Sometimes the most appealing meals are not made from the finest ingredients or prepared by the most skilled chefs. Like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, we find that what we most need is no further than our own front door or in this case, refrigerator door.
Early last month Dave and I purchased tickets for a fundraising gala dinner to benefit a local retirement community. For weeks our mouths watered as we anticipated the exquisite French cuisine pared with local wines. Last week, with days to go before the event, the ladies in our group carefully planned our outfits, insuring we would at least be dressed to the same degree of “dressiness”. With clothing, shoes and accessories all set, we were ready for an evening of good friends and good food and wine.
We knew it was going to be a long day for us; we gals were working our Woman’s Club craft bazaar for most of the morning and early afternoon with just a few hours between that ending and the gala beginning, but we are a hardy crew, we could manage it. What I hadn’t counted on was Dave’s coming down with a cold that just wouldn’t quit.
When I got home from the bazaar on Saturday, it was pretty obvious that he wasn’t feeling very festive. Dressing in his comfy clothes and sucking on a mentholated cough drop with a pile of used tissues on the table next to his chair, he didn’t look like he was ready to put on a suit and tie and head to a gala dinner. Aside from the fact he didn’t feel well, his cold wasn’t something we wanted to share with our friends.
So, I made the call and cancelled our plans for the evening.
Now that we were staying in, I had to figure out what we would have for dinner. I considered going to the Colonel and picking up a bucket but thought that would have too much fat. Then I thought about picking up a rotisserie chicken at Food Lion. That sounded like a healthier alternative, but still involved my getting in the car. I was pooped from spending most of the day on my feet and felt the cold beginning to take hold of my body; I really didn’t want to go anywhere.
After completing a mental inventory of what was in my refrigerator, and flipping through my internal files of dinners past, I opted for a variation of comfort food from my childhood; stuffed hot-dogs. It was one of my favorites as a child. My mother would slice hot-dogs lengthwise, smear them with mustard, place a strip on American cheese on top, pile it high with mashed potatoes and sprinkle the top with paprika before placing them under the broiler for a few moments. It is a so rarely that I even have left over mashed potatoes in the refrigerator that I felt that stuffed hot-dogs were the ticket to my dinner dilemma.
Compared to a meal of French gourmet food, stuffed hot-dogs may seem like a giant step down. But as it turned out, it was the best meal we could have had that evening. I didn’t have to leave the comfort of my home, and the meal hit my comfort button spot on. Every bite reminded me of Saturday suppers long ago, sitting around a cozy table with my parents and siblings; the loud warmth of the unit that was us in our youths. Even better, Dave was able to feel the comfort from my sharing. He didn’t remember my ever preparing stuffed hot-dogs, but thought they were great!
While I’m not saying I preferred this simple peasant fare to an evening of French food and I didn’t miss the company of my friends at an event we had so long anticipated, I am happy that I was able to draw comfort from my childhood and share it with my congested spouse to not only make the best of it, but enjoy making the best of it.