The Joy of Cooking

I make some mean toast. No, seriously. I actually know where the toaster is, and I can press down the lovely button that engages the heating element and in less than two minutes makes perfectly browned toast. Not too brown, and not too white either, but a great combination of the two, making for a flaky surface that reminds me of good quality biscuits. Yes, I make some mean toast.

When I was young I remember on a particularly interesting Mother’s Day my sister and I deciding we were going to make my mother breakfast in bed. It seemed so cliche we just had to be a part of it, creating a meal for my mother on a day that was not her birthday. It was my sister’s idea, really, but I chipped in with some random ideas that were summarily dismissed by the main chef. We got up early in order to create the masterpiece without my mother’s knowledge, both of us donning aprons that had seen better days, intent on getting the combinations just right.

It started with an omelet, which my sister claimed to be the best at making, and the only thing we made that really turned out okay. From there it got rather dicey, however, especially with what I was responsible for: the spicy fries. Now, my mother loves some spicy fries, like the kind you can get at nice restaurants everywhere, but at home we hardly ever ate fries. So, not only was it going to be a delicacy for her, but they were also designed to be a reminder of times and memories of us eating out at nice restaurants. It ended up being neither, and all because I got a bit heavy-handed with the spices.

I had potatoes I had sliced up nicely, all lined up on two baking trays, so I started off well, but it only went downhill from there. After laying the potatoes out, I grabbed the spices — salt in my left hand and pepper in my right. Unfortunately I had forgotten to check the tops to make sure they were screwed on properly. The salting went well, as I shook out a light dusting on the fries, but the pepper wasn’t coming out as well, so I shook it harder. On the third huge shake the top came off and pepper came gushing out of the container, completely covering the fries with dark flecks.

I gasped, unsure of what to do next. My sister said we should shake the pepper off each fry, but I had coated them in oil first so the spices would stick to them, so it wasn’t an easy endeavor. I spent about half an hour handling each fry, trying to wipe off the pepper, but it was to no avail. We put them in the oven anyway, but the smells emanating from that oven were less than ideal, and were a bit overpowering. In fact, while they were cooking we couldn’t even be in the kitchen without having a coughing fit. That should have told us something. When the timer went off I somehow got into the kitchen long enough to take them off with just one round of coughing in the process. We had to open all the kitchen windows to air them out, and it was still a little dicey even after that.

Then it was time to taste them, and I volunteered. After one bite my eyes were watering something fierce. It was a disaster, the one thing I had tried to do for my mother in honor of Mother’s Day. It was devastating to me, and I wanted to just go and hide in a corner, but when my mother woke up, and after hearing my sob story, she still wanted to eat my fries first. She said she was honored I had gone through all that trouble for her. I could see her own eyes watering from the taste of those spices, but she played it off like she was just emotional, and that made all the difference.

And yeah, I can still make some mean toast.

Sam