If we were a restaurant, we’d have been shut down by the health department today.
Yes, it’s a meatloaf. Don’t laugh.
That’s the final version. There was an earlier incarnation, which tasted mystifyingly raw inside, even though it had cooked for an hour and a half. I ate a small slice, and got so freaked out I fed the rest to the dog. It was creamy, like polenta. I don’t know much, but I know meatloaf isn’t supposed to have the “mouth feel” of creme brulee.
So I put the remaining half back in the oven. Because Mike would need dinner, too, when he got home. And I was not feeding him turkey pap.
An hour later I remembered to get it out.
“What did you do to it?” Mike said, when he saw it.
I shook my head. “I don’t know, exactly.”
“Oh, well. I’m sure it’ll taste great,” he said, in that game way people do when they know they are about to step off of a culinary cliff.
Later, after he’d eaten all of it–good man!–we talked about what had gone wrong.
“It just wouldn’t cook,” I insisted. “It was in there forever. It tasted like oatmeal. And then it got burnt.”
“Was the oven temperature right?” Mike asked.
He shook his head. “Then I don’t know what to tell you.” There was a pause. “Did you follow the recipe?”
“Yes,” I snapped, rolling my eyes exasperatedly. Then I thought about it. I’d used a bit more ketchup than was called for. And a bit less meat.
I mentioned this.
“How much more ketchup?”
I counted in my head. “Maybe four times?”
His eyes widened.
“It was a mistake!” I stammered. “I read the recipe wrong. And then I forgot–and I had to–anyway. Maybe five times. Do you think that could’ve been the problem?”
“It’s a lot of extra liquid.”
I cocked my head. “Ketchup is a liquid?”
He ignored this. “Of course it tasted creamy. It was soaked.”
Whatever. What’s done is done. But I’m renewing my vow–first made after the Mark Bittman chicken debacle two years ago–to never again cook a recipe that calls for a meat thermometer. It’s not worth the pain, the humiliation, or the attendant mild nausea.
As for our home-restaurant? The one Myra-Jean is now calling “Food?” We will simply go vegetarian. Or vegan. Or better yet, raw. I suspect I have a knack for that.