ago, when Peter and I often had dinner parties, we would always cook something
new without trying it first. Although we took some chances, and no one went
home hungry, these were not the kind of meals I grew up with.
mother was the queen of comfort food. Every night she served three course meals
on our large mahogany dining room table, set with a freshly ironed table cloth. She always included an appetizer and a
was a superb pie baker. Her flaky,
buttery piecrust, was at its best in her apple pie. My father always claimed he needed to even
off the edges of whatever was left in the pie plate, but we all knew he was
just getting some extra for himself.
Every dinner we had growing up was comfort food.
I find myself craving those meals.
Nothing is more satisfying to me these days than a whole roasted chicken
with thick buttery gravy made from its drippings. Or meatloaf and baked potato. Or good ole mac’ and cheese.
Mother could come to dinner now, she would feel right at home at our table as
long as she wasn’t expecting a tablecloth, three courses and a to-die-for apple