THE SONIC BOOMER
I had the family over last weekend for dinner. They were shocked when I invited them because it is a well-known fact that I don’t like to cook. What I like to do is eat.
But I’d been watching a bunch of those cooking shows, and they make it look so quick and easy. And enjoyable. And impressive. And I thought to myself, “I want to be impressive.” So I invited them for 3 p.m. on Sunday. I also invited a couple of neighbors because I did want to be impressive, but only once. It’s not like I wanted to cook every weekend once the word got out about my fabulous culinary expertise.
Let me put it this way: I will not have to worry about that.
My menu was thus: deviled eggs and a vegetable tray for an appetizer; baked ham, corn-on-the-cob, rolls and twice-baked potatoes for the main course; cheesecake for dessert. Nothing fancy, just good, wholesome food.
Because I had to work Friday and Saturday, I decided to prepare as much as I could beforehand, on Thursday. I baked the cheesecake (understandably, desserts have never been a problem for me), boiled the eggs and once-baked the potatoes.
When Sunday arrived, I had four hours to put everything together, so much time that I spent the first hour watching TV. The second hour, I set the table with all kinds of cute decorations I also baked the rolls and put in the ham.
The third hour, I completely panicked. I never should have waited this long with the potatoes! I cut them open, and they weren’t fully baked! I scooped out the insides to mash them up before dolloping them back into their crispy little skins, and raw potato was flying everywhere! Why hadn’t I just microwaved them in the first place? My mixer was covered with potato splatter as was the counter, the outgoing mail and an adorable decoration on the table across the room.
I scooped the lumpy mess into the crispy skins and grated cheese over the top. Cheese everywhere. The bacon! I hadn’t fried the bacon! I threw some into the pan just as the doorbell rang. One of my neighbors stood there with a beautiful bouquet of flowers from her garden. “I’m early,” she said. I grabbed the flowers and shut the door in her face. “I’ll call ya!” I yelled.
The bacon was burning. I took the few good strips and chopped them up, piled them into the potatoes and put the potatoes into the oven. Then I remembered butter. I hadn’t put butter in with the mashed part! I pulled them back out of the oven and cut a slice into each top, inserting a wedge of butter. This was not the look I’d been going for, but back in they went. I took out the ham while I was at it.
It was 2:45 p.m. The vegetables remained in their solid states in the fridge and the eggs were safe in their little eggshell ovoids. I began chopping veggies like a madman, all the exciting little knife tricks I had learned on TV a dim memory.
I peeled the eggs and sliced them open. The insides were gray. I mixed the grayness with mayonnaise and got a scary-looking deviled egg, which I hid under way too much paprika.
Cars were pulling into my driveway! I looked like H-E-double-hockey-sticks! I dashed into the bedroom and changed my top, combed the potato out of my hair, put on lipstick and answered the door with a faltering smile.
My reputation was intact — just not the reputation I had hoped for.
