Monday, September 3, 2012
What Ever Happened To Sunday Dinner?
Sunday is the traditional day of the week that families come together for one thing that binds us all as one--to eat. There are very few of us Southerns who did not grow up sharing Sunday dinner with extended family members. Cousins, aunts, uncles, neighbors, and even a few strangers would pile around the table, pass bowlfuls of vegetables, pans of casseroles, and platters of chicken, roast beef, or ham. In some families, one person would insist on making all the food, usually the matriarch. She would have a name like Meemaw, Granny, Big Mommy, or Mamaw. And this much I know is true, no food ever tasted better than food from her kitchen.
I have my favorite meals, depending on who is cooking that day. My mother happens to be one of the better cooks in all of Leslie County so it is tough to actually pinpoint a favorite dish of hers. I will eat most anything she puts in front of me, with the exception of liver (fried or sauteed), gizzards, or her coleslaw (sorry, Mom). My sister is a safe cook. She doesn't go for anything too exotic and she is very guarded with her use of spices. As long as I have a salt shaker nearby, I am good with most anything she cooks as well. Andy is a fabulous cook, and I can not remember ever not liking something that he has served for dinner. I think you can see a pattern here, and that pattern is the path to my obesity.
However, I read this morning of a man in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania,who is not so easy going about his dinner expectations. This fella came home from work anticipating a meal of fried chicken only to discover that his daughter-in-law had BAKED the fowl. I know, I know. "What's the big deal?" you are asking me right now.
"He's usually an easy-going guy," his mother stated, although to tell the truth, she didn't sound that convincing.
His girlfriend said very matter-of-factually, "They didn't do it right and George got mad." She shrugged her shoulders as if this is all the explanation that anyone needed.
After watching the report from a local news station, here is the scenerio as I imagine it:
Before George could gather his thoughts and forget about the the peas and corn fiasco, his son placed the platter of chicken on the table. George was stunned to see that it had been baked, not fried. I imagine George had made his position on baked chicken perfectly clear to the family on several occasions. The man didn't like it. There was only one way to enjoy a tasty bird leg and that was fried, by God.
George grumbled and cussed under his breath and took a bite of his chicken leg. He threw it down on to his plate in disgust and told everyone sitting there that the bird was dry.
So if you sit down to dinner tonight in hopes of a nice juicy steak or plateful of spaghetti with homemade sauce and instead you get handed a bologna sandwich, potato chips, and a pickle spear, my advice would be to roll with it. Ultimately, Sunday dinners are about spending time with those you love and not the quality of the food, unless you are eating at George's house. If you are eating there, grab a drumstick, hunker down, and pray for daylight.
Here is the actual news story: