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.