My June Cleaver days ended when our last kid left home. In fact, when he tossed his graduation cap into the air, my apron went flying, too. Our kitchen table serves as a desk most days, and our stove makes a nice conversation piece. Home-cooked meals are what they serve at Cracker Barrel.
On a side note, I can grab my chocolate desserts and settle into a good episode of Paula Deen cooking with the best of ‘em. But I can turn the TV off and still have a clean kitchen. Hey, it works for me.
But I have to say the other day caused me to rethink some things. We went out to breakfast with my husband’s family. As you all know, I’m not allowed to eat sweets, so not surprisingly, I developed a sour (sorry, I couldn’t resist) mood when my brother-in-law ordered a large plate of pancakes with caramel, yes, that’s right, caramel syrup. It should be outlawed.
The server placed my measly egg in front of me while she could have used a crane to serve my brother’s plate of pancakes smothered with caramel syrup.
I tried not to wish ill upon his person, I really did. I refrained from stabbing a piece when he wasn’t looking (figured I’d drip syrup on him and then he’d know what I had done). I decided to live vicariously through him and so I watched as he took his first bite. My mouth watered but he made a face. No doubt for my benefit.
He said to his wife, “Taste this.”
“Is something wrong?” she asked.
“Just taste it.”
She did. “That has an onion taste.”
Onion? Now, I’m no Paula Deen but last time I checked caramel syrup did not have onion in it.
She took another taste. “This is barbecue sauce,” she announced between guffaws.
The ripple of laughter paraded around the table. The server joined us, my brother-in-law explained the situation and soon everyone in the kitchen was laughing, too. It seems the kitchen help thought the barbecue sauce was the caramel syrup. Um, no.
They apologetically replaced his pancakes, but by then, I’d lost my appetite and figured he could keep his pancakes and syrup.
If you tell me your restaurant stories, it might be just enough to keep me in my kitchen. Then again, maybe not. *g*