This little piggy

As if we needed further proof that pureed foods were my child’s safest bet…

For dinner I thought I'd make Junior a nice, tender pork chop. You know, something an 11-month-old can really sink his three teeth into. And while I was preparing this oh-so-not-age-appropriate meal I decided to have some Scotch. Money's tight so I reached for my good friend Clan MacGregor, which is actually not bad for the price. (I love that someone on eopinions.com listed the Scotch's con as "Lacks character." Honey, if you're reachin' for the Clan MacGregor, character's the last thing on your mind.)

Anyhoo, as I was cooking this fine chop on the stove top I noticed it was starting to burn. Badly. So I grabbed what I thought was the green bottle of Colavita olive oil* and doused the chop with...yes, Clan MacGregor. Poor Junior. My little boy was sitting so patiently, salivating over this lovely piece of chewy white meat and Mommy had inadvertently flambéed it!

So I did what any mother with a hungry child would do: I rinsed it off under water, cleaned out the pan, and finished cooking it.

And oh was it delicious. Junior and I had a grand old time watching me hack into it with a steak knife and serve it to the garbage can. Thank God for Cheerios.

*In my defense the bottles look an awful lot alike.

What's for dinner?

I’ve been making an active effort to get out of the house a few times a month to socialize. Last night I went to a “gourmet night” get together. There were ten women, of whom I knew one, Diane (the one who invited me).

Everyone was so cordial. I don’t know if it’s the new mom in me or what but lately when I meet new people I want to get the formalities out of the way and get on with it. Enough with the farty-fart chit chat.

Anyway. Diane brought the party thrower a pretty bouquet of tulips and a fancy Spinach and Asiago cheese dip. She had also baked her own bread, then turned the bread into seasoned crisps, which were perfect, symmetrical triangles. I brought a six pack of beer I like.

“It’s ok,” she said. “You’re a mom. No one expects you to make anything.”

“Bull. They at least expect me to bring cut up food in little containers.”

“They know you’re busy.”

I allowed myself to be convinced. Then I met the two other moms in attendance. One had made a strawberry tart with homemade crust; the other had crafted little pizzas with gourmet olives, tomatoes, and four kinds of cheese.

I could lie and say that my guilt prevented me from making a pig of myself but it didn’t. I stuffed my face. Most nights Charles and I eat Special K with red berries for dinner. This was a culinary-challenged person’s dream.

When I got home I told Charles how I was the only one who didn’t make anything. He reminded me of a picnic we went to and how I had made a homemade apple tart. It was dry and lumpy, and we took most of it home with us.

“It’s better not to bring anything than to bring something that sucks.” He laughed. "That was really gross."

Thanks.

At least for now Junior is eating better than we do. Just the other night he had organic turkey and corn casserole. For dessert he ate wild blueberries and pear.

Imagine if I had shown up at the gourmet get together with carefully disguised Gerber baby food? Wild blueberries with pear as ice cream topping? Corn casserole dip for a lovingly arranged tortilla chip platter? Would anyone would have known?

Probably. Maybe Charles is wrong about the apple tart.