Mom and the Flash-Fry Skillet
by Wendel Potter
July 19, 2005
There is an element in the fine art of cooking that transcends culinary talent. My philosophy is, to be a good cook you must also enjoy it.
Not even indifference should be allowed in the kitchen. Or green beans.
Over the weekends, I do most of the cooking in the Potter household. My specialty, Wendel's Hawaiian Luau Chicken, is a Friday evening staple at our dinner table.
This is a menu from which we rarely deviate. As a matter of fact, Hawaiian Chicken Friday is now the proper name reverently bestowed upon the sixth day of the week.
When I cook, I take my time. I allow no one to rush me.
"Rush" is not a good word in the kitchen. It ranks right up there with words like "botulism" and "ecoli".
If you're in a hurry, then you're not enjoying the cooking task at hand. If you're not enjoying putting the meal together, then you might as well hang up your utensils and have a pizza delivered.
I repeat: to be a good cook, you must enjoy it.
My mother was a prime example of how this theory worked. She was a good cook at times. Other times, when the mood just didn't strike her, she came off as half-baked.
I have two favorite childhood memories that recall my mother's flair in the kitchen. Both revolve around those 1960's kind of Pleasant Valley Sundays.
Breakfast on Sunday was something special. Our family rose early and attended 7:00 am Mass.
This was our Catholic service of choice. It was what they used to call "Low Mass". That meant that there was no music, no hymns. The crowd was small, so there wasn't much of a collection, either.
No prayers were chanted. They were muttered, said in Latin at a rhythmic, lickety-split clip.
So before the bell tolled eight o'clock, the Potters were back home, relaxing in our casual clothes and fighting over sections of the Sunday newspaper. But the strongest sense of Sunday came wafting from the kitchen: the tantalizing aroma of sizzling bacon and eggs crackling as they fried.
Mom was in her glory on Sunday mornings in the kitchen, putting together a breakfast feast for her family. We had all just communed at church. Now we would sit down at home and break bread. Well, toast perhaps.
For us, as with many families of that era, Sunday dinner meant chicken. Summer time meant grilled chicken. That's the other memory.
I can still hear the hiss of the juices hitting the coals as the two chickens Mom prepared on the barbecue spit every Summer Sunday slowly revolved over the fire. In the kitchen, while the potatoes boiled for mashing later, Mom would be baking a pie. Sunday was not Sunday without a slice of Mom's pie.
Those were great times, wonderful Sundays. Her simple meals were fit for a king because Mom enjoyed what she was doing.
Unfortunately, Mom's dark side in the kitchen popped up from time to time as the week progressed. She could be as ornery as Julia Child with a devil. It sometimes left us wondering if we needed a new cook or an exorcist.
During the work week, my mother insisted on adhering to a rigid dinnertime schedule. This meant we sat down at the table no later than 5:30.
Once we were finished, plates were carried to the kitchen, scraped off and placed in the sink for washing. Mom wanted her chores behind her by 6:15, so she could relax in front of the television and watch the Huntley-Brinkley News Report.
To knock this agenda off kilter was a grave and mortal sin in Mom's kitchen. As punishment, we would suffer a fate worse than Hell. Maybe even worse than McDonald's. We would be forced to eat one of my mother's Flash-Fry Skillet dinners!
This was a common scenario. Mom's pork chops were thawed out for the evening meal. The potatoes were peeled and set to boiling on the stove. A vegetable was on deck.
At the usual time, about ten minutes until five, Mom throttled up the electric skillet to 350 degrees. She coated the pork chops in flour and laid them out lovingly (at first) in the skillet. They looked great and smelled wonderful.
Ten minutes after five: no Dad. Shortly, the phone rings. He got caught with a client. He will be a little late.
This is not good news for the usually genial cook. Her schedule has been tossed to the wind.
There's a transformation going on with Mom. Her brow begins to furrow. Her lips are pursed. Her eyes darken.
We've seen this personality take shape all too often. Mom has become the Kitchen Anti-Christ! At any moment, we expect to see the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse come riding up.
It's 5:35. The potatoes are soggily simmering. The vegetables have boiled dry. The salad....well, screw the salad!
Dad calls. He's finishing up some paperwork and will be home before 6:00.
That's just dandy! Well, Huntley and Brinkley have some news for you: Dinner is ready NOW!
Mom angrily dials up the skillet to her own personal setting: Flash Fry! She turns the chops over so they'll be evenly burnt on both sides. What were once beautiful, lean pork chops are now turning into twisted leather. We aren't sure if Mom is making dinner or shoes.
That's how my mother handled her anger when Dad was late for dinner. She would simmer so long, then everything boiled over.
Dad never made a habit of being late. What he did make a habit of was, when he was going to be late, not calling until the last minute.
On the other hand, Mom's schedule was rigid, set in stone. She could be very unbending.
And so could her pork chops after she blackened them in her Flash Fry Skillet.
Life is a lot like cooking. To be good at it, you have to enjoy it. No point in rushing.
Copyright 2005 Wendel Potter
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