Susan Senator

As I have said in previous posts, I am no hausfrau. Technically, however, aside from “rarely-paid writer,” my primary employment would be “housewife,” because I am married to my house. I hate that job, though. Even though I love my house, my husband, and my kids, sometimes I do not like any of them for the difficulties they impose on me. More than anything, I hate the 5:00 pm. hour. When 5:00 pm. strikes, I am cloaked in a black cloud of despair as I consider what the f*** I am going to make for dinner. This is because 1) I would much rather sit on my derriere and blog or write other columns that will most likely go nowhere; and 2) I hate cooking for people who hate my cooking.

Why do my children hate my cooking? I often consider, “which came first, the chicken, or the egg?” Well since eggs are for breakfast and chicken, dinner, I suppose the egg did. Also, because my children were once my eggs, I guess I have my answer: it is my fault that they don’t like my cooking, it is genetic. What I mean is, how did it start? Did I hate cooking meals that little kids eat, or did they hate eating the meals that I cooked for them?

I remember fourteen years ago, in early pregnancy with Max, cooking Nat’s little dinners in the toaster over and microwave: hot dog and frozen vegetables, and wanting to throw up from the smell of the salty red meat and the sickly sweet aroma of freezer-burned cooked carrots. Somehow, that scent memory remains, all these years later. No matter what I make for them, no matter how carefully I think about what they like and how to prepare it, one of them is guaranteed not to like it, and I am going to feel slightly nauseated by the sight of their plates, loaded as they are with three piles: protein entree, carbohydrate side dish, and vegetable. So predictable, so boring. Nothing may touch on these plates; it’s as if none of the food components can stand the other, and who could blame them?

Here is the piece de la resistance: Benji requested steak the other day. I was (foolishly) delighted. How adult, how interesting, and how Atkins-friendly! I asked him, “Why steak, Benj?” and he said, “Well, Obelix eats it in the Asterix books and it always looks so good. Plus, it has that white thing in the middle, which is really the bone that runs all the way through the middle of the animal” (which it turns out, was wild boar).

I should have seen the trap! But I did not. Hope springs eternal, after all, especially in this mother’s breast. So I bought two lovely steaks. I don’t really know how to cook them so I consulted two cookbooks (unfortunately the Brat Cookbook had not yet been written — see below), so I looked at Joy of Cooking and The New Settlement Cookbook. After that, I decided to pan-fry my steaks, which seemed thin enough.

While the meat browned in the pan, Ben took a peek. “That’s not steak!” he exclaimed. “Huh?” I mumbled. “Sure it is, Darling.” I was not yet alarmed. “No it isn’t,” he insisted. “Steak is red and has that white round thing in the middle.” “Well, this steak doesn’t,” I explained foolishly. “It’s steak, and you’re going to love it.” Well, maybe I didn’t say that, I may have said something slightly more threatening.

At around this time Max came into the kitchen, took a look in the pan, and wrinkled up his nose. My heart started to sink, but I valiantly persevered, flipping the leathery gray slabs and cutting them open, only to see red spurting out with every jab. By the time Ned came home, the steaks were in the broiler. About an hour later, I pronounced them e-coli free.

Nat did his usual, slathering it with half a bottle of barbecue sauce and then moving over to the french fries. Max avoided his steak for as long as possible, sneering as he chewed his bouncy half-thawed peas. Benji looked at his cut up steak bits and said, “This isn’t steak.” I looked at him and said, “I wouldn’t say that to me while I have this knife in my hand.” (I am not proud of it, I am just telling it like it was.) Ned said, “Put a lot of salt on it; that’ll make it good.” Ben complied, thankfully.

They all managed to choke down a lot of steak. In the end, my plate looked worse than anyone’s because of gristle and red pieces.

So, I have two things for you, dear readers: 1) Does anyone have any ideas of what I can cook for these ungrateful eaters? and 2) What do you think of my writing a Brat Cookbook?

At least if I did the latter, it would take me away from actually having to make dinner on time.