Another Dirty Secret....

I can't make a decent meatloaf. Nope, I can't. I've tried a million different recipes. I think it comes down to this--- I don't like meatloaf, never have. Logic, eh?

Problem is--- I don't like mashed potatoes either, but I can make some mean taters. My husband loves meatloaf and mashed potatoes. Bully for him.

I am terribly complicated.

I had been married just a little while when I decided to tackle Veal Parmigiana. Who need s a recipe for that? It's a breaded veal patty, spaghetti sauce, and cheese. How hard can that be?

I pulled my little masterpieces out of the oven and immediately struck by their appearance. The were flat..... and brown. Not very appetizing, but I figured if he ate my meatloaf, this would be a treat!

I do need to apologize in advance to any buffalo, buffalo owners, or just folks who like buffalo. These flat brown discs looked just like buffalo chips. Actually, they would need a face lift to look as good as buffalo chips. It must have been because they were brown and steamy.

To back up for a moment, I must expound on my dishes. As a young innocent (read as STOOPID) bride, I happily purchased a set of snow white Correle Ware, four place settings. I say happily, as it may have been my first purchase where I used some common sense. They were white-- and matched everything! They were unbreakable and would outlive me! I could bequeath them to my children. I was using my noggin! It was a new and heady feeling.

I lovingly displayed my piles of.... er-- my veal masterpiece on my snow white unbreakable dishes, and covered both plates with pot lids so as to keep them piping hot for my beloved. I innocently called him to dinner. (enter blue birds untying my apron strings)

I explained the dish to him and he cocked his eyebrow at me (in a disbelieving sneer, now that I've learned what the look really means) and removed his lid. I did as well.



He says, "I'm not eating this."
I say, "Yes, you are." (I don't say this anymore)
He says, "No, I'm not eating this", and pushes it away.
I say, "OH Yes, you are." (another one deleted from my vocab) I push it back.
He says, "I'M NOT EATING THIS %&$*." Push away. Again.
I say, "OH YES YOU ARE!!!!" (a quick learner I am not)



He picks up one of the pot lids, and in a lovely tennis overhand arc, smashes it down. On my plate. AND BREAKS MY UNBREAKABLE PLATE!!!! Shatters it. And shattered my psyche in a thousand shards.

This was too much for my feeble brain to handle. I leaped to my feet and grabbed my chair. In my best lion tamer moves, I screeched, "$&#^$*% *$#$*% &$%*&#", don't ask me to translate. It wasn't my prettiest moment.

At this point, my brain shorted out. I threw the chair at him. This becomes a theme for the first 10, okay maybe 15, years of my marriage.

My chair shatters.

I have never attempted Veal Parmigiana since.

Lesson learned.