When I was around 3 or 4, my pappy—mom’s dad, who was a flying ace in WWI, started the peruvian air force, and taught us how to mislead mom—died. Well meaning neighbors from all over our East Tennessee suburban neighborhood of Colonial Heights brought endless cassaroles and other dining monstrosities.
At three, I found this insanely not good. So after a few too many days of grean beans soaked in campbell’s mushroom soup topped with dehydrated onions, I went crying to mom and asked her when she would please cook for us again.
Touched, she said. “Oh honey, I will cook you anything you want for dinner. What would you like?” To which she expected a reply suitable to a three year old like “hotdogs” or “hamburgers” or “tacos” (remember, 1971 predated the chicken nugget).
What did I reply? “Artichokes and Hollandaise” of course. This caused some consternation, because finding artichokes in those days at the local A&P was nigh on impossible. Somehow, mom prevailed.
To this day, I love this meal. Thanks mom, for developing my palate properly.
