I’ve been the “cook” in my family for years now, and I love it. All the planning and preparation and trying out new recipes = right up my alley. But it wasn’t always like that. Let me tell how that came about.
When I was 18, my mother and grandmother were both sick with a cold during Thanksgiving, and I was basically told, “If you want turkey and all the trimmings, you gotta cook it yourself.” Now, in previous years, my contribution to the meal was opening up the can of cranberry sauce and slicing it and setting the table. Not a lot. But that year? Trial by fire.
The gravy was the consistency of jello. The dressing was from a box. And the turkey? Burnt to a crisp.
In fact, the only halfway edible thing was the pumpkin pie. . . and that was all thanks to Mrs. Smith. Hey, at least I did turn on the oven and put it in.
Somehow (still not sure how), my mother and grandmother both loved the meal and raved about it.
Yeah, I think it had less to do with my skills as a cook and more to do with the fact that they were getting a little vacation from cooking. And somehow (I”m even more unsure about how this happened), I became the designated family cook from there on out.
It’s been many Thanksgivings, Christmases, and Easters since then, and I think I’ve learned a thing or two. Well, hopefully more than a thing or two.
This year, though, I’m getting my own little break (no more flour everywhere or waking up before dawn to put the turkey in). No, this year we’re eating out for Thanksgiving.
But it I were cooking this year. . . this is what I’d be making for dessert.
Pumpkin icebox cake. Which has some of my favorite things in it: Pumpkin? Check. Whipped Cream? Check. Cream Cheese? Spices? Check check.