|"Well, it looks good, Susan. Just let me set down my tea cup, and we'll see if that "expired on" date meant business or not.|
As a rule, I think the minute food turns purple, your culinary skills have probably taken a turn for the worse. Then again, if your culinary endeavors are already so sketchy your family sends a canary through the kitchen to make sure it's safe, purple food could be a sign of improvement.
What I do know is, when what stared at me from the Crock Pot began throwing out shades of plum, we were in trouble. Mainly because I wasn't cooking plums, and have never known how to cook a plum. And if I had, by some misfortune, been attempting to cook a plum, we all know it would've turned a sickly chartreuse.
The recipe seemed simple enough:
a.) Add ingredients to Crock Pot
b.) Turn on Crock Pot
c.) Yell at children to stop fighting while Crock Pot did its thing.
d.) Eat what resulted from Crock Pot, five hours later.
Husband loved it.
"What is it?"
I smiled. "Umm, I don't remember what the recipe was called."
"No. But don't let the fact it turned purple scare you. Lots of food is purple. Like Jell-o ...and colored sand."
"And you don't know why it's purple?"
I poked at my creation, with a spoon. "Referencing what I've mentally filed away from many years of Murder She Wrote, I'd say it was either poisoned, or I didn't drain the black beans. I don't like to jump on foul play right away. If I've learned anything from Jessica Fletcher, it's to make some tea and really think it over first. Possibly take a bike ride."
I could tell he was excited to try it.
"OK, fix me a plate. A very small plate."
"Don't you want a big one?"
"Oh, I think a small one will be fine."
"But a larger dish will let you revel in how delicious it may or may not be.
"A small one."
As fork clanked against plate in the other room, I waited for the inevitable. Husband came back in the kitchen and turned his face toward the cabinet. My hand found his shoulder, gently. "How was it?"
"It was ....good."
"It was ok."
Fascinated, I watched the back of his head and tried to figure out if he was laughing or crying. I'd served the man purple food, so it really could've gone either way.
He was laughing.
And, just like that, I realized I could mess up a Crock Pot recipe. He assured me it was probably just a bad recipe. I told him he needed to stop encouraging my cooking and turn my strengths towards memorizing all the surrounding restaurant's phone numbers.
"Just think, you could sell me to a circus side show, and I could be all like, "Pizza Shack, nine-one -three-eight-eight-eight-seven-two-seven two!"
Tonight, I play to my skills and proudly throw that Philly Cheese Steak pizza at the oven ...er...I mean "in" the oven. Because that's where it goes, naturally.
P.S. If you do nothing else today, try and remember to offer a little thought and a prayer for the souls in Connecticut.
“He is a [sane] man who can have tragedy in his heart and comedy in his head.”
- GK Chesterton
Until Next Time, Readers!