Now, where’s that Kool-Aid recipe?
The Joy of Cooking cookbook was a gift from my father when I got
married, almost 17 years ago. I love every gift my father ever gave
me, but it was painfully obvious that the Joy of Cooking had seen a
lot less action than that other Joy Of book that we somehow wound
up with.
Now, where’s that Kool-Aid recipe?
The Joy of Cooking cookbook was a gift from my father when I got married, almost 17 years ago. I love every gift my father ever gave me, but it was painfully obvious that the Joy of Cooking had seen a lot less action than that other Joy Of book that we somehow wound up with.
I had every intention of reading it and stocking my pantry the way it suggested, but when I got to things like cream of tartar, I got distracted and made a dental appointment instead.
I don’t need a book to teach me how to make a meatloaf. Or do I? I was pretty upset to realize that I did in fact need it. Not to mash up ground beef, an egg, some bread crumbs (a lot of bread crumbs, if pay day was still a week away) and some other stuff I thought might be interesting.
Once it was in a neat little loaf that looked more like a loaf of sawdust from all the bread crumbs than a loaf of meat, I realized I didn’t know how hot the oven should be or even how long it should be in there. Rather than be smart and crack the book which sat on the highest self in the pantry, I figured I would just wing it. Out of the oven came a crispy-on-the-outside, raw-on-the-inside meat brick.
The Husband was sympathetic.
A slow cooker was a gift from The Husband’s mother. Ma is a fantastic cook and I think the thought of sending her little boy into culinary worlds uncharted was too much for her. Until I came along, Hamburger Helper® had never touched his pristine pallet.
In my idealistic, newlywed haze, I thought I would try a roast in there. I bought some sort of roast, some potatoes, carrots, celery and “roast stuff” and put them all into the pot and set it on stun.
A few hours later, I was thrilled at the prospect of serving The Husband a wonderful meal, made with my own two little hands. And a slow cooker. He sat at the table and chewed. And chewed. And chewed some more. He carefully asked me how I made supper. I described it step by step, because he seemed so fascinated. I thought it was nice that he was interested in my day. His wheels were turning.
“You didn’t put any water or anything in there?”
“Water?” I asked.
The Husband was sympathetic.
We were on a tight budget, being newlyweds and living off the post of Fort Ord, in Marina. I was always looking for ways to save money at the commissary. I was a coupon-clipping, generic brand-buying fiend. I was also young, which explains why I thought Kool-Aid was an amazing find. A little pouch that makes a gallon of something for fifteen cents. You can’t go wrong. Well, you can’t, but apparently, I can.
I greeted The Husband at the door after a hard day at the office, or in his case, a hard day at the shooting range, with an ice cold glass of “grape” flavored Kool-Aid. I happily explained how this was the best thing ever made. He winced.
“I think you forgot something.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Um, did you put sugar in here?” He asked carefully.
“Sugar?” I was floored. Then how is that such a great deal? I had to buy sugar, too? I felt ripped off.
The Husband was sympathetic.
I see a pattern here. I’m not sure, but I think he is an enabler.
