Another great Thanksgiving memory....
We all get to that point in our lives when we start to
transition from adolescence to adulthood. We go out and get our first job. We
find our own places to live, buy our own groceries and cook our own meals.
Cooking our own meals — wait,
what?
Yes, at some point
I had to start cooking, but leave it to me to do things backwards.
I got a job, saved up, got my own place, moved out, bought my groceries and
then stared at the oven and stovetop like they were foreign objects.
I wanted the home-cooked meals my mom made. But I had never watched her cook or
worked with her in the kitchen. I just showed up when she would call out,
“Dinner is ready!” from the front door. (Remember that era, when kids played
outside?)
There I was, a
strong independent Cuban woman who could boil an egg (sometimes), but didn’t
know how to cook rice, let alone marinate a steak or chicken (what spices
should I use?) or how long to even bake a potato.
Pathetic right?
So I visited Mom
frequently, asked questions, copied recipes and started learning.
I perfected making rice (rice cooker does all the work, duh!), learned how to
make decent black beans and other staples I enjoyed.
I was holding my
own in the kitchen.
The holidays rolled around, and I decided it would be my turn to cook for my
family instead of the other way around. I planned traditional items like
turkey, ham, stuffing and mashed potatoes. I also added a few Latin sides like
plantains and yucca and sliced Cuban bread for Dad. (OK, the bread was
store-bought. I never did become a good baker.)
I set the table, tended to the food, watched football with
Dad while we had some beers, talked to Mom about events of the past year,
basted the turkey, fried the plantains and prepped the yucca.
Mom and I set out
the food and brought the ham and turkey to the table.
Everything looked perfect and delicious. Dad grabbed the carving knife and
began slicing the ham. After a few slices, he turned his attention to the
turkey.
After a few slices
I heard him saying, “What the heck?” (In Spanish, of course and he used a
different word than heck).
Yes, folks, I was that person
— the cook who left the plastic bag containing the neck and giblets still
stuffed deep inside the midsection of the bird. I was mortified.
The parental units
erupted in laughter while I sat there red-faced and nearly in tears. I had
ruined the meal, or so I thought.
Dad pulled out the bag, which was intact. He opened it and offered the giblets
to my more-than-spoiled-rotten dogs. He continued to carve the bird.
He placed some
ham, turkey, stuffing, plantains and yucca on his plate. Mom and I followed his
lead, and guess what?
We ate turkey, we ate ham, and we gorged on mashed potatoes. We rested and then
ate again later in the day. We feasted on leftovers. and the incident didn’t
kill us or give us food poisoning.
Score!
In the midst of
all the feasting, Mom told me about growing up in Cuba. My grandfather was not
wealthy by any means, but Mom grew up in a home where a nanny/cook made the
meals, not Grandma nor my mother.
I didn’t know that.
When she married
Dad, she still didn’t know how to cook.
I didn’t know that, either.
It was apparent by
the look on Dad’s face that he had to suffer through some pretty bad dinners
during those first few years.
Mom had to learn from scratch. She burned many a meal and ruined a few turkeys
before she became the great cook she is, still to this day in her 80s.
I hope to be just
as good and, in all likelihood, will probably still burn a few meals or forget
the main ingredient.
But ever since that day, I always check the inside of a chicken or a turkey.
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