Great aromas from Mable's kitchen | Columnists | – Dothan Eagle

Mable, my lovely bride, spends a great deal of her time explaining to all who will listen and many who won’t, her lack of talent in the kitchen. I am here to tell you that when Mable decides to fire up the old Hotpoint she can really flash a pan.
I didn’t go from a svelte 32-inch waist to a somewhat less svelte 38-inch waist by not eating well. In fact, Mable is particularly good at the necessities, i.e. fried chicken, mashed potatoes, field peas; you know, the basics.
When I heard her banging around the pots and pans this weekend, I naturally assumed a feast was in the offing. A wheelbarrow full of groceries had been purchased and visions of pot roast danced in my head. I am not proud of my drooling problem but when confined to the house, I don’t worry too much.
Anyhow, bright and early Saturday the sounds and smells began to drift from the stove into the den. When Mable cooks, she usually prepares way too much which is almost enough. In other words, no matter how much she cooks, I can eat it all and look for just a bit more.
A glance at the massed staples on the counter assured me that Mable was on the move and taking the meal seriously. All we lacked was the fatted calf to complete a repast of biblical proportions. Since we now have our own prodigal son and prodigal daughters, I suspected the rations might be for them. Still, I knew they wouldn’t be coming home so I got ready to go face down in several million calories of goodies.
Late afternoon I stalked the wily chicken casserole. What ho! The casserole was hiding in a Tupperware container not out on the counter where it belonged. Likewise, the fried chicken was neatly wrapped in foil and Mable’s special recipe thermonuclear pimento cheese, nectar of the gods, was stored in a cooler. Something was wrong. How could I eat all the treasures if they were all bundled up?
Mable muttered to herself, “Welp, I suppose these are ready to go.” She had spent the day fixing my favorite foods to send off by special messenger to the heathens. I know I shouldn’t have built up my expectations. I know F-Troop is going to get first shot and last refusal on all of Mable’s culinary efforts.
Still, the thought of all the good eats being sent on to Birmingham and Nashville was more than I could stand. A tear trickled down my cheek as I munched a baloney sandwich. I took heart. The kids would soon be home for Easter and at least I could eat their ham scraps. Dadliness is next to godliness.
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