Curse you, Red Baron!
Marianne’s a redhead – jealous! – who lives in Montana – not jealous of the winters! – and you can read more about Marianne here.
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My mom is an amazing cook. And she’s the type of person who thinks nothing of whipping something up because it’s your favorite and you’re coming over.
When I call and tell her I’m visiting, I live 8 hours away now, she’ll ask me what I want for dinner. And if I tell her, it will be waiting.
I can ask for Thanksgiving dinner and if I give at least 48 hours notice, she will make a turkey with homemade stuffing, fresh cranberries, yams, potatoes, peas, and a pie. And it will melt in your mouth.
Neighbors were sad when my parents moved because they would no longer get homemade wheat bread for Christmas. She is an amazing cook.
I am not.
I have a lot of her recipes but she is one of those cooks who put a dash of this and a pinch of that while I need to know exact measurements or it will all fall apart. Literally.
I get by, but I prefer to buy my bread from a bakery and tell people I made it. I don’t really cook. I try and I can do it, sort of, but it isn’t like my Mom’s.
My husband’s mom isn’t too interested in cooking either.
In other words, the only time my kids get to have real, true, completely homemade food is at Grandma Hansen’s house. That’s it.
They get about four or five visits a year to appreciate good food.
Can you understand my dismay when my children’s favorite thing to eat at Grandma’s house – the thing they talk about for days before we go – the meal my youngest loves so much that he has declared Grandma Hansen his favorite because she cooks him this?
Toast.
Not even with her homemade bread. She uses any brand she has. Wheat, even. The bread does not actually matter. And she doesn’t even put homemade jam on it; just butter. From a really big tub.
But she cuts it in half.
It’s been their favorite for two years now.
I know how to make toast. I’ve made toast most of my life. I even know what number different types of bread should be on. I thought I had toast down to an art. But whatever I do, it’s just not like Grandma’s.
In fact, the other day, when I was feeling down, my youngest asked for some toast. I took a slice of Grandma Sycamore’s bread (my favorite) with actual Land-o-Lakes butter, cut in half and gave it to him. Knowing I wasn’t feeling great, he put his small hand on my shoulder and said, “Don’t worry, Mom. One day your toast will be just as good as Grandma’s.”
Truer praise there never was.
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Thanks so much for blogging today, Marianne!
My kids are the same…food always seems to be better at the grandparents. So what say you, folks? Is the grass greener in the other kitchen for your kids, too?
I’m taking an online class (
Let’s start with the basics: My grandmother was pretty dang cool. A woman who divorced back when my dad was a little kid and set out as a single mom back when you didn’t run across too many single moms. She was a strong woman, and I’m sure that I probably inherited much of my stubbornness and self-sufficiency from her.
Do you remember “Hi, Bob?” It was popular when I was in college, back when reruns of the Bob Newhart show would frequently play about the time that Happy Hour (or after-hours) was kicking off in various bars near campus, or at home where students were kicking back, ignoring the fact that there were essays to write, books to read, things to learn. 
I cook. A lot. We used to eat out a lot, but those were in the pre-kid/lawyer paycheck days when dropping over a hundred for sushi after work because we just felt like it didn’t seem financially idiotic. Now, we’re followed by those every-present specters of freelance life: will I get another contract? wouldn’t the sushi money be better spent on a college fund? why do growing kids eat so much? (Okay, wait. That’s not a freelance thing.) And, of course, there’s the time suck of going to a restaurant.
