by Beth Goodman

Disclaimers: None whatsoever. Oh, maybe a spew alert.

Feedback is always welcome: bethgoodman@e-scribblers.com.

Copyright © 2004 by Beth Goodman. All Rights Reserved.

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Now mom can be a great cook, but when you factor in the fact that she gets really hostile if you try to correct her about something, and that decades of smoking have killed off her taste buds, things can be a little scary. While Granny was alive, the biggest problem was usually just over-salting, and we could deal with that. Mom used to make wonderful chili, but we'd have to add extra tomatoes and stuff to balance it out.

As mom has gotten older, the problems have gotten worse. Especially the part about her accepting any kind of input from me. Don't get me wrong here, I myself am a terror in the kitchen -- my stove screams if I get too close, but I will accept constructive criticism. Frankly though, I'd rather choke down some of mom's mistakes than deal with her wrath when I try to help.

As a case in point, mom got a recipe for green chili from my sister-in-law, that made great green chili -- BUT mom insisted that jalapeños and green chilies are the same thing. Not by a long shot. Green chilies are a nice mild chili that can be used in large quantities in recipes -- jalapeños are used to spice things up. I had tried to get mom to buy green chilies instead of the jalapeños and got my head handed to me, so I kept quiet and resigned myself to my fate.

The finished product could take paint off a car. When time came to eat this stuff, I thanked God for my tolerance for spicy foods and put it over a baked potato and had a large glass of milk handy. I told mom how much I enjoyed it, but that it was pretty hot. My current step-father, who is an old Texas cowboy and knows his peppers, wouldn't go near the stuff. Mom tried to eat it straight from a bowl and it just about blew the top of her head off. Once she recovered, she asked "How could you eat this?" and I lied, I know I lied, because I sure couldn't tell her she had given me lots of practice in choking down scary food over the years.

The ultimate dining terror, though, were the pheasant mcnuggets. Mom was working at a taxidermy shop and I had come for a visit. The whole time I'm there she keeps telling me: "We're gonna have pheasant while you're here!" Frankly, I couldn't care less, but she was excited about it so I told her I was looking forward to it. Then one day she pops off with "You, know, the taxidermy shop doesn't use the meat." Oh God, help me, please. So, one evening, mom hauls out a package of frozen pheasant bits she brought home from the shop and tosses them into the electric skillet. To add to the horror, mom never gets the skillet hot enough to actually fry stuff, it just kind of sits there and soaks up warm grease. So there I sat, staring at my plate of pheasant mcnuggets, wishing for a sudden lightning strike to save me. Did I eat it? Yes -- one piece. I managed to hide the rest and dump them in the trash without getting busted.

After that, I always made a point of "giving Mom a break" and doing the cooking whenever I came to visit. Just ask anyone who knows me, it must be serious if I'm volunteering to cook anything!

Now I know you're wondering why I don't just tell mom her cooking is not quite up to snuff. Well, I have two reasons. One, I'm not stupid, and two, I love her and she tries her best. Number two is really the important one for me, as much as I shudder at some of the memories, I don't want to fight with Mom or hurt her feelings. I mean honestly, she's not the only source of bad food in my life, I've made some humdingers for myself. Fortunately, there's always peanut butter.

Take me to Life With Granny 16...

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