We were married less than a year when the baby was delivered via C-Section and only after 14 hours in labor. I was 19, a new mother and Tony was my precious angel. The first of my two children, he weight in at 10lbs, 23" long at birth. I took my parenting responsibility very serious and while I carried him, my concentration was primarily on the baby and his nurturing afterwards. I knew how to cook, well, I knew how to cook pasta and meatballs and open cans. Jerry, my husband, was 21 and very understanding. He usually helped (a lot) with cooking. I think he knew he’s starve if he didn’t. However, there was nothing, but nothing, that could top his mom’s roast beef and mashed potato dinners.
I decided to make Jerry proud of me. Pride got the better of me and I never called Jerry’s mom for instructions, as I was politely directed. The rebel in my took hold and solo I attempted my first roast beef and mashed potato dinner. After some trial and error, it eventually turned out pretty good. I felt confident that I could master this cooking thing. Jerry was delighted to have a “good meal” as he called it, even though his mom would have put in a little more “this” and a little less "that". He encouraged me to try other dishes. Although the baby took so much of my time and attention, I knew I had a responsibility to feed my husband. And, try other dishes, I did. Jerry seemed pleased and he even gained a little weight. I refused to believe for one minute that his weight gain had anything to do with his beer consumption.
It was a beautiful autumn day when I called Jerry at work. I told him that I planned on cooking a roast, complete with mashed potatoes, gravy and veggies. He wanted to know about dessert. Dessert! I didn’t think of that; I concentrated so hard on the “dinner” that I wasn’t ready for that. Just getting this dinner going was trial enough for me. I collected myself. Yes, there would be dessert and it would be a surprise. Jerry was happy but reminded me how he hated pie and ice cream. Darn! I had forgotten - pie and ice cream was exactly what I was going to run to the store for. I assured him that he’d love dessert. He told me he’d be home at 6PM. I wrapped up the baby and made my way to the store. I bought a nice looking roast, potatoes and all the fixings for this dinner. I knew I had plenty of time to prepare. I fed the baby and put him down for a nap. I curled up on the couch with a cup of coffee and turned on the TV. I’ll watch one soap, I thought, maybe two - then I’d get in the kitchen and prepare dinner with ease.
My neighbor, Jenna, called shortly before 1PM. Her car was in the shop; could I take her to DMV to renew her license. All the paperwork was complete - she would just run in and run out. I knew no one just “runs” in and out of DMV but I agreed and we were off 15 minutes later.
It was almost 4PM when I came home, exhausted, the baby crying and fussing. Frantically, I took the roast from the fridge and threw it in a pan with water and onions. My attention turned to the baby. I changed him, fed him, and cuddled with him until he was quiet. I looked at the clock - 5PM. The phone rang, it was Jerry - he was bringing a buddy home for dinner. Was that OK? Apparently, Jerry was looking forward to this dinner so much, he began telling the guys. Of course it’s ok - you’re friend is welcome - I’ve got everything under control here. I realized that my eyes began to dart around the kitchen, searching, seeking…for what?? In retrospect, probably for the rear exit to the house. I began to peel the potatoes. It was almost 5:30 and I had a brainstorm. If I cut the potatoes real, real small, they would cook faster. All I’d have to do is drain them and mash them. As the roast cooked, and the potatoes began to romp in the boiling water, I focused on the baby again who was crying.
Jerry and Steve walked through the door a little after 6. "Wow, dinner smells great, Hon", I heard him call out. Smiling, I kissed my husband and greeted our dinner guest. Everything is almost ready. The men relaxed in the livingroom and fussed over the baby. I stood over the pot of boiling water and gasped. The slotted spoon emerged from the off white colored water with a little more than a coating of what was once potatoes. I panicked. Jerry came up behind me and kissed my neck. Flustered, I laughed and ushered him back to Steve - I didn’t want him to see the pot - I needed time to think - and time was short.
These guys were not only hungry, but expecting a meal that Jerry probably had raised to unimaginable heights. I threw some salt, pepper and a mix of seasonings in the pot. Maybe a little cornstarch would thicken it up. It looked alright, tasted fine…hmmmm - I just might get out of this yet. Jerry called from the livingroom, “Hon, what's burning???”. I jokingly replied it was nothing, dinner would be ready soon. In reality, it was the roast. I frantically poured a cup of water over it and, after the steam subsided, I saw it began to make it’s own gravy....hmmm.
Finally, we all sat down to dinner. Along with mixed veggies and bread, I served a very well done roast beef, with rich, brown gravy, and hot potato soup. Dessert was ice cream and apple pie which happened to be Steve’s favorite. The evening went so well that I knew Jerry would not comment on the dessert.
After that, I attempted several new dishes, that I cooked and served over and over. My theory was that if Jerry didn’t take ill, my cooking wasn’t all that bad. And after my brilliant recovery from the potato fiasco, I could handle anything. We divorced two years later but it was not due to my cooking.
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