SUNDAY DINNER

These blog stories draw inspiration from my own experiences as jotted down in the piles of journals that span decades.

Today’s story takes us back to the early 1970’s when my husband and I were living on Walnut Street in Jenkintown, Pennsylvania. It was a twin home measuring a bit more than 1100 sq. feet. The small house provided a roof over our heads and those of our three children, a St. Bernard dog, and an Amazon parrot.

I was a stay-at-home mom. My husband worked as a letter carrier for the US Postal Service, a second job delivering evening newspapers, and he was a volunteer fire fighter. Our house was a beehive of activity with kids running in and out, friends and family regularly stopping by; the 160-pound dog barking or escaping out the front door with me not far behind, screaming his name like I was an Irish banshee. There was always rock music playing and cold beers in the fridge.

Every Monday and Thursday nights were reserved for firehouse activities.

After fire training on one particular Monday night, Bud, my husband came home with a brown paper bag containing 3 foil wrapped roasts of beef totaling approximately 7 or 8 lbs. given to him by one of the unmarried firemen who worked at a meat company. We were on a pretty tight budget, so the roasts were something special. Sunday dinner type special. I suggested that we call my parents who lived about 7 miles away in Philadelphia and invite them for a family dinner on the upcoming weekend.

I spent Saturday cleaning the house and I baked a cake. Our babysitter, Gina Connolly came by to lend a hand and helped to keep the kids out of my hair. I was excited to make a special occasion out of this dinner. After Mass the kids were still wearing their Sunday best for my parents’ arrival around 3:00 PM. I put the dog out into the back yard as I served light appetizers of celery stuffed with cream cheese and olives, chips and pretzels for the kids. My dad and Bud had beers, while my mother, the kids and I had Cokes.

In the meantime, the three roasts had been prepared in a pan surrounded by carrots, potatoes and onions. The house smelled festive, and the conversation was animated as we all looked forward to our special dinner. The time came for us all to take our places at the table where even the kids had stemmed glassware. While the family ate their salads, I took the roasts out of the oven.

To my complete horror upon pulling the pan from the rack, I saw not three perfectly cooked pieces of meat, but something more like hunks of shriveled up leather shoes. I called Bud into the kitchen and in a low voice, but demonstrating my heightened anxiety, said, “I don’t know what happened, I did everything right!”

Early in our marriage, he accepted the fact that at best, he’d married a mediocre cook; yet this topped any of my previous attempts at culinary perfection. My mother, who I swear, had psychic radar wandered into the kitchen knowing everything wasn’t copacetic (to borrow a favorite expression of my dad’s.) My mother’s cooking skills were extraordinary. It was once said that her gravy was so delicious that it must be made with holy water. Well, holy water wouldn’t do the trick for this meal…this meal required a miracle.

Mother helped me salvage the situation. Luckily, I always had hot dogs and rolls in the freezer, and she whipped up some Kraft macaroni and cheese, bringing us as close to that miracle as we were going to get. Dinner was delayed but the kids enjoyed their favorite meal served on my best China. The boxed cake that I made turned out to be the highlight of the day. No one complained, at least not to my face, and 4-year-old Joey said it was the best dinner that he’d ever had.

The next night Bud went to the firehouse and the fireman who had given us the miraculous

shrinking roasts came up to him and said, “Hey, Bud, how did your dog like that meat I gave you last week?”

Seems the guy’s job was in the dog food division of the meat plant where he worked.

Who knew that not only did we all miss out on a great Sunday dinner… so did our St. Bernard!