Dinner MeatPosted: January 16, 2013
Bill had prepared a terrific dinner of chicken-fried steak, mashed potatoes and pepper gravy. We all sat around the living room in our designated eating spots – some of us more comfortably than others. I was on the sofa next to an end table, Mom sat on her loveseat with her tray and Bill was perched precariously on the edge of his recliner trying hard not to set off its rocking motion.
We were watching the local news and listening as the weatherman warned that it was going to be another below-freezing night, when Mom suddenly blurted out “What kind of meat is this?”
I looked over at Bill since he was sitting closer and probably wouldn’t have to yell as loudly as me to be heard over the blaring of the TV, but he just continued to stare at the screen and shovel mystery meat into his mouth.
“It’s chicken-fried steak,” I said loudly.
“Chicken?” she asked. “It doesn’t taste like chicken.”
“No, Mom, chicken fried steak,” I repeated even louder.
“That’s what you said,” she responded. “Chicken. And I said it doesn’t taste like chicken.”
“That’s because it isn’t chicken. It’s chicken-fried STEAK,” I shouted.
“Steak? This isn’t a steak,” she declared. “It’s too flat and its breaded.”
At this point, Bill, who’d had the advantage of being able to continue eating instead of talking, rose from his seat with his empty plate in his hand, turned to Mom, leaned down, and yelled in her ear, “Its dinner meat!”
“Oh, okay,” she said, nodding and smiling as she took a bite.
“Does that mean you like it?” I asked, hoping for some kind of feedback – something that Bill and I rarely get on the meals we prepare.
“No, it just means I couldn’t figure it out. But now I’ll know the next time Bill makes it,” she said, smiling as she popped the last bite of dinner meat into her mouth and handed me her empty plate.