Rabbit Ears and the TV Dinner

Yes, I said TV dinner, the 1970’s version of fast food.  Forty five minutes in a 475° oven, yup that fast.  This meal would consist of an entrée, a vegetable, a starch and dessert.  For some reason the manufacturers of these gourmet meals decided to put the dessert compartment next to the vegetable compartment.  Yummy apple crisp with peas; for those of you who have read about my disregard for peas, I cannot begin to explain the horror upon viewing the mixed container of a meal under the tin foil.  Just knowing the repetitiveness of this meal brought on the gag reflex immediately after tearing open and seeing the steaming hot portions of scalding magma.  For those of you, who have never had the pleasure of this meal, let me explain my anguish.  The entrée: some kind of sliced meat covered in gravy of relatively the same essence, usually the largest section of the tin foil tray.  The starch:  typically mashed potatoes, or what resembled potatoes.  They were almost white and somewhat fluffy.  This compartment was also contaminated by the vegetable section and possibly overspills of gravy from the meat portion.  The vegetable compartment, the destroyer of all things contained within the same enclosure; some array of, or medley of, all my favorite vegetables including; peas, carrots and lima beans.  These dreadful tasting nibs of nastiness were planted throughout the tray.  They would form their line of attack and secretly invade across enemy strongholds and contaminate every compartment.  Once you’ve contemplated and taken complete inspection of the forkful, it happens.  POW!  Like a land mine in your mouth, one pea, the orb of death clinging to your tongue like a leech, sucking the existence out of you.  Only a strong determination and stomach would keep me from regurgitating everything back to its original compartment.  And lastly the dessert compartment; this area was selected for the pleasure of each diner.  The final portion there for your enjoyment was usually apple crisp or cherry cobbler as I recall.  This enticing portion cooked with steam trapped under a sealed tin foil lid.  The steam from meat, potato, and vegetable was condensing into tiny drops of miscellaneous flavor; this cooking method, deemed reasonable by the engineers, to cook apple CRISP?  Hardly, this was supposed to be gratifying, something to delight the palate.  By the time the 45 minutes had finished, the compartments had amalgamated into something with one unique smell and taste, one big serving of food of similar taste and dissimilar textures.  My deduction is that this resembled a pot pie with dessert already enclosed.  Excluding only the crust, which is now represented by a sheet of tin foil sealing the tray as one unit?  How could you not be eager about a feast like this?  My recollection can only be surmised like this:

As legend would have it, Sunday nights in the Longstreth house went something like this: pre-heat oven to 475° if it will accomplish this task, retrieve the TV dinners from the freezer, 4 Turkey and 1 Salisbury steak, place in oven regardless of temperature, proceed to the living room and get out the TV trays, turn on TV to the only channel we receive, NBC, and watch The Lawrence Welk Show, get TV dinners out of the oven, take to living room, watch next show, Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom, take tin foil container to garbage, wash forks and drinking glasses, return to living room and put away TV trays, watch The Wonderful World of Disney and finally go happily to bed.

  Here’s the way I remember.  “Why do I have to eat a TURKEY dinner?”  My dad’s response, “Because I said so!”  “I don’t like succotash and I abhor peas, especially in my dessert.”  “Tough shit!” his retort.  “Why can’t I use a TV tray?”  “Just use the stool, besides you’re the youngest” my mom would answer.  “Do we really have to watch Lawrence Welk?”  “You are really starting to piss me off, boy” my dad would firmly state.  Knowing that I was on the brink of getting by butt whooped I would state under my breath, “I hate this show, I’m 6 not 66.”  “What did you say?”  My dad would ask.  Into the kitchen my dismay would continue and all my thoughts would now be contained inside.  Why do I always have to dry the dishes?  Why does Jim Fowler do all the dirty work and Marlon Perkins get all the credit?  How come they never show Disney cartoons, it’s always some stupid movie?  Go to bed, and listen intently to my mom and dad open pop bottles and enjoy soda after us kids are in bed.  This is just mean, sob, sob, sob fall asleep.

Living on the Edge

Picture yourself in a boat on a river with tangerine trees and marmalade skies.  Well not really but maybe 1976.  It is the bicentennial of our country.  Every town across the USA is filled with American pride.  My town, Spencerville Ohio actually painted their fire hydrants as little minutemen.  I know, awesome.  Really, imagine yourself as my dad.  You live in rural Spencerville Ohio, okay Spencerville is rural, but we still live out of town.  Our neighbors not too close but close enough.  You are married and have 4 children.  You don’t lock your car or your house.  There has never been a break-in or theft in our neighborhood ever!  What a country!  You sleep like a baby every night dreaming of better meals and sports.  Your children are all tucked safe in their beds, not a care in the world.  You are awakened by footsteps in your house.  Is it one of your kids?  Is it your mother-in-law, your neighbor, a burglar?  You realize your only form of protection; i.e. a gun is in your son’s room at the opposite end of the house.  You have to improvise, MacGyver style.  If somehow you could sneak to the kitchen, there hanging above the kitchen stove were the knives.  You could fend off this would be thief and save the family from disaster and years of therapy.  Slipping out of bed and making your way across hardwood floors, no creaking , no sound, not even a whisper of noise.  In the faint light of the moon shining through the kitchen window, you make out the silhouettes, 5 shiny knives hanging; ready to do battle with the enemy.  There is only about 15’ between you and all the protection you will need.  Under the cover of the dark night you make it to the stove.  As you reach for the dagger of life a light turns on.  “Hank what are you doing?”  My mother asks.  “I heard footsteps in the living room” he replied.  With all the answers my mom says, “It is just the kerosene heater cooling down because it ran out of fuel.”  “Let’s go back to bed.”  Before you put the knife back on the hook, you flick your thumb across the blade ever so gently, then a bit harder, a bit harder.  At this point, or lack thereof, you realize there is no edge on this knife.  You check the others, with no difference, dull as a bull’s ass.  You think to yourself, how in the hell do we even get food on the table?  You know for a fact that there is no sharpener on the premises and we have no secret stash of good knives.  Could this representation of cutlery actually be for real or are they ornamental?  You go back to bed and think about the ironic situation in the kitchen.  I know it’s a knife, it looks like a knife, is it really a knife?  What if I really needed the knife to do some damage?  Could it have been used in self-defense?  Would the intruder just laugh at me like Vincent Price at the end of Thriller, knowing full well our cutlery wouldn’t damage a stick of butter?  Or maybe your thoughts would go down other avenues.  No wonder we buy everything pre-cut.  How come we never eat steak?  I know I’ve seen Marie use these.  Or did I?  Have I ever eaten a slice of tomato?  I know I have.  But was it here in my house or somewhere else?  You finally fall back asleep and go onto other more interesting dreams. 

There was never an intruder in our house.  I just think about our cutlery and how we prepped our meals.  No accidental cuts were witnessed in our house, no stitches, nothing.  Our knife set was as harmless and useless as false teeth sitting in a glass.  This makes me ponder.  Does every house possess decorative cutlery?  If so, how do they survive?  Check your knives boys and girls.  If they won’t cut through the skin of a tomato, they are not sharp enough.  Put yourself in my father’s shoes and think about this.  What if you have an intruder?  Follow her down to a bridge by a fountain where rocking horse people eat marshmallow pies.  No cutlery needed.

Who Gets the Credit?

At the age of 11, I began cooking dinner for our family of 6.  My two older sisters were busy with after school activities and my younger sister would be dropped off by the bus about an hour after me.  I was the first of 4 to come home after school.  My mother would have everything written down for me; the recipe, start times even the tasks easy as opening the refrigerator.  I would begin chopping, slicing, seasoning (S & P only) and putting meals in the oven, electric skillet whatever the case.  If I had any questions/problems I would call my grandma.  Land line rotary phone only, no cell phones back then, how did we survive?  She was my culinary authority and continued to be so throughout my life.  My grandma cooked with a purpose.  Her quest was to make everything fresh and pleasing to the palate.  Her cooking is what I hoped for myself.  Cook like you love what you’re doing.  If your meals taste like you've put some love into them, they will be appreciated.  I would continue prepping and cooking until my mom finished her bus route.  She would come home and finish dinner, or take it out of the oven and place on the table.  She would get full credit regardless of the outcome of the meal.  I didn't understand it then, but the timing was impeccable.  My mom knew exactly when to begin and end prep tasks.  She knew how long to cook something.  She could convey these directions on a note for me.  Why couldn't she understand how to make something taste good?  It baffles me to this day.  Nonetheless dinner would be on the table just as my father walked through the door.  How did she manage this?  Knowing now what I didn't know then, about my mother’s cooking skills, it was probably better timing on my dad’s part.  My father somehow knew by the amount of smoke coming out of the house, just kidding, how long he had to make it through the door.  Or maybe he knew the routine going on inside the kitchen and planned his trip home to match the meal for the night.  He knew his meal because my mom had the menu for the week posted on the refrigerator.  He also realized early on in the marriage that it was better to eat Marie’s cooking hot.  Hot and mediocre is much better than cold and mediocre.  Good or mediocre our family didn't go hungry.  My mom took the credit and I gained valuable kitchen skills.  I continue to hone these skills and pass them to my daughter.  Although she is not prepping the family dinner by herself, she has learned many recipes and simple ways to fend for herself.  I’m not sure if my mom had the intentions or the intuition to see my potential in the kitchen, but I thank her for the opportunity.  Maybe I was convenient for her as I was the only one able to get things started.  Through my childhood experiences and further into my adult life, I have been fascinated by the culinary art.  I continue to gain valuable skills, knowledge and passion for cooking.  Thanks mom for getting me started, regardless if it were intentional or not.  I appreciate the effort you made for me.  My family, neighbors and friends also thank you.