Dad and I were amused at Father Tim’s culinary antics this morning as we read At Home In Mitford.
“The last of his Rector’s Meatloaf was gone, and good riddance. To his chagrin, he’d used more oatmeal than before, which resulted in the most unsavory concoction he’d tasted in years. But he had soldiered on and eaten the entire loaf over a period of several days.”
Father Tim’s “oatmeal loaf” reminded me of the occasional breakfast of charred toast with Grandmother. With a chagrined look, she would explain that she had forgotten it in the oven. Grandmother always gave me the least burned piece. I wondered why she didn’t just throw it away and start over, but she never did. Like Father Tim, Grandmother soldiered on and ate all of her blackened toast, and I . . well, I tried to follow her example but I could never swallow more than a bite or two. I wrapped mine in a paper towel and buried it in the trash. Knowing Grandmother, she was probably aware of my subterfuge.
Dad remembers just how his mother liked her toast: the center oozed butter and the outside edges were a beautiful brown. According to Dad, the best meatloaf is Mom’s, made with cracker crumbs to bind the meat mixture together. But there’s no toast or meatloaf for Dad today. He’s soldiering on with half-teaspoon-sips of Ensure since his inflamed esophagus can tolerate nothing more.