When the smoke alarm goes off, dinner is ready.
By Paula Kiley-Placko
1993
I have a lot of strengths. We all do. And, I don't think it's conceited to recognize our own strengths in a matter of fact sort of way. But, I also think we should recognize our weaknesses in the same manner.My greatest weakness is cooking. Oh, sure, people who have invited me to covered dish picnics and have sampled some of my "creations" -- and even asked for the recipes -- might disagree. And, I thank them. But in the day to day obligation of producing three meals a day, I fail miserably. I'm not creative, I don't plan ahead (I thank the Lord regularly that I live within walking distance of the grocery store), I rarely execute a recipe without some disaster befalling the food or the utensils with which it has been prepared. And ultimately, the blasted smoke alarm that my husband, in his most conscientious efforts to protect his family, placed in the hallway outside the kitchen alerts the family that it is, indeed, mealtime.
But, I don't believe that I am alone. So, with that in mind, I thought sharing some of my own culinary adventures might lighten the load for others. In 1993, I wrote a column with the above title. It was published in a local weekly paper The Susquehanna County Independent, Montrose, PA.
What follows are what turned out to be the two favorites of my readers, The Cherry Pie Incident and The Visitor.
Hope you enjoy!
PKP
The Cherry Pie Incident
The havoc I wreak in the kitchen doesn't always occur because I am actually preparing something. I drop things. Glasses, bowls, pitchers of iced tea, and -- the most fun --spatulas that are loaded with food. They, of course, don't just fall straight to the floor carrying their burden with them. They usually flip off into a graceful arc distributing their contents like a garden sprinkler sprays the lawn. It has occurred to me that Jackson Pollock made a living from paintings that look remarkably like my kitchen wall after one of my cooking events.
One spring, the High School Band was raising money for its trip to England. Some ambitious mothers made pies and sold them, unbaked. My husband came home after an exceptionally long day with one of these wonderful cherry creations. Despite the fact that it was almost 10:00, he hadn't had dinner yet, so he put the pie in the oven to bake while he was eating. Trying to be a good sport, I offered to take the pie out of the oven for him. Big mistake. It was on a cookie sheet (just in case it spilled over during baking -- what a laugh). I grabbed the cookie sheet, and as I pulled it toward me the pie slid in the opposite direction with just enough oomph to pop the entire pie out of the aluminum pie plate and onto the floor of my oven. Not in one, compact little pie, mind you. It went splat. The entire floor of the oven was coated with cherry pie filling.
Now, I have made many purchasing mistakes in my life, but one of the biggest ones was my continuous cleaning oven. For those of you who are unfamiliar with these appliances, obviously designed by a wealthy man who never spent a moment of his life in or around the kitchen, they have a rough, porous surface on which you can not use steel wool or even oven cleaner. You spill something, and you don't clean it -- you have to allow the thing to reduce whatever is in there to ash in its own sweet time.
That night my smoke alarm did, indeed, go off, and so did three of my neighbors' I think. And, for weeks afterward, every time we used the oven, we had to disconnect the smoke alarm and open the kitchen window. The good news was that there was one very small piece of pie that managed to hang onto the pie plate, so Stephen had dessert. Although, after putting up with black smoke, screeching smoke alarms, and a flannel-nightgown-clad, hyperventilating wife, I can't imagine that it must have been very enjoyable. It was a day, and a dessert, that he won't soon forget.
The Visitor
Anyone who can read the title of my column, even if never having actually read one of my columns, can deduce that I'm not very good in the kitchen. I'm not, in fact, terribly inclined toward "the domestic" at all, but despite my natural inclination (or should I say disinclination?) I do usually manage to execute domestic duties with a certain degree of efficiency, and our home is very presentable. The operative word here is "usually".
In the eight years that I've lived in Montrose, I've continually extended a sincere invitation to a friend from Wyoming Valley to come and see our house. "Come any time," I've said, and meant it. Well, last week he and his daughter paid an unexpected visit. I was so pleased to see them when I opened the door. I cheerfully invited them in, and then it hit me. My house was in one of the worst states since moving day. The condition of my residence was only partly attributable to my own domestic neglect. It was the second "snow day" of the week, and both my husband (an elementary school principal) and son were home adding to the state of disarray. And, my animals -- a dog and three cats -- always can be counted on to make their daily contributions of fur and soggy chew toys.
So, swallowing my pride, I began to show my friends my hundred year old Victorian home that they'd waited all those years to see, interjecting apologies along the way. The living room wasn't too bad unless you count the fact that you could write your name in the dust on the glass coffee table. That is, after you moved the dog toys, baseball cards, and six pairs of socks (fortunately clean ones), which I did surreptitiously, only making it more obvious by the clean little silhouettes left behind just how much dust was actually there. The music room, usually one of my favorites, had our old, patched card table in the center covered with paperwork. I had been working on income taxes within view of the television. The long extension cord stretched across the room to a floor lamp making passage through the room feel as though one should be wearing a hard hat.
The dining room was next. Now, our dining room is used maybe six times a year. Considering my culinary skills, with respect for our friends' well-being, we don't have company for dinner very often. Consequently, the room is usually picture perfect. Table cloth, candles, silver and china gleaming. Not that day. Everything had been shoved aside and the table stripped of its cloth to make way for a three-dimensional jigsaw puzzle that had been dragged out of the closet to help alleviate the boredom of the "snow days". So far, the tour was batting a thousand.
In our kitchen we have a dishwasher. I bought it the day after we put a deposit on the house, and my husband installed it before the dishes were even unpacked! Consequently, there is never a reason for dirty dishes to be in the sink. But on that day, my husband and son had heated up some leftover pizza for lunch then dashed off to an appointment for hair cuts, leaving not only dirty dishes in the sink, but the cheese-clumped pizza pan lying on the stove. Nice touch.
We completed the downstairs circuit with my office. First, I had a dirty old throw rug under my desk chair, because I had come in earlier wearing snowy boots and wanted to catch the drips while I quickly finished an article for the paper. It was somewhat wrapped around the wheels of the chair. My desk is small, so I often stack papers and things on the floor around my chair to go to their proper destinations later. I had done this earlier in the day. While I was out, however, one of my cats decided to play "cat and mouse". The "mouse" was a pen which she had stolen from the desk and placed under the papers making pouncing on her prey all that much more challenging, and, in the process, scattering the papers all over the floor. My desk itself was piled with papers and books, completely eclipsing the desk accessories that usually lend an attractive air to my little work space. Trying to casually move them to one side, I created a foot-high tower that threatened to topple into the waste basket, so I, just as casually, spread them back out again, holding my breath as I sidled away from the desk.
The trip upstairs didn't get any better. Clumps of gray cat hair on the Victorian loveseat, piles of folded laundry on the cedar chest in my bedroom (underwear on top, naturally), and outgrown clothes, weeded from my son's drawers, piled in the middle of the center hall gave it that "House Beautiful" look we all strive to achieve. Even our little Victorian Teddy Bear, Emma, who sits primly on the satin bedspread, had a shoe missing. (I'm probably the only one, besides Emma, who noticed that.)
I can't help wonder what the conversation was in my friends' car on the way home. Were they aware of how awful my house looked, or did they miss it, just looking at the house itself? Did they believe me that it was an unusual day, and my house rarely looks that bad? Will they come back again another day and discover what the house should look like? I hope so..."any time!"