the glory of the casserole

Do you know what the definition of casserole is? It is (#1)"a large, deep dish in which food can be cooked and served," or (#2)"food prepared in such a dish." That means, of course, that if I were to prepare, say, Roast Turkey in a casserole, used as in the first definition, I would not have made Roast Turkey, but Roast Turkey Casserole, because, of course, it is now definition #2, food prepared in such a dish. Mashed potatoes prepared in a casserole dish would not be mashed potatoes, which my children would devour happily and greedily, but Mashed Potato Casserole, which my children would likely not touch. The word casserole rarely bodes well.

When I was growing up casserole usually meant "plug your nose and eat it" because it was usually preceded by "Corn." Ugh. Corn Casserole: Hands down, the least favorite food ever made on a consistent basis at the home I grew up in. Ask any of my 6 siblings, and my father, ps. Bless my angel mother, I believe she liked it, and she made it ALL THE TIME, at least according to my childhood memories -- although I've learned through my own children's childhood memories that those things aren't always accurate. But that's another post. It wasn't until my dad quietly admitted (after another night of gagging and nose-plugging) that it wasn't among his favorite dishes, that we were released from the sentence of yuck-for-dinner.

I have to admit, I now can relate to my mom and her loved-that-casserole-that-everyone-else-hated. Mine was Chicken Broccoli casserole. I loved that stuff so much that it was all I asked for for dinner, every birthday. It was one of about 2 recipes I brought with me into marriage (by no fault of my mom's, by the way. It didn't actually occur to me that I was the mom, and therefore, could make dinner every night until my own blessed mother came and stayed with us after the birth of our first baby. She made dinner for us every night and froze a whole bunch more so we had dinner for like a month. And after we had eaten our way through them all, I thought slowly, "...I guess maybe I could make something for us to eat for dinner...Maybe..." Who knows what we ate before she stopped by. But I digress. Shocker).

Chicken Broccoli casserole. What's not to love? A little chicken, some broccoli, some cheese, and of course the main part of any casserole, some cream-of-something-or-other soup. Toss in a few other miscellaneous ingredients and Voi la! Dinner. I probably made that stuff every two weeks, once I discovered that I could cook, of course. Mmmm! Yum! Chicken Broccoli casserole again!! And everyone else is eating it with a sorta-smile on their faces (okay, that's Dave, everyone else-else is plugging their noses and gagging all the way). Never fear, at least Dave likes it! The kids will learn to like it! It'll come!

...That's what I thought, anyway, until one evening as we rinsed the last of the broccoli-bits off the plates, Dave quietly admitted that he really doesn't care for Chicken Broccoli casserole.

At all.


What?


I...


What?!


You...


Really? You don't like it?


I was devastated.

Devastated, because, of course, I'm not making a whole dang casserole for one person, especially if it's just for me. And of course, there's no such thing as a casserole-for-one, unless it's a frozen meal-for-one and if I'm cooking dinner for everyone, why would I make a frozen meal-for-one?

I paused for a bit, there by the kitchen sink, and savored the last memory of my last dinner of my favorite dish ever. Never again would I happily eat that lovely mixture of a bunch of stuff thrown altogether into a rather fetching one-dish meal. Never again would I watch as my 5-year-old methodically plugs, chews, swallows, and gulps a drink of water as fast as she possibly can to get the awful thing over with. Never would I see my little 4-year-old wrestle her way through that gag reflex as she dutifully eats all of her 4 bites. Never would I...

Ah, it wasn't really worth all that, now was it? I mean, sure, it was good, but once I got over the initial shock of being the lone member of the family who liked it, I realized that the stuff just wasn't that good. I mean, really, of all the dumb battles to choose, I'm going for the "Forcing-You-To-Like-Chicken-Broccoli-Casserole" one? Please. I'm an idiot.

And then I thought of my mom. And I wondered if she ever missed eating Corn Casserole. And then I pictured all 7 of her children gathered around the table in various stages of gagging and plugging, and I knew she hadn't missed it for a second.

I'm with you, mom. How 'bout Olive Garden tonight instead?

Mmmmm. Breadsticks.

And not a casserole dish in sight.

monday at the gym... again.

We went in the "out" today. Just thought you should know.

flapdoodle and bosh

I love words. Obviously. I have a habit of using too many of them all at once and far to rapidly to be understood well. I love really great sounding words, like rigamarole or triskaidekaphobia, although the latter is a little difficult to throw into everyday conversation. I suppose I could use it if one of the kids came running into my room with a bad dream on Friday the 13th. I could say, "What is it, triskaidekaphobia?!" Or if I went to stay at a high rise hotel and the front desk guy asked if I minded being on the 13th floor; I could say, "Of course not, I don't have triskaidekaphobia."

Flapdoodle and bosh are two of my absolute favorites ever, which you may have realized if you've read many of my blogs. I stumbled upon flapdoodle while listening to one of the audio books from the Amelia Peabody series, thank you very much, Emerson. And I found bosh while looking up the definition of flapdoodle. They mean the same thing - nonsense. Someday I'm going to open a store and call it Flapdoodle & Bosh. Those two words just go together so beautifully. I don't know what I'll sell but I have no doubt it will be nonsensical and delightful.

I'd like to get the job of the guy who names everything so I could spend all day in a thesaurus. I know I wouldn't do as smashing a job as the people who already have that job. I mean, seriously, it's gotta be pretty tough coming up with 154 different names for pink. But wouldn't that be a great job? I'd be the lady holding the clipboard, with the two pencils in my hair, and goofy-looking glasses going, Let's see, how bout Blushing Rose Petal? No, no, we used that 78 shades ago. Tickled Pink? Used that one, too. Bloody knuckles. ...Sounds too red.

I actually have a friend who re-names all of her nail polish. That little piece of information reflects her personality well. She's the kind of gal that you could picture throwing open the windows to call in the local small animal population to help with the housework while she supervises in a poofy dress and tiara. And I mean that as a compliment.

Contrast that to myself: I'm the one you'd find in holey sweats and a nasty-looking shirt with yesterday's makeup and a pony on the top of my head, trying to exterminate the local small animal population. Forget about housework.

Her nail polish names would be magical names, like "Shimmering Biscotti Day Dream," or "Sparkling Bittersweet Fairy Dust" Mine would fall more along the lines of "Dries too slow" or "Way purpler-looking when applied." I suppose my prospects for Nail Polish Namer are not very promising. Who's going to buy something called "Only good for nylon-repair?"

Despite my completely unmagical naming techniques, I've been reclassifying things for years. Ponytail holders have been called Hair Doinkers since before any of my children were born. Quaking Aspens were promptly named "Western Flutter Leafs" (not Leaves) soon after my arrival in Utah. The mountain range closest to my house has been dubbed "The Big Blue Mountains to the East," mostly because I don't know if they have a name. I suppose they are probably just the tail-end of the Wasatch Mountain range or something. Now that's a dumb name. Big Blue Mountains to the East: Better name. Okay, not much better, but they are a delicious color of blue during most of the year. They kind of take on a brownish color in the fall but I refuse to change the name for one season of the year.

Most of the objects in my house are never called by their given names any more. At some point or other, almost everything ends up being called something like, "That big black thinger in the living room," or "That chest thingy next to the couch." Now that's really gotta be improving my kids' vocabularies.

Oh well, I'll get them each their own thesaurus and they can read it for 10 minutes a day. Then they'll have enough gibberish and gobbledygook to last a lifetime. And yes, that's really a word. Look it up, bookworm.