September 28, 2006

In Which I Commit Murder

– Murder is commoner among cooks than among members of any other profession.
W.H. Auden

Several other mothers had bad days yesterday, but apparently none of them ended their day by committing murder. Maybe they don’t cook, or maybe they did commit murder and just didn’t blog about it, which is probably smart.

Nothing out of the ordinary happened to me; it was just that I was so crotchety yesterday that nothing was going to make me happy, and believe me, I tried to sate myself with fistfuls of chocolate and a glass of wine, but pretty much everything Bill and my boys did or said made me furious anyway.

When I helped Porter study for his spelling test, he insisted on spelling “familiar” as “familar” because, as he explained, “that’s the way my teacher spells it. She wrote it on the board that way and I have to spell it her way on the test.”

I pointed out that I am a fabulous speller and that I won the 5th grade spelling bee by correctly spelling “linoleum” but Porter was unimpressed and steadfast in his refusal to add an “i” to the word.

Just before dinner time I realized that I’d forgotten to go to the fish market. It was closed, and I had nothing for dinner. I went to Publix, bereft of ideas, and wandered the aisles aimlessly. I came home with a box of Hamburger Helper and a pound of ground chuck.

Perhaps I should add here, for those who haven’t figured it out already, that I’m a huge dinner snob. I cook because I enjoy it, my mom did it, and I’m good at it. A home-cooked, sit-down meal is a top priority for me, and if I don’t produce one, I feel like I’ve failed at a major part of being a wife and mother. Worse, I’m an ingredient snob. I scorn meatloaf, and exult in artichokes and edamame. I think nothing of whipping up a buerre blanc. In the past, I’d been known to sneer at people doing just what I was doing: buying dinner in a box.

To atone for what was sure to be nasty food, I made a chocolate chip pound cake, and I sent the boys to take showers as I prepared it so I could lick the beaters and the bowl all by myself.

When it was time to eat, I hid the box of Hamburger Helper deep in the trash, and said, “I tried a new recipe, and I’m not sure you’re going to like it,” as I handed out plates of Cheesy Italian Shells. Bill and the boys sucked it down like manna, which made me wonder why the hell I spend time and money preparing Bowties with Peas and Prosciutto, lovingly topped with shaved fresh parmigiano-regiano, when apparently I could serve them Kibbles and Bits with milk and be just as popular.

Bill and I put the boys to sleep, and then we got in bed. I tried to concentrate on an article in the New Yorker about the popularity of food shows, but our damn dog kept barking and yipping. It didn’t seem to bother Bill at all but it was driving me berserk so finally I stomped out of the room and let the mongrel in the house to try to make him shut up. (Which it didn’t, and he’s still FREE to ~~a good~~ ~~home~~ anyone who wants him, and if possible he’s even more annoying than I previously described. If you have a neighbor who’s thinking about moving and you’d like to encourage that, this is the “pet” for you.)

Anyway, when I was letting the dog in, I saw a roach scurry across the deck into the darkness, and something in me snapped.

Grimly, I went to the bedroom and put on some jeans and shoes, and then I returned to the kitchen and got the Raid and a flashlight from under the sink. I stepped quietly onto the deck and turned the flashlight on the wall near the grill. I sprayed a shot of Raid at the drain spout behind the grill, and an army of roaches ran in all directions along the wall. I blasted them with the Raid, aiming carefully at each one until he either flipped on his back or started crawling in circles, then turning my attention to the others.

By the end of the battle, I was almost suffocated with the smell of Country Fresh Raid and the deck looked like an abattoir*, littered with roach corpses too numerous to count. I surveyed the scene and was satisfied.

I went inside and washed my hands and replaced the flashlight. The kitchen still smelled faintly of Cheesy Italian Shells and chocolate cake. The can of Raid was was empty, so I tossed it and wrote “Raid” in black Sharpie on my grocery list on the refrigerator. As I headed back to bed, I felt better than I had in days.

I am proud to be a cook and a murderer. Tonight we’re having Salmon with Fresh Ginger Sauce, and after everyone goes to bed, I plan to continue my killing spree. Care to join me?

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*spelling bee word