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24 Sep

I Am Not A Cook (…Oops!)

mestepanich Mary Ellen Stepanich, PhD 3 0

(An excerpt from my book, D Is For Dysfunctional…and Doo Wop!)

Each house in our little mountain community of Brownsville, California, boasted a hangar instead of a garage enclosing at least one, sometimes two, private airplanes, ranging from hand-built vintage mini-planes to sleek twin-engine aircraft.

George had three planes: a Smith mini-plane, a V-tail Beechcraft Bonanza, and part ownership of a high-wing Cessna 150. All the husbands were pilots, either private or retired military, and had kept their certifications current. The wives nicknamed the husbands the “Brownsville Air Reserve Force,” or BARF, for short.

Lesson: No matter how great you think your life is going, inevitably some things
just make you want to throw up.

Speaking of throwing up—George insisted that I cook Thanksgiving dinner for our new neighbors the first November we lived in Brownsville. Now, there were two problems with that. First, you may remember that, to paraphrase Richard Nixon, “I am not a cook!” Second, we were living at the time in a small travel trailer while our house was being built, and the only cooking appliance I had was a travel-size stove and an oven the size of a breadbox.

I was in the miniscule trailer kitchen, and the guests were gathered in the small plastic-covered, screened-in room that George had erected next to the tiny trailer and heated with a woodstove in winter. The turkey seemed to be done, so I carefully lifted it from the oven. However, as I did, the trailer heaved a sigh, moved slightly, and I momentarily lost my balance. The turkey decided to fly into the afterlife, landing on the carpeted floor with a soft thud.

Embarrassed, I quickly peeked into the anteroom to see if anyone noticed. They didn’t. So, I scooped the turkey off the floor, made sure there was no lint clinging to it, and plopped it on a platter on the table. We had a great dinner, and I never bothered to explain the stain on the carpet.

By the way, as I recall, no one got sick from eating floor lint. However, I noticed that people were quick to offer to bring food whenever we had a party after that.

If you wish to obtain a copy of the book, visit Amazon.com or B&N.com, or send a request to DrStep@cox.net.D is for Dysfunctional—and Doo Wop


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