When my parents were visiting, they told me this story about my dad’s parents. I already knew that my paternal grandparents loved cooking. I think I have a picture I took in my childhood of them in the kitchen working on a meal together. Since they lived across the country from us and died when I was a teenager, I didn’t get to visit them very often, but somehow I still knew that their times in the kitchen together were the highlight of their days. In fact, they would even take pictures of their finished products on occasion.
So, it was easy for me to form a picture in my mind as my dad shared this story:
My grandparents were both standing over the stove, reading from a cookbook propped open on a stand, each cutting and chopping and absently adding ingredients to the sizzling frying pan between them. She threw in butter. He added onions. She tossed in peppers, etc.
After a while my grandmother asked, “Do we have any cabbage?”
“This recipe doesn’t call for cabbage,” my grandfather replied.
“Sure it does. It says so right here,” and she gestured to the page in the cookbook that faced her.
“We’re not making that meal. We’re making this one here,” and he pointed to the recipe on the page facing him.
My dad didn’t know exactly what transpired next, but I can imagine they were both a little frustrated with each other, despite themselves, but undoubtedly they put their heads together and salvaged what Frankensteinish creation they were unwittingly concocting.
Whatever it was, I’m sure it was picture-worthy.