You shouldn’t have to eat meatloaf with a spoon
Some people dream about piloting an airplane or driving a race car. Other people pine away to perform open heart surgeries. Still others want to master wiring or plumbing their own home or painting a beautiful mural on a famous building.
Me? I just wish I could make meatloaf.
After nearly a five-year dry spell of disgust, I found yet another meatloaf recipe and my heart filled with new hope.
“This is an easy one,” I thought to myself. “Not many ingredients, which means less chances to mess it up.”
My friends, of course, are mystified by my meatloaf failure.
So I mustered the courage to goop, glob and smash.
And once again, I was appalled by the end result.
My meatloaf was a juicy sampling of meatloaf crumbles.
“You shouldn’t have to eat meatloaf with a spoon,” my husband said nicely.
“I know that,” I snapped.
“Maybe you didn’t bake it long enough,” he said.
So I stuck the pan back in the oven.
When I removed it, the top of the crumbles was charred.
You still needed a bowl and spoon or maybe even a straw, to eat the dang thing. Only now, you risked cracking a molar on the charcoal topping.
“What do you think I did wrong?” I wailed.
“I don’t know,” he said with a shrug. “I’ve never known anyone who couldn’t make a meatloaf.”
“Alrighty then,” I growled. “I hate your guts.”
Along the way, I’ve made a list of “I absolutely can’t.”
For example, I cannot work with yeast.
I once attempted to make bread.
It not only swelled out of control, it also refused to plop out of the loaf pan.
I could have used my bread as a door stop.
I also fail miserably with meringue.
It leaves a nice little ditch around the pie.
Outside my culinary failures, there’s another whole list of “I absolutely can’t.”…such as the realization that I can’t make it an entire year without getting a speeding ticket.
I can’t braid hair.
I can’t tweeze my eyebrows.
And I can’t wear a strapless bra without flirting with disaster.
This time of year, my “I can’t” list blares in my face like a beacon.
I can’t bake. I can’t stand messing around with that naked turkey bird. I have no idea what skills are necessary to identify a giblet, much less to make gravy out of it.
And I can’t make mashed potatoes without a zillion little lumps.
I also hate decorating. I know nothing about draping garland or fussing with cute little bows and gift wrap.
I absolutely can’t… get through the holiday season without experiencing horrible bouts of stress.
