Breakfast
Frank is the ward mission leader. He has scheduled a weekly correlation meeting with his assistant and the full-time elders who are assigned to our ward for Saturday mornings at 8, breakfast included. This morning, I made creamed chipped beef and eggs on toast -- my mother's recipe, not the SOS of Army fame. It's good stuff, if I do say so myself, a buttery white sauce filled with chunks of hard-cooked eggs and rosy strips of dried beef, delicately seasoned with freshly ground black pepper, served over whole wheat toast. Put out a platter of toast, a pitcher of orange juice (from frozen concentrate) and a pot of hot water for herb tea/hot instant cider/cocoa, and it's breakfast. Elapsed time, not counting boiling the eggs, oh, maybe 20 minutes.
When the brethren arrived, I set out the food and then retired to my sitting room with the morning paper and the sudoku puzzle (fiendish things, sudoku, but that's a blog for another day).
They had their meeting, I read the comics, the sun streamed in through the window, and all seemed well with the world.
Then, Frank stuck his head in on his way to use the copier in his study. "Thank you, " he said.
"What did I do now?"
"You convinced those men out there that you care about them, because you not only cooked them a good breakfast, you set a pretty table."
"Oh. You're welcome."
He went on to make his copies and finish his meeting. While I do like Bro. C____ and the elders well enough, I don't get up on Saturday mornings, set out placemats and napkins, and fix a good breakfast because I like them. It isn't that simple:
1. I like to cook, and I'm a good cook.
2. I like pretty dishes, and I like to set a pretty table.
3. I wake up at stupid-o'clock-in-the-morning these days (5 a.m. today), and I can only play so much computer solitaire. I've got to do something.
4. I like to show off. "See what I can do. See what pretty dishes I have."
5. I want to be known as a good cook and a gracious hostess. It's a good rep.
6. I like Frank, and want to help him. My patriarchal blessing gives me a special charge to support my husband in his callings. He wants a breakfast meeting; he gets a breakfast meeting.
So, I feel less than honest accepting the compliment at face value. It's really mostly about me.
When the brethren arrived, I set out the food and then retired to my sitting room with the morning paper and the sudoku puzzle (fiendish things, sudoku, but that's a blog for another day).
They had their meeting, I read the comics, the sun streamed in through the window, and all seemed well with the world.
Then, Frank stuck his head in on his way to use the copier in his study. "Thank you, " he said.
"What did I do now?"
"You convinced those men out there that you care about them, because you not only cooked them a good breakfast, you set a pretty table."
"Oh. You're welcome."
He went on to make his copies and finish his meeting. While I do like Bro. C____ and the elders well enough, I don't get up on Saturday mornings, set out placemats and napkins, and fix a good breakfast because I like them. It isn't that simple:
1. I like to cook, and I'm a good cook.
2. I like pretty dishes, and I like to set a pretty table.
3. I wake up at stupid-o'clock-in-the-morning these days (5 a.m. today), and I can only play so much computer solitaire. I've got to do something.
4. I like to show off. "See what I can do. See what pretty dishes I have."
5. I want to be known as a good cook and a gracious hostess. It's a good rep.
6. I like Frank, and want to help him. My patriarchal blessing gives me a special charge to support my husband in his callings. He wants a breakfast meeting; he gets a breakfast meeting.
So, I feel less than honest accepting the compliment at face value. It's really mostly about me.
posted by MLEH | 10:05 AM
7 Comments:
I miss your cooking.
I miss it a lot.
And I miss cooking for you, Son.
I miss it a lot.
And I'm greatly enjoying eating your cooking frequently (rather than only on sporadic occasions over the past decade or so).
Oh, go ahead, sis... rub it in...
*sigh*
Now, Children . . . .
Huh?
;o)
Cursed genetics!! I swear, that list is cross-stitched and hidden in a cabinet in my kitchen...
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