Many of you already know that I spend a lot of time with my parents in the summer months. As in, we live in the same house. One big (mostly) happy family. It's been great, I have to say, but it's not without its challenges.
My mom is pretty much a walking stereotype of a nurturing, midwestern mother. Her mission is to take care of things -- people, animals, bugs struggling in the pool -- and she does it well. I enjoy hanging out with my daughters, but all the tasks that accompany it, like cooking and cleaning, are decidedly NOT a perk, in my view. My mom on the other hand...well, if you'd like your laundry done, just swing on by.
Most of all, my mom loves to feed people. Finding new and exciting dishes are an all-day quest, and her cookbook collection rivals the entire New York Public Library. Just now, she's stepped into a time warp and is on a 1960s retro food kick. It's a little...um, yeah, different.
Thusly:
The main problem with these cocktail sausages (aside from the whole ground up pig lips and entrails business, which I choose to ignore) is that my mother insists on calling them "weiners." What are we having tonight? Little weiners! Mmmm, weiners. Weiners are good. Would you like some more weiners? Yeah, no. That doesn't sound appetizing. If that makes me juvenile, so be it. We get things in varying shades of this:
Casserole! Who doesn't love it?
We've also been served up lots and lots of jellied foods. Sweet, savory--makes no difference. Just put it in a mold and refrigerate to make it "fancy." Behold, the wiggle!
I likely come off as a total ungrateful brat in this post. That is not my intention. I adore my parents. I do.
But tonight, I'm cooking.
