A Casserole

When I was growing up, my mother almost never made casseroles.  I was an only child, and she was the type of thrifty person who didn't like to make anything that would go to waste.  A normal sized casserole would have taken our family three days to eat, and she always said there was no reason to keep eating the same thing until you were sick of it.  More important than that, my father could not abide anything with ketchup or Campbell's soup or Velveeta or boullion cubes.  (My mother's lifelong secret was that she always snuck a boullion cube into the gravy for color.  My father, Lord have mercy on him, never suspected, resulting in a long and happy marriage.)  Needless to say, for such a meat-and-potatoes man, all manner of casseroles were out.

If Mom had been the sort who made casseroles, chances are I would have been tired of them, but because it was a food never served at home, yet perpetually on the tables of all the large, bustling families I knew, I felt somehow as if we were missing out on something.

Almost every Summer, we would spend a week with my Aunt Robertine in the woods of Connecticut.  My aunt had five children, more than enough to justify a casserole of any size.  How I loved Aunt Robertine's kitchen, always with a huge tray of something savory waiting near the stove.  The children would come in and help themselves to a bread crumb topped tuna bake, and I would be right there among them ready to fill and refill my plate.  There was something warm and friendly about lining up for food and sitting shoulder to shoulder at the table.

That is not to say my mother could not cook as good a meal as anyone.  It's just that two pork chops and three potatoes would feed our whole family, and, good as it was, this did not seem half so friendly to me as a great big casserole.

Yesterday, as I was putting dinner on the table--a completely plain and hearty "Sour Cream Noodle Bake," loaded with browned ground beef and cottage cheese and cheddar--I thought about an only child from long ago and how much she would have loved it, particularly if she could have shared it at a long, beaten up farmhouse table lined with children exactly like ours.

I am very happy for her.

Comments

[Melanie B]

Oh how lovely. I never imagined a casserole could sound so wonderful.

[Amber]

Oh, lovely, Alice. I commented to my husband that I love reading bits from writers who can make you laugh and get a tear in your eye, even when writing about casseroles. Thanks for adding a little more brightness to my day!

[Jennie C.]

I'm very happy for her, too!

There were four kids in my family, so we had casseroles on a regular basis (very cost effective), but I was telling Davey the other day that my dad's friend and employee, who we called Uncle Phil would sometimes invite us over in the summer. We were not raised Catholic, but Uncle Phil was Catholic and had somewhere around eight children. It looked like absolute chaos to me as a child. I mean, eight kids! That's a little unreasonable, don't you think? It seemed like they were everywhere!

I wonder what people think about us when they visit. ;-)

[Eileen]

How gorgeous this is, Alice.

Your ability to find joy in such everyday things is heartwarming and inspiring. Makes me more grateful for what I have, too, and that means a lot.

Every now and then I take a peek at your site to see if you've been blogging. How nice to come and find such a treasure as this!

[Patricia Robertson]

This story brought back fond childhood memories. Like yours, my mom never made a casserole. In fact I don't think I'd heard of casseroles until I was an adult. But the Italian equivalent was macaroni on Sunday ( no one called it "pasta" then) with a huge bowl of "gravy meat"- homemade meatballs and sausage. It was delicious but it's the experience I remember: coming home to the aroma of a sauce on the stove, stealing a fried meatball before they found their way into the sauce, and dipping Italian bread into the sauce, being sure not to leave any tell- tale crumbs. My three brothers, parents and I enjoying Sunday dinner. Everything that matter w in that little kitchen. Thanks for reminding me.