Because of this whole plan to lose weight and work out more, I’ve had to teach myself how to cook. The other night I made my first meatloaf, and I’ve otherwise roasted a chicken, made my own chicken stock, then soup, and made meatballs. My father would be quite surprised.
Scene from Helen’s early teenage years: Dad sitting at head of table finishing dinner. Grandma and mom cleaning up. Helen putting away dried silverware.
Dad: “Isn’t it time she learned how to cook?”
Silence. Shocked faces on mom, grandma, and Helen. Dad still chewing.
Helen: “I’ll learn how to cook when YOU do.”
Which explains why I don’t know how to cook – because my father certainly never did. I did at least know where the spoons went, though, which is more than I could say for him. Anyway, I find it entertaining, but only when I can’t write anymore, because otherwise, I’m the type to put an egg onto boil and forget about them until they explode and hit the ceiling. I’m not kidding; I’ve done it lots of times, and I’m usually writing or reading when I hear the *pop* in the kitchen.
My meatloaf isn’t bad, either.