I start the pork chops browning in a skillet. The weather has changed and with the onset of autumn and the stressful presidential campaign, I’m wanting comfort foods.
As I turn the pork chops over so they brown on the other side, I think about our family get-together in a few days. We’re raking leaves and doing chores, but maybe the grandsons will be tired enough to watch a movie in the evening. My husband might convince them to choose one of his favorite kid’s movies, the classic Fred MacMurray “The Absent-Minded Professor.”
As I cover the pork chops, I recall how, growing up, my mother often commented about how I was absent-minded. I never argued, especially since I can still taste that gritty bite of moss. I was working on lining my fort with a mossy carpet and had gone inside for a chocolate chip cookie. Back under my grapevine fort, with a chunk of moss in one hand and the cookie in the other, I absent-mindedly bit into the moss by mistake.
I open a can of cream of mushroom soup and add it to the browned pork chops. They smell delicious.
Mom also labeled me a “dreamer” and a “thinker.” Again, I would agree and add “easily distracted” to the list.
I think about making mashed potatoes, gravy, fresh green beans, and cinnamon apples for dessert. It will be the perfect fall meal.
Hearing the sound of my husband blowing leaves, I head into the garage where I keep my coveralls. I’m slipping into them when I wonder if I remembered to add water to the simmering pork chops. I walk around to the front door nearest the kitchen and spot the three-foot fairy statue my mom gave me as a birthday present over 30 years ago. It’s precious to me, and I need to protect it from the cold and snow, so I carry her to the deck and open the storage bin. I pull out lawn cushions and sports equipment. After I have her safely sandwiched between lawn cushions, I fill my arms with bats, mitts, and balls that need more air—another job for the to-do list—and drag them to the basement. First, though, I have to dump out the flower pots. I get a whiff of the simmering pork chops. I better check them right after I finish outside.
People who live in places like Hawaii where the weather doesn’t change miss out, I think, as I dump the straggly flowers into the mulch pile. A meal like mashed potatoes, gravy, and pork chops wouldn’t be the same if the weather were a balmy 75 degrees.
I empty three more baskets and stack the pots behind the woodpile, so they’ll be ready next spring. They had been so colorful and cheery these past five months. If I had the room, I’d bring them all inside, but I must be realistic.
I tell my husband, who’s finished with the leaf blower, that we’ll eat in ten minutes. I’m ready to take a break and have some wholesome food.
I peel off my work gloves and coveralls, hang them in the garage, and step into the house. Yes, the smell of savory pork chops.
I lift the lid. The gravy is burned into the pan, and the chops are overcooked and dry. I glance at the time. Hours have passed. Where have they gone? I sigh and wonder if Disney would like to remake the Fred MacMurray movie. I could star in it as The Absent-minded Chef.
4 Replies to “The Absent-minded Chef”
Ha! Good one!
Thanks, Gayle. I appreciate the loyal following.
Funny Story, but i am sure we can all l relate. for me it is burning the rice to the bottom of the pan!!!
Ha, I’m familiar with burning rice, too. And overcooking brownies, which became hockey pucks. 🙂