HEY MA! What's for SUPPAH?

"There is one thing more exasperating than a wife who can cook and

won't, and that's a wife who can't cook and will."  ~Robert Frost

Ok, if I could, I'd edit out the "wife" part of this. But who am I to correct Robert Frost? I am an English major, and he remains my poetry icon in good times and bad. "Nothing Gold Can Stay" is a favorite, and, if I'm honest, that poem contains words to live by. We are almost done with summer; that's proof that these golden days are limited.  While the fall and back to school is the best part of the year for me, this summer has been fantastic. Hot days, beach waves, happy kids, scooter adventures, paddling at Riverhead and so much else. It's been a treat. Lazy days also mean less work in the kitchen.  

Sandwiches, hot dogs, a rare lobster roll treat at Little Harbor and of course burgers on the grill whenever possible. Soon though, that will not be an option, and the daily dinner debate will begin. Friends of mine know that I am not a cook. I can assemble a sandwich, boil some pasta, and, on rare occasions, make some beast, usually some poor unsuspecting chicken or doomed cow, into a holiday meal. That's the extent of my foodie prowess. I'm lucky my children are still alive, but I guess I owe that to Cheerios, Velveeta, and Chef Boyardee.

Sure, there are technological advances and microwaves and all sorts of delivery options. But then I'd have to deal with the shame of "OMG, you can't even figure out dinner? What kind of mother are you?" Well, that's a question for another day. Right now, I'm trying to answer another question, the perennial, "Mum! What's for suppah?" I've reconciled myself to the fact that "How the hell should I know" is not the answer my kids want. They are picky; in food choices and in every other way possible, and I'm left wondering how this became my job.  Sure, OK, my kids, my responsibility, but they are almost full-size humans now. There's only one left living at home, but the older boys come by on a regular basis. I'd like to think it's because they love me and miss me, but no. It's because I usually have cold cuts, bread, chips, Oreos and milk on hand and now that they are fully "adulting" they realize how much food costs. Who's your Mommy now boys? You might have flown the nest, but you're like bats; you can sense where the food is.

That's OK though, any day that includes my kids around a table is a good day. I simply must get better at this planning thing. Especially since I have started making my own dog food. Perhaps it's a function of having two kids out on their own, that I've turned my focus to Penny, the Smug Pug, but she's having some issues. Allergies, as it turns out, so now I'm making her food. Literally, I am scouring the internet for recipes that won't exacerbate her skin issues, but still sound yummy. This irony is not lost on my children. "Really Mum? I'm making my own Ramen noodles, but the dog has a custom, portion-controlled meal?" Yes, dear, that's precisely it. Because the dog doesn't give me any back talk.

So feeding these wandering offspring is my job, sure, no problem. It's not like I haven't been at it for decades. Still, I wonder why, after all these years, I still don't have it down. What gene am I missing? Why is it so hard to figure out food? Well, guilt is probably part of it. Back in the day, when my mother was in charge of keeping us fed, I do not ever remember getting takeout. A ride to Bianchi's Pizza in Revere was a rare treat, but most nights it was flank steak, mac and cheese, or "sketti and meatballs." The ever-present, "Finnan Haddie" made an appearance every Friday night,  because…Catholic. While I am grateful to my mother for many things, I suspect that my culinary frustration comes from her. She could not pass on her kitchen secrets, because none of them were food related. Yes, I learned from her the importance of having a cash stash in what should have been a cookie jar. Yes, she taught me how to put out a grease fire, but other than that, nada. No secret recipes, no helpful hints. I'm on my own here.

So what though? Have my children starved to death? Nope, not even close. Anyone who knows me can tell I haven't missed a meal in a while. So, is it a big fat hairy deal that I'm not passing out platters of food every night? As we head into fall, dinner will be served, eventually, and no one will die from hunger. They will just act like it. It's all good though. It's been a great summer, and now that it's almost (but not entirely) over, I supposed I will figure it out. I'd ask you all over for dinner, but there's a reason I only throw cocktail parties.