only jar of peanut butter I had.

“Oh, no! I need some to frost the apple braids we are having for dessert,” I answered brightly.

“Apple braids! One of those things will feed eight people. Oh, let me guess, you have a lot of them.”

I opened the freezer and two packages of the apple braid fell out, “I counted seven of them up here and I haven’t looked in the basement freezer.”

“Well, at least we’ll get a powdered sugar frosting, that’s normal anyway,” he sighed, looking them over as they sat on the counter. “What are those lumps in the frosting?”

“Frozen corn,” I answered. “The freezer’s pretty full too and I have six bags of the corn.”

Now, I don’t need your criticism, dear readers…I need you to take some basil leaves and sage off my hand…I’ve got a little extra!

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Serving two helpings of sick for supper

I have a recurring fantasy. I will be on my deathbed, ready for my final words of love and affection from my family. Roy will lean over the bed, take my hand tenderly and whisper in my ear, “What were you thinking about fixing for supper?” That is, if he lives longer than me…which he won’t if he asks that question too often.

Everyone knows that not only am I a mediocre cook, I also don’t much enjoy it. Somehow, when Roy and I got married, I must have missed the part which said that I would do all the cooking. The sad part of this is that Roy is a much better cook—he just hates it even more than I do.

Over the years, it has been his mission to make sure I end up with the cooking. He happily mows lawn, tends garden, even does some laundry. But inevitably, no matter what, he asks that question: “What are you planning for supper?”

It doesn’t matter the circumstances. I have come home at 9 o’clock at night, dragged in the door, dropped my things and been ready to follow them down and he will be sitting at the empty table and no matter how dangerous I might look, he always sings out, “What are you planning for supper? I’m starved!”

His perseverance in this little ceremony even extends to illnesses. I can be laid out on the bed, wheezing like a noisy radiator, smeared in smelly Vicks and he will come in, look me over and say, “What will you be fixing for supper? Soup would be good for you.”


Dinner preparation of the sick…

I sniff up the snot sliding down my nose, slurp up the drool that has been coming from my mouth and suggest that he do something with himself that is anatomically impossible. He leaves and inevitably I will feel sorry for him and go out to fix him something. He never seems to mind eating a meal that has been fixed by his disease-ridden wife and even worse, he never seems to get the disease!

The only thing he invariably agrees to cook are steaks on the grill. First, he loves steak. Second, he thinks it’s expensive meat. And third, without even trying, I burn it on the grill more often than I don’t. So, if I really want the night off of cooking, I am likely to propose steaks on the grill. It’s the only time I hear those magical words, “I’ll cook it.”

So, that’s actually going to be the end of that final fantasy. When Roy leans over to ask what’s for supper, instead of saying, “I’m dying, you insensitive rat!” I’m going to reply softly, “Well, I was thinking I’d make steaks on the grill one more time.” He will stand up, head for the door, and announce to anyone listening, “Where’s my lighter? I’ve got to get that grill warm before I start the steaks.”

© Jackie Wells-Fauth and Drops In the Well, 2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Jackie Wells-Fauth and Drops In The Well with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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