(no subject)
My mother would like to be called eccentric. She's not. She's just annoying and tetched. At sixty-three, she resides in a convalescent home due to COPD, obesity, and the unwillingness of her children to allow her to live in their homes. When she was a child she had some sort of a growth removed from her forehead. Her mother, my Nana, holds that this knot was the source of Madge's crazy. My mother's own mother says she's imbalanced.
Madge has odd culinary preferences. Last year she asked if I'd bring some chili on the day of my monthly visit. I began making plans for an extravagant dish I'd prepare in my crock pot over many hours. Madge balked at that idea, saying she'd prefer me to bring the chili she used to make for us when we were children. I thought, Oh, okay, and asked for the recipe: one pound of ground beef; one can of pinto beans; and a bottle of ketchup ("Heinz is the best for the recipe!"). I tried to explain to my mother that this is not so much a recipe as it is something you'd do to make a "happy plate"--scraping all the vestiges of one's meal into a final spoonful.
Next visit, I brought in my crock pot of chili, based on a recipe provided by a friend (I left out the onions--vile, wretched things). It was composed of green peppers and garlic, three different kinds of beans, ground beef, corn, and a variety of seasonings. It's an awesome chili. Madge tasted it, complimented it, and declared a preference for her recipe.
Madge thinks I should eat more fast food. She also thinks I don't watch enough television, so you can see how she ended up in such decrepitude at what is really just late middle age. She advises me when Burger King has a special promotion. When I told her I'd bought some great hot wings from my supermarket's deli, she recommended I give Kentucky Fried Chicken a try the next time I craved chicken.
This past Saturday I went for my monthly visit. The conversation was running low, and I was desperate to avoid the topics she leans into (Jesus and the state of my soul, her favorite reality TV shows, my sister's tendency never to call her mother, etc...) when I'm not steering our discourse. I remembered the awesome pizza I'd ordered Friday night from my favorite local Italian restaurant, and thought to wring that subject out for five, maybe ten, minutes. "It was what they call The Italian Classic: garlic, basil, and tomato, and I added bacon to it. It was a fantastic pizza," I told her, relishing the pie again in remembrance. Madge grimaced and told me I'd do better with a beef pan pizza from Pizza Hut next time. "Pizza Hut makes the best pizza!"
Madge has odd culinary preferences. Last year she asked if I'd bring some chili on the day of my monthly visit. I began making plans for an extravagant dish I'd prepare in my crock pot over many hours. Madge balked at that idea, saying she'd prefer me to bring the chili she used to make for us when we were children. I thought, Oh, okay, and asked for the recipe: one pound of ground beef; one can of pinto beans; and a bottle of ketchup ("Heinz is the best for the recipe!"). I tried to explain to my mother that this is not so much a recipe as it is something you'd do to make a "happy plate"--scraping all the vestiges of one's meal into a final spoonful.
Next visit, I brought in my crock pot of chili, based on a recipe provided by a friend (I left out the onions--vile, wretched things). It was composed of green peppers and garlic, three different kinds of beans, ground beef, corn, and a variety of seasonings. It's an awesome chili. Madge tasted it, complimented it, and declared a preference for her recipe.
Madge thinks I should eat more fast food. She also thinks I don't watch enough television, so you can see how she ended up in such decrepitude at what is really just late middle age. She advises me when Burger King has a special promotion. When I told her I'd bought some great hot wings from my supermarket's deli, she recommended I give Kentucky Fried Chicken a try the next time I craved chicken.
This past Saturday I went for my monthly visit. The conversation was running low, and I was desperate to avoid the topics she leans into (Jesus and the state of my soul, her favorite reality TV shows, my sister's tendency never to call her mother, etc...) when I'm not steering our discourse. I remembered the awesome pizza I'd ordered Friday night from my favorite local Italian restaurant, and thought to wring that subject out for five, maybe ten, minutes. "It was what they call The Italian Classic: garlic, basil, and tomato, and I added bacon to it. It was a fantastic pizza," I told her, relishing the pie again in remembrance. Madge grimaced and told me I'd do better with a beef pan pizza from Pizza Hut next time. "Pizza Hut makes the best pizza!"