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.

 

Pug Problems

"If the kindest souls were rewarded with the longest lives, dogs would outlive us all."

---Unknown

If you're not a dog fan, stop reading. If you are, you'll get it. I've always loved dogs. We could not have one growing up because of my father's allergies, but we had neighborhood dogs that we would play with and pretend were ours. The first dog I had of my own was a flatulent yellow lab we named Flash, short for "Jumping Jack Flash" because he was, quite literally, a "gas, gas, gas." Still, he was adorable and fun. Eventually. When he was a puppy, he was a pain in the neck, but he was our pain in the neck. When my oldest was a baby and tooling around the house in a wheeled walker contraption and upended himself under the dining room table, Flash went right over and tried to right the walker and pull Andy to safety. Good dog.

After Flash, we adopted Dingle, another yellow lab, a female this time and older. She was fat and slow and smart as a whip. She loved to swim, well, OK, she mostly floated, and you could put a bone on her nose, and she'd balance it, then pop it up in the air and catch it. I miss her.

When she died, we were dogless for a while, and it was awful. That's when I became what is known as a "crazy pug person." While every breed has their fans, pug people are a particular kind of cuckoo. Think about it. Pugs are often overweight and smelly. They breathe so loud you'd think a Harley was in your kitchen and some people believe they are ugly. Those people are stupid.

Pugs are not really dogs. They are magical creatures that you'd think would be repugnant (har har) but are truly delightful. Do you see the crazy yet? Oscar came along as a rescue pug, and the die was cast. Someone once asked me, "Does that mean he can save people?" Well, he saved me, so yes, I guess he was a life saver, in a way. He knew when someone wasn't feeling well and he'd sit with them, resting his chin on their lap and letting them know, through snorty breaths and big yawns that he was there, no matter what. Losing him was one of the saddest days of my life. After a time though, there needed to be a dog in the house again, so of course, we found another pug. Miss Penny, all eleven pounds of her, makes me laugh every day. She also makes a mess of some kind every day, from ripping open and eating an entire loaf of bread once, to shredding a pillow into thousands of bits of fluff all over the living room.

Lately, Penny has had herself a bit of a struggle. She has chronically infected ears. They are oozing and have sores, and it's been miserable. This is where a pug parent goes into full-blown lunacy. Vet visits, of course. Multiple medicines. New food. It sounds simple enough, but it's not. Pug ears are like little pockets of velvet, but not Penny's. Hers are swollen and painful, and it's making this pug mama go to new lengths. I don't usually cook that much. I don't enjoy it, and I'm not that good at it. However, to lessen the allergy triggers that are causing poor Penny's trouble, I made dog food. I cooked beef, selected veggies, added fish oil capsules and concocted a mixture of custom nutrition. After an afternoon of chopping and simmering and roasting, I had 14 snack food containers filled with precise portions of pug pate. I have refused to make a child a sandwich, but that dog? She gets cooked to order specialty dinners.

Medications are involved too. Ever chase a dog around the house, hold her down and try to shove a nozzle into her ear, that squirts out gooey foam that smells like rotten eggs? Try it sometime; it's wicked fun. Her pills have to be wrapped in chevre goat cheese because she won't eat them any other way. She's supposed to be wearing a cone of shame, but I can't bring myself to do it, it's so sad and pathetic looking on her. She's agreed not to scratch her ears if we skip the cone.

All this nonsense for a dog? Yes. Because dogs love you unconditionally. If you have a dog that has made you their person, that's everything. Of course, you'd go to extremes. Dogs don't live as long as people, but they love more than most and give more too. Make the food, buy the cheese, and get them a new toy while you're at it. Where else can you find a warm bundle of love and loyalty? Penny will be on the mend soon, but in the meantime, she's getting anything she wants. Told you pug people were nuts. In the best way possible though.