291534 Fri Jan 10 16:21:04 -0800 2003 42 27 General Chowhounding Topics 0 1587100 Well, the gnocchi thread brought back my memory, which I already posted (see link). I'd love to hear the stories of utter failures and disasters that either had you in stiches on the floor at the time, or perhaps left you near crying at the time, but in reflection now can't help make you laugh. Link: http://www.chowhound.com/topics/show/291533#1587062 Fri Jan 10 16:21:04 -0800 2003 0 SLRossi 1 1587104 At about 10 pm the night before a baby shower brunch for thirty people, I was finishing up the two cakes for the party (one pink, one blue, since the mother to be did not know the gender of the baby). After consulting several recipes, I decided that I could use my regular chocolate ganache recipe to make a whipped white chocolate ganache frosting that I could color the aforementioned pink and blue. So, I threw the white chocolate chips in the hot cream, stirred until they melted (kind of) and left it alone to cool. This is when I learned that white chocolate chips cannot be used for anything except white chocolate chip cookies. The cooled ganache was lumpy and refused to whip at all, a complete failure. Totally exhausted from a very full day of cooking, I limped to the store, bought some horrid canned frosting and went to bed. No one complained, but the amount of leftover cake said otherwise. Fri Jan 10 16:34:16 -0800 2003 1587100 0 kjhart 1 1587130 The first time I made a milk-based cooked frosting, it separated. This is not so funny, but imagine. I, a very ambitious 19 year old baker, decided that I was going to make a big cake for my 10-year-old neice's (we've a big family and my eldest sibling is 16 years older than me, so don't be shocked) birthday. And I mean big. I made a 14-inch round layer cake -- 4 layers. The homemade cake came out just fine -- a good firm white cake flavored with almond. It was a huge, naked, cake, and I was feeling so proud of myself that I wanted to make something more special than just a powdered-sugar icing to go over it and fill between the layers. I called my grandmother -- a legendary cook in our family-- at her winter house in Florida. I asked her for her "Wedding Cake Icing" recipe. She said it was probably a good choice for that cake, but she'd feel more comfortable if the first time I made it she was in the kitchen with me. Since I didn't have access to a private Leir jet to ferry Grandma to the kitchen, I suggested she talk me through it on speakerphone. I switched the kitchen phone out of the wall jack with the one which had a speakerphone from my Dad's study (he was willing and cheerful to give it up for the cause of culinary discovery) and she talked me through a quadruple batch of her old fashioned recipe. It involves thickening heated milk on the stove with flour, and then beating it into butter and powdered sugar. The milk mixture must be cooled to a lukewarm temp, but shouldn't be cold. The whole beating in the electric mixer process takes about 15-20 minutes. It's pretty obvious when the "magic" happens and what was a greyish-yellowish mass somehow turns into a white emulsion of creamy whiteness. I know this now. I didn't know this then. Before the "magic" happened, Grandma realized she was late for her bridge club and had to hang up. She gave me many assurances and then left me to nervously watch the mixer and continue scraping the bowl in the way she had prescribed. I beat it for the requisite number of minutes -- but it was still soupy and greyish. I didn't understand that this meant it wasn't "done". I refrigerated it for about a half and hour, which firmed it up considerably, and then filled and frosted the cake with it. It didn't look half bad, except for the color. I didn't remember any of her cakes being this color, but the consistency was okay so I didn't worry. I carefully tented the enormous cake with Saran wrap, and then left for the afternoon to go play tennis with my boyfriend. When I came back for dinner, my Mother offered a beautiful huge silver platter for it to go on. She hadn't really inspected it while she was making dinner, since I had tucked it in an out-of-the-way spot in the pantry. I wanted to shower before the party, so I just plunked the platter down in the pantry without looking at the cake. We had a lovely party for my niece, and after dinner, while the coffee was brewing, I went into the pantry to put the cake on the big platter and make a grand entrance. The cake had complete melted, the the top layers sliding off each other in various directions. The icing had separated, into strange, greasy clumps. The huge layers had broken in places, and were congealing to the countertop of the pantry. With my teenage hubris, I wanted to save face, and started shoving layers back on each other, and madly trying to repair the icing. I managed to get the layers to at least be on top of one another, if not evenly so. The icing looked ghastly. There were gaping holes and some serious canyons. The pretty chocolate rose leaves I had carefully made were lost in a white morass. I brought it out and plunked it on the dining room table without a word. No one said anything. This is one of those recipes that, even if it doesn't look good it also doesn't taste good. So even the "oh, but it still tastes fine" disclaimer wasn't mentioned by my assembled family. My niece, the birthday girl, quietly asked my mother for some of her homemade raspberry jam to put on her cake. Mom gave it to her, and she covered her cake with it. We still laugh about it. And whenver I see my neice now -- who's now 22, -- on her birthday I make that cake and icing -- the right way! My niece still says it's her favorite, and I make it sometimes with raspberry filling to echo her valiant effort to be polite all those years ago. Fri Jan 10 17:27:51 -0800 2003 1587100 0 Mrs. Smith 2 1587175 You might not be expecting this after your evocative description of that hideous cake, but I'm awfully intrigued by the idea of a milk-based buttercream icing. If you were to post the recipe, I'd give it a try... Fri Jan 10 22:35:05 -0800 2003 1587130 0 Kathryn Callaghan 3 1587367 There's a recipe for this type of frosting in Caprial Pence's dessert book--I can't recall the title. I used it for a coconut cake from the same book. I still prefer a classic buttercream. Mon Jan 13 13:57:11 -0800 2003 1587175 0 raj1 3 1587529 Okay, Kathryn, here's the "Wedding Cake Icing" recipe, from my grandmother (and I'm sure many versions of this exist) One error I made in my "kitchen disaster" post was saying that you beat the milk mixture into powdered sugar. I was misremembering -- it's granulated sugar. That's another thing that makes this icing, when it works, seem all the more magical. No grittiness should occur if this is done right. The name is a bit of a misnomer -- among the Norwegian immigrants in Minnesota in the first part of the 20th century, this was often used on wedding cakes. Now, remember, an old-fashioned "bride's cake" was often a black or dark fruitcake. This icing is incredible on a heavy dark fruitcake -- but that's a very old fashioned dessert and is a) not to most people's tastes anymore and b) definitely NOT what most people think of as a wedding cake today! Don't attempt any decorating with this icing -- it's way too soft and puddinglike. The fanciest you can get with this stuff is a hobnail effect, or maybe a cake comb, or some chocolate rose leaves, berries etc. Don't take out that pastry bag! Wedding Cake Icing (Cooked White Milk Frosting) -Grandma Strollberg (This is the basic recipe, for 2 8-inch layers. If you are going to increase this recipe, I'd recommend you make separate batches unless you are a pro at this and have done it several times.) 1 cup milk 5 tablespoons flour Cook over low heat, stirring constantly, until very thick. Remove from heat and let cool to lukewarm. 1 cup granulated sugar 1/2 cup butter 1/2 cup Crisco (you could probably use the new non-hydrogenated "Spectrum" non-trans-fat palm oil shortening. I confess I haven't tried it in this recipe, but the product has worked well in other recipes I've tried that called for vegetable shortening) 1 teaspoon vanilla Mix these four ingredients in a stand mixer until creamy. Slowly add the milk paste while this is beating, and continue beating 15-20 minutes on a medium-to-high speed. An emulsion will occur (I think that is the right term) and the color and character of the mixture will change to a more fluffy whiteness. Do not underbeat. This doesn't store very well at room temperature, at least not for long periods. One way to avoid possible lumps in this icing is to sieve the milk paste before you pour it into the mixture. This greatly increases your chances for success. I am always hesitant when giving this recipe out, since it has so many chances for failure built into it. It took me at least two tries before I got it right and it didn't separate. Disaster is always a possibility with this kind of frosting. Some people really enjoy the puddinglike, almost, shall I say, "light" flavor of this frosting? It is a bit different than the usual buttercream. Most times, however, I'd have to say I prefer a real swiss meringue buttercream to this icing, except for certain applications. A small, dense spice cake is very much improved by this icing. Good gingerbread cake can be also dressed up with this, though I'd prefer a hard sauce myself. And of course, old-fashioned black fruitcake which almost no one makes anymore! Good luck, any of you who attempt this! Tue Jan 14 13:28:07 -0800 2003 1587175 0 Mrs. Smith 1 1587148 We had invited a couple of dear friends over for dinner two summers ago, the first time they had been for dinner as we had just moved back into town. The menu was fairly simple, and one I'd made many times before. Tossed salad, which had been pre-plated and put in fridge an hour before dinner, panna cotta with sauturn and figs, made that morning, and sea scallops in a mustard-cream sauce over fettucini. Disaster #1-Taking the salads out of the frigde I could tell right away they were horriable wilted!(No, I had not put any dressing on them yet) My friends were standing there with me and insisted I serve it! I was horrified....yuck,yuck,yuck...I'm thinking as everyone ate. Disaster #2-I put the fresh pasta into the boiling water while chatting with one of my friends and right before my eyes I could see it glueing up after only 1 minute! It was a big goppy mess! Thinking back I should have just started all over agian with a fresh batch...quess I just kinda paniced after the salad fiasco. Scallops were good though. But sitting down to eat this while getting compliments was almost to much for me to take. Disaster #3-Presented my beautiful panna cotta in tall champange glasses.....it hadn't set...what's suppose to be a custardy dessert ended up being VERY drinkable! I quess the champange glasses were more apporpriate then I antisapated. My husband and I laugh about it now but I was very horrified at the time. Fri Jan 10 18:11:42 -0800 2003 1587100 0 JoCreek 1 1587151 A different kind of disaster. A good friend of mine is the youngest of three brothers by ten years. One day during the summer his oldest brother and a friend somehow obtained a big ole bag of fireworks. The good kind: flying, exploding, smoking wonders. So they're inspecting their treasure on the kitchen table when someone notices mom in the driveway. Quick thinking his brother isn't, but quick acting he was so the whole lot was swept up into the bag and quickly secured in the oven. The boys exit stage left. Mom had just returned from the grocery store. Groceries on the table, unpacking and of course she turns on the oven to pre-heat it. The sound of screaming (hers and the bottle rockets) caused interesting reactions from his brothers (he knew he was too young to get into any trouble) who had both lost their illicit investment while simultaneously gaining a dreaded 'what will dad do when he gets home' feeling. Running back to the kitchen they found mom behind the island utterly bewildered by what the hell had happened as the last of the rockets came screaming out of the oven to bounce harmlessly around the room. No one was hurt (if you don't count dad's discipline) and my friend tells the story so everyone has tears in their eyes before its done. Fri Jan 10 18:39:03 -0800 2003 1587100 0 muD 1 1587153 I had my then future husband/now divoced from, over for an impromptu dinner after a giddy first date watching the Kemper golf open. I made pasta. I drained it into the sink. The collandar flipped over and all the pasta went down the drain into the disposal. So, I honestly thought, well, someday I will laugh about this and tell my grandchildren, or a priest, (like, if the guy died from foodpoisoning, but i don't have meat in the house so no chance of some e.coli shite,,,,,) and then..... I pulled the escaped pasta out of the disposal, rinsed it off reeeeeeeal good, and served it. I told him later about it, after we were married, i think, which has nothing to do, i swear, with why we got divorced.....(he thought it was kindof funny... but he did not have the best sence of humor which DOES have something to do w/why we divorced....) Fri Jan 10 18:46:22 -0800 2003 1587100 0 eileen 1 1587154 That would definitely be the sausage incident. I had gotten home from work on a cold January evening, shortly after Christmas, and needed to make dinner. We were having pasta with sausage, the latter of which I had forgotten to remove from the freezer. So I got it out and put it in the skillet...on high...covered. Which, in and of itself, would not have been so bad. However, my husband the computer guy had given me the computer game "Shanghai" for Christmas, along with the caveat that the only way it would get played is if I installed it myself. I'd never installed anything before, so that took a while. And, as anyone who's played it knows, Shanghai is very addictive. After an undetermined period of time, I realized "Oh hey, there's dinner on the stove. I should probably check that out." That night, I learned it's never a good sign if there's a cloud of smoke trailing from the kitchen to the back of your house that descends about four feet from the ceiling. My husband came home to black, sticklike sausage, and a foggy house, made cold by the windows I had to open to clear out the smoke. Fri Jan 10 18:49:04 -0800 2003 1587100 0 Xochitl10 1 1587158 The summer I was 10, my cousin (who was 12) and I decided to bake chocolate chip cookies. The recipe, as usual, called for both white and brown sugar -- but there was no brown sugar in the house. I had remembered my mother using molasses in place of brown sugar - I thought. So we used molasses in a 1-for-1 substitution. The resulting cookies have entered the family lore. But that's not the end of the story. My cousin and I knew enough to pre-heat the oven, but we forgot to check inside the oven before we turned it on. At this point, I have to back up a bit to explain that in the '60s and '70s, my mother some things from scratch that most people didn't, including yogurt. My parents had a swimming pool, and in the summer she would make the yogurt by putting the pot, covered with a towel, on the end of the diving board. (By doing this, it was in the direct sun, which provided the heat needed for the yogurt culture.) On the molasses-chip cookie day, for some unknown reason, she had put the yogurt pot in the oven instead. Et voila . . . baked yogurt. It was usable, but I wouldn't recommend it! Fri Jan 10 18:55:53 -0800 2003 1587100 0 lanseaux 1 1587176 How about my new wife, trying to cook one of her first dinners. She was cooking steak and wanted a sauce to put over it. Going through a recipe cook she saw a recipe for tarter sauce. Having heard of "steak tartare", she thought this was the perfect sauce for the steak. Now mind you, when I came home to a nice steak topped with mayo combined with pickle relish, I must admit I was stumped. What was this new-fangled recipe she had found? When I found it was my wife's version of "steak tartare", I nearly hit the floor. However, as any good newly married husband would do, I ate it (not too bad...sort of an Atkins precursor). A little knowledge is dangerous.... Fri Jan 10 22:43:59 -0800 2003 1587100 0 RH 2 1587430 RH -- that was the funniest so far. I laughed outloud. Mon Jan 13 17:49:36 -0800 2003 1587176 0 Mrs. Smith 1 1587177 The disaster happened when I was 13--already an accomplished baker but very much an adolescent brat. I was to bake a 3-layer chocolate cake with apricot buttercream for a certain 45th birthday party for a cerain friend's dad. Well, whilst mixing the batter, I got into a fight with my parents. In my rage I hurled the batter against the refrigerator, against the cabinets, upon the floor, upon the cat, upon my parents. We made up some 15 minutes later, and--to show my maturity--I scooped up the batter from off the refrigerator, off the cabinets, off the floor, off the cat, off my parents, and continued as planned. Everyone loved the cake. Fri Jan 10 22:54:22 -0800 2003 1587100 0 adam 1 1587185 One day, I tried to make steak and spinach pinwheels with Hollandaise sauce from the Better Homes and Gardens cookbook. This involves rolling bacon, cheese and spinach inside a "pinwheel" of steak. I ... uh ... overcooked them. WAY overcooked them. Having nothing else to do, we proceeded to have a makeshift cowdung throwing contest. The cook won, showing best distance, if not great form. His wife had much better form, but not the throwing arm. Sat Jan 11 00:19:05 -0800 2003 1587100 0 bunnyr 1 1587200 This one happened to my Mom and Dad back in the early 50s; I was asleep but I'd sure love to have seen it. We were living temporarily in the boonies of Eastern Kentucky~50 years ago this was really the boonies~and some good ole boys invited my Dad to go frog-gigging with them. For the uninitiated, this is done in the middle of the night, using a high-powered flashlight from a boat. The gig is a three-prong harpoon sort of thing. The good ole boys and my city-raised father got what is known in those parts as a mess of frogs, kept down in the bottom of the boat in a big burlap bag. In a burst of good ole boy generosity, the somewhat beered-up fellers presented my Dad with the bag of bullfrogs as a token of his initiation into the good ole boy frog-gigging network. Dad arrived home at about 5:00AM and gleefully awoke my Mom. He hauled her off to the kitchen and dumped the big bag of gigged frogs (and mud, blood, and assorted yuck) into the kitchen sink: get out the garlic, honey, we're having frogs' legs for dinner tonight! He turned on the cold water to clean the swamp debris off the frogs... And all those frogs REVIVED and hopped madly all over the kitchen, plopping and splashing and smearing themselves on every possible surface, banging against the walls and sliding to the floor only to fling themselves again into refrigerator, stove, and my Mom. The cleanup, needless to say, was left to my Dad. Nobody in the family can talk about this, 50 years later, without my Mom laughing herself into a state of tears. Next time you get the story of the Mother's Day Pig. Sat Jan 11 08:46:47 -0800 2003 1587100 0 Cristina 2 1587349 Brings to mind another kitchen and frogs story. A friend of mine, a notorious prankster even now, got it in his head to collect a bunch of the small frogs that populate temporary springtime ponds (I think they're called vernal ponds, but that's another thread) that crop up in Vermont. A whole gym bag full of frogs. Say, 40 of them. Then he dropped by my place while I was in the midst of cooking dinner (don't recall what) and came into my kitchen, plopped the bag down on the floor and opened it wide. In seconds, the frogs were everywhere in every direction, with the three family cats in hot pursuit. I don't think I've ever been so mad and laughed so hard at the same time. Mon Jan 13 11:54:00 -0800 2003 1587200 0 GG Mora 2 1587353 Don't hold out on us. If the pig story is half as good it's worth it. Mon Jan 13 12:08:59 -0800 2003 1587200 0 SLRossi 3 1587500 OK, I will post the Mother's Day Pig story tonight. Film at eleven...fasten your seat belts. Tue Jan 14 10:42:10 -0800 2003 1587353 0 Cristina 1 1587343 My mother-in-law decided to make eggplant and stuck it in the oven as-is (I didn't know it at the time, but she just stuck the whole eggplant on a baking sheet and hadn't poked any holes in it) KA-BLUUUUEEEE!!!! Actually blew the door right off the oven and eggplant was in every nook and on the roof. Years later, we would find little pieces of eggplant in dark corners of the kitchen. We go out to eat now. Mon Jan 13 11:14:17 -0800 2003 1587100 0 amysuehere 1 1587643 My Mom, God bless her, is a food adventuress. For many years during my growing-up, she expressed desire to spit-roast a whole suckling pig. About 30 years ago, I was helping some friends build a summer retreat in Southern Indiana that happened to be located on acreage (roll of drums) next to a pig farm. Shortly before Mother's Day that year, the light bulb went on in my head and I asked my Dad if I could buy my Mom a baby pig~ON THE HOOF~for her Mother's Day present. My Dad, ever agreeable to a fun present, readily assented. The next weekend I was at my friends' property and stopped in to see the pig farmer. He allowed as how he had some piglets that would be about the right size to roast, and we struck a price. I agreed to pick up the pig the next weekend, the Saturday before Mother's Day on Sunday. I spent the week trying to round up a portable kennel, an idea whose time had not yet come . In the produce section of my supermarket I saw cantaloupe crates, just the right size for the pig...but not available, according the the kid stocking produce. I went to the produce manager and explained that I needed it to transport the Mother's Day Pig. He rolled his eyes and sighed, "Give this lady [aka nutcase, I'm sure] a cantaloupe crate." Success! With crate in hand, I went happily home to phone...the slaughterhouse. Sure, they could take care of the piggie. Just bring it in on Monday for...ahem...processing. I made my Mom a charming gift certificate good for one butchering; little hand-limned pig-heads decorated the four corners, and hand-drawn ivy along the borders. Saturday morning I loaded the cantaloupe crate into the back of my VW van and toddled off to my friends' place in Indiana. At the end of the day, it was off to the pig farm. The farmer caught the little pig (much bigger than I'd thought; he barely fit into the cantaloupe crate, and squealed mightily in protest). I handed the farmer the money and listened in dismay as he asked, "What's the little guy going to eat all weekend?" Yikes! He took pity on me and his piggy and gave us enough pig chow to see us through Sunday night, and off I went to my Mom's house. My parents lived in a fairly snooty neighborhood where no pig had ever trod. My Dad had prepared a sort of pig run with a chicken-wire and old-tire enclosure in the basement of their house and we sneaked the pig in through the outside stairs, gave him a pan of pig chow and a pan of water, and went upstairs to get my Mom. We led her blindfolded down the stairs, and TAAAAAA DUMMMMMM! Surprise was the mildest of her emotions. My Dad divulged his plan to walk the pig on a leash through the neighborhood streets on Sunday morning just as the neighbors were coming home from church, giving all and sundry a 'start', as we said in the South. My Mom just rolled her eyes, sighed, and said, "Yes, dear." I presented her with the gift certificate and a promise to transport her and the piggy to the slaughterhouse on Monday morning. We all laughed and joked about the pig in the basement, went upstairs, and so to bed. Sunday morning I left for a folk-singing job, my Dad left for his hospital rounds, and my Mom was luxuriating in her Mother's Day time to herself. Late in the afternoon, I returned home to chaos. Here's what had transpired: The pig, unwilling to foul its nest, had broken down the chicken wire/tire enclosure and had escaped into my Mom's basement-at-large, readily fouling everything in sight. My Mom, capitalizing on her status as MOTHER ON HER DAY, heard squeals, took one look into the basement, and collapsed on the couch. My Dad arrived home shortly thereafter and was remanded to the cellar, where he attempted to lasso the piglet with the rope which was to have served as a leash. Chasing the pig with the lasso, my Dad slipped and slid in...well, you can imagine what the pig had left in his wake. Visualize this: my Dad skidding around the basement with a twirling lasso, shouting loud obscenities; the pig scrambling ahead of him squealing REEEEEP REEEEEP REEEEEEP, and my Mom at the top of the stairs laughing herself silly. The pig was finally cornered (not lassoed; this is the same city-raised Dad of the frog episode, remember~a lasso is not the item of choice to catch a pig) and herded into a wire leaf burner (I had the cantaloupe crate in my van, ready for pig-transport on Monday morning). The pig in the container was transported to a friend's farm in the next county; my Dad was charged with cleaning the basement, and I arrived late in the afternoon to discover that my gift had been a howling success for the entire day. Monday morning we did indeed take the pig to the slaughterhouse; a day later, he was returned to my Mom freezer-ready. Several weeks later, he was served forth in full porkly glory, apple in mouth and stuffed with cranberry bread stuffing, to a table of eager guests, including my friends from Southern Indiana. My Mom, as is her wont, had fashioned for the front door a wreath of black leaves with a banner reading 'RIP Happy Jack'~her name for the piggy, after the label on the cantaloupe crate. Never again did my Mom sigh over a desire to spit-roast a pig. Next Episode: What My Mother Ate in Guadalajara Wed Jan 15 00:32:05 -0800 2003 1587100 0 Cristina 2 1587672 Hilarious! Although I think I'd have kept the piglet as a pet. He was one feisty fella! Wed Jan 15 09:31:41 -0800 2003 1587643 0 Tatyana 2 1587678 I wait with bated breath... Wed Jan 15 09:57:09 -0800 2003 1587643 0 GG Mora 2 1587686 As much as I enjoy suckling pig (and your story), your story is enough to make me turn vegetarian! How can I look at pig again without thinking of that poor squealing terrified piglet? --Ruined my appetite Wed Jan 15 10:57:50 -0800 2003 1587643 0 barleywino 3 1587730 I'll take Barleywino's portion Wed Jan 15 13:27:39 -0800 2003 1587686 0 SLAP 2 1587693 "Tha...Tha...Tha...That's All, Folks" Wed Jan 15 11:11:20 -0800 2003 1587643 0 WLA 2 1587709 Thanks for sharing. Was Happy Jack delicious? Wed Jan 15 11:46:32 -0800 2003 1587643 0 SLRossi 3 1587796 Happy Jack was superb; we ate everything but the squeal. That, of course, continued to echo in the basement. Wed Jan 15 23:24:12 -0800 2003 1587709 0 Cristina 2 1587718 Oh Christina, what a priceless story! Thank you. It is beautifully written. My sister and her family once raised a pig they called Hoggy Carmichael. They liked him when he was alive, and afterward, too. R Wed Jan 15 12:31:47 -0800 2003 1587643 0 Seattle Rose 2 1587868 Sounds familiar. About 15 years ago, my mother saw a feature on the news about a local farm where you could go and pick your own duck, goose, or turkey. Rather fascinated by the idea, she loaded us kids (then 10, 8, and 6 or so) into the station wagon and off we went to the farm to choose our Christmas dinner on Christmas eve-eve. We picked our three ducks and drooled thinking of roast duck for Christmas dinner. At least until we got into the car to leave and found three live ducks in a box. My mother was too embarrassed to admit that she thought they would be chosen alive and sold killed and dressed (or at least killed) that we left without comment and put the ducks (by this point named Huey, Dooey, and Louie) into the shed in their box to await their collective fate. My father tells this part best, but I'll try to do it justice. He called my mother later that afternoon, and heard my mother's story about the farm and her eventual plans for H, D, and L. With what must have been a reddish tint in her eyes and a maniacal grin, she explained how she was going to wring their little necks, chop off their heads, boil and feather them, and dress them for dinner. Of course, my siblings and I (equally insane by this point) couldn't wait to help kill our new feathered friends. My father eventually put a stop to the scheduled executions and sent the Huey, Dooey, and Louie to "live out in the country" with our yardman where, even if they met the same fate, his wife and three young children wouldn't be slaughtering animals in the front yard. I bet they were delicious. The fried chicken fireball from college has been my own personal worst kitchen disaster, but I'd say hatching murder plots with your city slicker children trumps setting your yard on fire. Thu Jan 16 13:40:51 -0800 2003 1587643 0 Catherine 3 1587883 Well, Groucho never was meant to be dinner, but more of a live decoration to make Easter dinner more "festive". There was a man selling live bunnies by the road one Easter. He was also selling rabbit meat. I had the brilliant idea of having a live bunny in the house for Easter, so I asked the man if i could rent a rabbit. I would pay him the price he was selling the rabbits for. I just wanted to return the rabbit on Monday. It was agreed. I am a city person. I never spent any time with a live rabbit. I though, cute, fuzzy, gentle creature. I'm thinking Thumper from Bambi. Groucho was mainly white with a little black mustache, therefore the name. Hitler would have been a better choice of names. We bring the rabbit home where he is hopping around the carpet. Our cat, which ignored all things living, mice, birds, bugs, suddenly had some primedal instinct kick in and starts stalking the rabbit. It was like a lion hunting its prey. Sunddenly the cat leaps at the rabbit. Before I could get to the cat, the rabbit beats the cat up. Fur flew, but it wasn't the rabbit's. Those bunnies have a mean set of claws in their back feet. Those teeth can take a chunk out of a foolish cat. The cat spent the remainder of Groucho's visit cowering under the bed. After Groucho nibbled on one of my mother's dining room chairs with those huge chompers, he was returned to the rabbit vendor. We DID briefly considered adding rabbit fricassee to Easter dinner, thinking in might make it up to the cat. Thu Jan 16 14:56:33 -0800 2003 1587868 0 Stanley Stephan 1 1587805 The kitchen disaster istself wasn't funny , but the aftermath... I was broiling salmon steaks, and in pulling out the tray, went too far and dumped them all over the kitchen floor. The enraged cook let out the expletive which begins with F—. and looked up to see her friend's two year old calmly staring at her. Dinner was salvaged, but the next week the two year-old' parents informed me that she, on becoming totally frustrated when putting on her shoes, cut loose with the same expletive in exactly the proper intonation and spirit—took me a while to live it down. Thu Jan 16 02:53:10 -0800 2003 1587100 0 Denise B 2 1587818 When I have pots on the stove, there's not much room to plate things up, and while my daughter, her boyfriend, and his brother were waiting and watching, a prominent chicken cutlet volunteered to leap to the floor. There were extras, and I made motions to discard it, but they wouldn't hear of it. At least the floor was clean. Thu Jan 16 09:53:56 -0800 2003 1587805 0 ironmom 3 1587823 Three-second rule! Thu Jan 16 10:34:33 -0800 2003 1587818 0 galleygirl 4 1587826 I've always thought it was a "five-second rule"... I've also heard the words "ten-second rule" spoken... ;-> Thu Jan 16 10:45:04 -0800 2003 1587823 0 C. Fox 5 1587831 Well, I've always discussed the high standards of hygiene maintained in my kitchen... (HA!!!) It's three when there's an audience... Thu Jan 16 11:07:40 -0800 2003 1587826 0 galleygirl 5 1587833 it's the 3 second rule in my house...after that, I have to fight 2 cats for it..:) Thu Jan 16 11:09:15 -0800 2003 1587826 0 9lives 6 1587836 Oh, that's the other rule; no cats on the table when there's compnay...Oh, I mean the cats *never* go on the table..... (g) Thu Jan 16 11:27:33 -0800 2003 1587833 0 galleygirl 6 1587863 with a year-old Dachshund in the house, our three second rule has now gone to "it aint hittin' the floor" Thu Jan 16 13:16:57 -0800 2003 1587833 0 amysuehere 4 1587840 Oh man, that reminds me of another one. My wife was an assistant manager at a Starbucks in college, she was working with a guy she already deemed a dunce. The guy was stocking the pastry case, and dropped an entire platter of breakfast breads. My wife shouts, "Quick, pick it up, the six-second rule." Mystified, the guy picked it up, and was beckoned away by customers. Of course my wife threw the bread out. Weeks later same said dunce was working with the store manager. Butter fingers dropped more food goodies, quickly picked them all up, and placed them into the case. The mystified manager asked what was goiing on, and the dunce replied, "Oh you know, the six second rule." There was some explaining and straightening out to do, but we, as well as the manager, got the biggest laugh out of it. Dunce only lasted another week or two after that. Thu Jan 16 11:38:48 -0800 2003 1587823 0 SLRossi 2 1587844 When I was in junior High, my mother was roasting cornish game hens for a dinner for some friends. The friends were in the adjacent living room; my sister and I were helping my mother in the kitchen. Mom took out the roasting pan filled with the hens in order to baste them, and set it on the open oven door (the oven was up at chest height, not underneath a range). Of course the door looked level but was not, so in the second or two she left it, it slid off, little birds bouncing everywhere and a couple cups of very greasy juice following. The floor was clean and the hens went back onto the pan, but the grease remaained. My sister wanted to help, so she tried to get a rag to clean up. Unfortunately, the rags were on the other side of the grease spill, so as she leapt over it to get a rag, she miscalculated and hit the edge of the spill, losing her footing and sliding across the floor into the cat's dish, sending kibble flying in all directions. I at the time had never heard my mother swear, and it was a revelation. But by the time the potholder caught on fire (one of us had turned the wrong knob to heat up a burner --electric -- and enough heat was finally generated to ignite the potholder), we were laughing pretty hysterically. Thu Jan 16 12:05:09 -0800 2003 1587805 0 Janet A. Zimmerman 3 1587861 The pot holder is the icing on the cake! Awesome. Thu Jan 16 13:06:47 -0800 2003 1587844 0 SLRossi 1 1587924 This took place about 10 years before I was born, so the story I tell is second-hand. The Huey Louie and Dewey story reminded me of it. I called my mother to get all the facts straight before posting, and we were laughing so hard that all I heard on the long-distance line for about 10 minutes was my mother chortling. It's even funnier than I remember it. It has gone down in the annals of family history as "Tom's Prize" In 1960, my parents lived in a very small taconite-mining town in the wilds of Northern Minnesota. I'm not sure there are towns like this anymore -- 100% white, middle class, and EXTREMELY insular. Everyone knew everyone's business. My parents, both from the relatively cosmopolitan Duluth, found the atmosphere a bit stifling to say the least, but my Dad had been sent there by the company he worked for, and it was a good job, so they toughed it out for a few years. My father was one of those people who are always lucky -- any contest he entered he was sure to win. My mother, pinching pennies and with three kids at home to feed, had entered the "win a free turkey dinner" contest at the local supermarket a few days before Thanksgiving. As she knew my father's prodigious luck, instead of writing her own name, she wrote my dad's name on the contest slip. Of course, my Dad won the big jackpot. There are no turkey farms in Northern Minnesota -- so I have no idea where they got this bird -- but of course, the turkey was alive and clucking. It came in an enormous wooden crate, attached to a wheelbarrow. A representative from the market brought it to my family's house, with great fanfare, a newspaper photographer, and even an announcer with a local radio hookup. Apparently this was big news. My mother was, of course, aghast. She called my Dad at the office and told him he had to get home immediately and handle the media. The kids from the neighborhood were frolicking around poking the poor bird through the bars of the crate with sticks. Things were getting bad, since my mother, understandably, didn't want to accept Tom's prize, and used stall tactics on the market representative until Dad got home. He tried to put a good face on it, but when the newspaper man asked my Dad how he was going to kill and cook the bird for Thanksgiving, he stood there, on the sidewalk in front of our house, gaping like a fish, saying nothing. Finally, he chose a use for the bird. At the time, Dad was running for some obscure municipal post of "trustee". I have a framed campaign poster of his, with a black and white photo of my father in his pompador (sp?) hairdo, looking painfully young. His slogan was "Trustworthy, Qualified, Interested". Needless to say, he didn't win, and gave up all hope of politics. But this was before his big loss -- on of the only instances that we can all remember of his famous luck failing. It was a blessing in disguise, of course -- he was far too honest for politics. He slapped a campaign poster on the side of the turkey crate, and wheel-barrowed it around the neighborhood, shaking hands and campaigning. He had sort of a live attraction in the bird, to bring people out into the cold November streets. This he did until it was dark, and then stored the clucking turkey in the garage. My mother hid inside. Dad said a lot of people came out of their houses to meet and greet him. However, the talk on the street the next few days is that Dad was a bit of a wild one, taking a live bird to the streets to do campaigning. In those days in that town, that qualified as deviant behavior :) It didn't help his campaign in the end. The next day Dad took the bird over to church and asked Father if there was anybody who could use this. The priest apparently had some needy rural family in mind who could take care of the bird. That was the last we heard of it. That Thanksgiving, my family had their usual frozen turkey with dressing made with reconstitued Wylers bouillon. From what I've been told, nobody ate very much of that, either! Thu Jan 16 18:22:58 -0800 2003 1587100 0 Mrs. Smith