By RaeJean Spencer Hasenoehrl
As a teenager, my domestic skills contributed towards the toxic waste problem within the United States. Thus, each year for our family’s Thanksgiving meal, I was relegated to mashing potatoes and whipping up a pitcher of Kool-Aid.Once I was married and living hundreds of miles away from my family I realized that, with Thanksgiving a few short weeks away, it might be wise for me to do a practice run in making a proper holiday meal. Without my mother’s capable hands to rescue the meal, I was forced to pay attention to the culinary details of seasoning the turkey, cooking the potatoes to fork-tender perfection, and thickening the gravy without turning it into sludge.
I roasted the turkey in a large baking dish — a wedding gift I hadn’t yet used. I whipped up a magnificent batch of Stove Top without scorching a single stuffing crumb. Cubes of potatoes boiled away. And black cherry Kool-Aid was waiting for ice.
At last, it was time to create the piece de resistance: the gravy. I carefully placed the turkey on a platter (okay, it was a cookie sheet — this newlywed didn’t yet own a platter). I placed the baking dish on the stove’s burner to heat the tasty drippings. I measured two tablespoons of flour and stirred it into the drippings, just like I’d watched my mother do at least a hundred times.
All at once, gunshots sounded. I took the duck-and-cover position on the kitchen floor. My heart pounded as I waited for more gunshots to sound. And the phone to call the police? Heaven help me, it was in the other room.
A couple of minutes passed by. No more gunshots. And I realized the burner of the stove was still on.
“I must rescue the gravy!” I thought.
As I struggled to my feet, I realized there was broken glass all around me. The gunshots must have come through our apartment’s window. Heart pounding, I reached to turn off the stove burner. More glass, scattered all over the stove. And it was covered with my beautiful gravy.
Vaguely, I recalled the words of my mother: “If you place Pyrex on a hot burner, the glass will explode.”
Alas, the only police that needed to be called was the kitchen police.
Twenty-plus years later, my cooking skills have improved dramatically. And I’m the proud mother of two daughters, one of whom has domestic skills that contribute towards the toxic waste problem within the United States.
To that daughter, who shall remain nameless, as you prepare to cook one of your first Thanksgiving meals as a married woman, please beware of the Pyrex.
