Leftovers
My mother is lovable in such an annoying way I sometimes don't know whether I want to hug her or kick her.
I went on a visit to help with some family business. When I got there at 8:30 PM she had a home-cooked dinner waiting for me. No surprise there; We'd planned on this, and I'd skipped dinner. Everything's OK so far.
I sniffed. It smelled wonderful, but... "Is that chicken?"
"Yes. With carrots, onions, and potatoes." She had it simmering in an electric frying pan on the counter.
"I thought you were doing spare ribs in the slow cooker." The whole idea being, of course, that they could sit there all evening and would be fine whenever I got there, with no extra work on her part.
"I did. But they didn't turn out well, so I cooked the chicken instead. The ribs are in the refrigerator."
All this cooking for a guy with half a stomach. (Don't feel sorry for me, I didn't need the other half.) I ate a small piece of chicken and some of the vegetables.
We handled the business today. Then I went home with a few leftovers: The rest of the chicken dinner, the complete rib dinner, some leftovers from a restaurant we went to today, and what was left of the homemade apple pie she also baked, which was all of it, because we didn't get into it while I was there. And oh, yes, one Mason jar each of home-canned applesauce, tomato juice, and dill pickles.
I managed to get out of there without hearing what was wrong with any of it. To hear Mom speak she's never cooked a decent meal or, especially, baked a good pie in her entire life. It's always too runny or the meat isn't lean enough or the chicken is too dry, but everything is always great.
Well, that's not true, quite. She DID warn me, as I fled out the door with my loot, that the dill pickles are salty. But somehow I'll cope.
I went on a visit to help with some family business. When I got there at 8:30 PM she had a home-cooked dinner waiting for me. No surprise there; We'd planned on this, and I'd skipped dinner. Everything's OK so far.
I sniffed. It smelled wonderful, but... "Is that chicken?"
"Yes. With carrots, onions, and potatoes." She had it simmering in an electric frying pan on the counter.
"I thought you were doing spare ribs in the slow cooker." The whole idea being, of course, that they could sit there all evening and would be fine whenever I got there, with no extra work on her part.
"I did. But they didn't turn out well, so I cooked the chicken instead. The ribs are in the refrigerator."
All this cooking for a guy with half a stomach. (Don't feel sorry for me, I didn't need the other half.) I ate a small piece of chicken and some of the vegetables.
We handled the business today. Then I went home with a few leftovers: The rest of the chicken dinner, the complete rib dinner, some leftovers from a restaurant we went to today, and what was left of the homemade apple pie she also baked, which was all of it, because we didn't get into it while I was there. And oh, yes, one Mason jar each of home-canned applesauce, tomato juice, and dill pickles.
I managed to get out of there without hearing what was wrong with any of it. To hear Mom speak she's never cooked a decent meal or, especially, baked a good pie in her entire life. It's always too runny or the meat isn't lean enough or the chicken is too dry, but everything is always great.
Well, that's not true, quite. She DID warn me, as I fled out the door with my loot, that the dill pickles are salty. But somehow I'll cope.