Julia Childs Does Not Live Here

Julia Childs Does Not Live Here

My husband likes to cook, and he's good at it.

Bill can prepare four-course meals out of five, basic ingredients. I don't like to cook. I forget to add salt, pepper, and anything else that might give my cookery a smidgen of taste.

I am the sous-chef to his masterclass performance. In gastronomic terms, I wash the dishes.

When I lost my job, it became very difficult for me to justify not cooking. What with being home all day, it was only fair that I take control of the family’s culinary requirements. I lost 15 pounds in February. My daughter lost 10. My husband, 45. All because of my cooking skills.

           Tonight, we’re having breakfast, for supper. It’s a family favorite and a straight-forward undertaking. No tricky ingredients, no recipe books, minimal measurements required. Having learned from past experiences, I’ve made a list and checked it twice. Eggs, bacon, ham, toutons, canned beans, all present and accounted for. There will be no frantic trips to the corner store. No running next door to borrow a cup of sugar, a bag of flour, a teaspoon of salt, or a dash of pepper.  

           Breakfast for supper requires zero prep time. Last week, I attempted a fancy dish that was supposed be fried in whisky and then ignited, while still on the stove.

Note to self: Return the neighbor’s fire extinguisher.

Breakfast for supper is a brilliant concept. I mean, it works for breakfast too, but it’s a lot of food early in the day, and often leads to an afternoon nap. An afternoon nap is not a bad thing, it’s just not my thing. Bill whips up a mishmash of food on Sunday mornings while I enjoy a leisurely coffee, or two. Tantalizing aromas float through the house as I read the weekend newspaper. Heaven must smell like bacon.  

Full disclosure: I’ve never actually prepared a breakfast feast, but how difficult can it be?

“You can do it,” my inner cheerleader chants. “You can make your home smell heavenly. You should add pancakes. And strawberries.”

Excited, I text the family group chat. They like to know in advance my plans for dinner. I’m not sure why. Lately, our daughter has been skipping our daily family meal, and hubby’s appetite isn’t as robust as it used to be.

“Breakfast for supper,” I tap. “Easy, peasy.”

“Any special requests, lol.”

Our daughter, Deborah, answers immediately. I swear that kid lives with her phone in her hand. “Scrambled eggs with almond milk, turkey bacon, whole grain toutons, fat-free ham, no beans. Please.”

           Ummm, what?

           My phone pings before I can seek clarification. A private message from Bill appears on the screen. “Deb is fussy about breakfast,” he types. “Are you sure you want to go there?”

           I don’t type back immediately. Ninety-nine percent of text messages are taken out of context. I learned that the hard way. “Almond milk. Whole grain toutons. Fat-free ham,” I read from my tiny screen. “Turkey bacon sounds like a terrible idea. Why is that even a thing?”

           “Not sure I can make that happen,” I respond to the group. “Not planning to drop by the grocery store today. See you at supper time.”

           “Yes mom, I know, it’s complicated,” zings the response.

“Maybe you could make something less, ah, debatable," Bill adds. “Like chicken. We liked the blacked chicken recipe you did last week.”

           “That was burned chicken, dad. Not blackened. Burned.”

            Closing my eyes, I inhale, deeply. Breath out. Repeat.

“Namaste, momma,” I chant. “Namaste.”

           Grabbing my keys, I head out the door, a woman on a mission. Supper will be breakfast. Breakfast will be served for supper. And there will be pancakes.

            Note to self: Almond milk does not taste like almonds; turkey bacon does not taste like turkey. Whole grain bread dough does not rise; fat-free ham might as well be turkey bacon.

           Three hours and four grocery stores later I arrive back home. I have everything Deb requested plus fresh strawberries, to pretty up the plates.

I am on a roll.

            I am unstoppable.

            I am behind schedule.

           Determined to stay organized, I arrange the food on the counter. And on the table. And on the island that divides the cooking area from the living room. Bill complains about our small scullery every time he cooks. Bending into the cluttered cupboards I can’t seem to locate all the pots I need. “Do we have enough pans?” Talking to myself I stand up to survey my domain. Count off my soldiers.

           “Eggs, almond milk, real milk, salt, and pepper. Butter to melt in the frying pan. Two kinds of ham. Two kinds of bacon (even though the turkey doesn’t look anything like bacon.) Two bags of touton dough, one flat, and one rising like a cloud. Two packages of strawberries. Pancake mix, more eggs, water, and oil.”

           My phone pings. “Everything ok?” Bill asks the group.

           “So hungry, can’t wait,” our daughter replies.

           “Why wouldn’t everything be ok,” I type, then erase and try again. “All good. See you soon.”

           I stand in front of the four-element convection oven, deciding what to cook first. A week ago, unable to figure out how our new appliance worked, I Googled “how to turn on the heat.” I got a lot of information, and not all of it concerned convection ovens. I started reading and, well, supper was a tad late that day.

           That much the wiser, I set the oven to warm, and scramble a dozen eggs in two separate bowls, using two different varieties of milk. A satisfying hiss as whites and yolks hit the buttery frying pans and started to bubble. “Alexa play Shania.”  I shimmy around the kitchenette, a spatula in each hand.

           My phone pings. “I like my eggs cooked in fat-free, calorie-wise margarine.” I imagine the child is trying to be helpful.

           I turn off my phone. Alexa turns up the volume. Shania is feeling like a woman.

           There are three frying pans on the stove, and one pot. Ham, full fat and fat-free mix together and neither seems affected by the cohabitation. Beans hit the pot. Sweet, brown, sticky, gassy beans.

           The eggs, soft and fluffy, salted and peppered, are rehomed to serving dishes and whisked into the oven. The fat-free ham looks anemic. Along with its full-fat brother, it too is whipped out of sight. There’s a small sticking point with the toutons. “Bread dough,” I explain to the previously asleep dog and cat. The latter winds itself around my legs; the former drags its bottom as close to the stove as possible. “You buy bread dough in a bag and it rises into a lovely round mound. Unless it’s whole grain. That doesn’t seem to do anything.”

           Note to self: “Don’t expect whole grain bread dough to rise to the occasion.”

           Shania is all about the boots under the bed as I cut touton dough into small pieces, flatten each piece like a pancake, and set it carefully into a frying pan. Once again carefully dividing whole grain from whole goodness.

Next up, the pièce de résistance. On the stove, one element remains. On the counter, two types of bacon. It’s fifteen minutes to showtime. Don’t Be Stupid, Shania advises. That settles it. Turkey bacon and bacon bacon are in it together. The fatty goodness will offset the dry dryness and the result will be magically delicious.

Five minutes to home time and momma is feeling good. The doorbell rings. The dog barks. Amazon is on the doorstep. I drag the parcel into the house and get busy with a pair of scissors and a butter knife.  

           Three things happen just as the contents are about to be revealed. The smoke detector goes ballistic. I smell smoke. Bill and Deborah walk in the front door. We crowd into the kitchenette. The smoke detector is making my ears bleed. The dog has gone mad.

           Bill reaches out and turns off the stove-top burners. Deborah opens a window. The beans have burned into a solid mass of what appears to be small, black rocks. The bacon resembles charred driftwood dotted with crispy bits of seaweed. The toutons have transformed into briquettes.

A culinary catastrophe.

Hoping to salvage the situation, I grab oven mitts and yank open the door. “Alexa play Green Eggs and Ham.” The edible food is displayed with a flourish.

People are not amused. There are no pancakes. The strawberries are delightful.

The End.