Table Talk

I've always had a complicated dance with the table. In a society where only the most perfect bodies are deemed acceptable, (though only one in a thousand people have one of those), my generation of women grew up secretly thinking they could never measure up. Ours was bombarded with such icons as Twiggy. Curvy Marilyn Monroe was passe, fat by comparison. Think about it...how many of us could pass for a twig? This was at the same time that Saturday morning cartoons were starting to be interspersed with ads for sugary, insanely addictive breakfast cereals. We begged our Mamas for the latest cocoa-infused crunchies in a bowl. Crunchies indeed, for they definitely weren't and aren't food. You can eat three-quarters of a box and be ravenous in an hour. While the sugar was ramping up, they were eschewing anything resembling fat. Sugar crunchies, but no bacon, heavens to Murgatroyd. 

I had the happiest of childhoods, at a humble table where very little fake food passed our lips. Very rarely, we drove all the way to Mableton (from Powder Springs) to get a Whopper at the Burger King. There were dipped cones at the Dairy Queen (small, mind you). Desserts were treats, not the usual everyday fare. We grew up mostly outdoors, pell-mell tumbling and playing and working, so any food we ate was used up. In high school, my siblings and I were tied up with sports and band and homework. My Mama still always had supper on the table, and if you were late getting home, there was a pan in the oven with a leftover plate in it for you. 

When I walked down the aisle at 21 years old, my only knowledge of cooking was from watching Mama and others. I knew how to clean bricks and till a garden but I didn't know how to boil water. It seems the will to work is all you really need, however, and a good cookbook. Someone gave me a Better Homes and Gardens one as a wedding gift. Red-and-white checked. I still have it and use it (well, occasionally). One of my last conversations two years ago with my Paula-Deenesque-Mother-in-Law was to ask her forgiveness...I should have humbled myself and learned at her knee. But no, I had to do it myself, smoke and all. Eventually, I muddled through enough that I fed four giant people to adulthood, probably because of a few choice recipes and the ever-pressing need to cut costs by cooking rather than eating out. 

Somewhere along the way, those four people emptied out of our house, marrying and starting their own enterprises. Two of my boys shock me today with their culinary prowess, and a third is a grill master. My daughter is a bit like me...she was a college athlete then waited to learn when she had to. Funny the lives we lead. Now, Ken and I go often to the same three or four restaurants. Many times, we eat a shake or breakfast bar and then only eat one real meal a day, and that at the diner. On Sundays, the waitress knows what we're going to order every time. It's downright shameful. I keep meaning to cook something and then that man just overtakes me with his persuasions. I don't know if it's my cooking or my complaining that's causing all these problems. 

Maybe I'll put that frozen chicken back out on the countertop this morning. I think it's been thawed more than a couple times, but when he sees that thing, we're going to the diner for sure...