Aspiring to Become Betty Crocker
Over the past two weeks, following what has—during the last number of years—become my own personal ritual before November’s ensuing holiday feast, I spent a lot of hours studying the cornucopia of recipes I’d ripped from magazines or downloaded from the daily New York Times Cooking column. In order to receive the “best in class” award for the best dish our family’s women (for the most part) who contribute to and create the big meal, I paid particular attention to those recipes that had garnered the most five-star reviews—including a brioche chestnut stuffing, a savory butternut squash soufflé, and what looked to be a daunting caramel pear crisp with a vanilla glaze: by the end of my “harvest,” I had many contenders for this year’s winner, and—no surprise—the myriad finalists were difficult to choose among.
Nevertheless, I finally settled on four front-runners: a slow cooker cranberry sauce with port and orange, roasted brussels sprouts with cinnamon-butter yogurt and chestnuts, a tall and creamy cheesecake with a raspberry drizzle, and a sweet potato galette. But had I been pressed to disclose how many of these dishes I would actually be able to concoct in my kitchen, my track record would have reflected a depressing answer: none.
And there is even more sad news to report: I have hosted Thanksgiving gatherings for my spouse’s side of the family nearly every year since 2006—occasions when each relative brings a home-cooked casserole or dessert to share, and one brother–in-law always arrives with not one, but three, exquisitely browned and well-dressed turkeys in tow. Dinner after dinner, I set the table with my best china and crystal, but had little to do with what it displays.
“We get it!” I imagined the pompous kitchen wizards for whom Grandma’s holiday recipes were de rigueur, smiling over what I fantasized I had managed:
“what’s better than the tried-and-true!” I would, of course, nod in an equally imaginary response, as if we were all members of the same culinary clan—which was an obvious piece of malarkey. The truth however, is not only that I have failed at being an Only-Grandma’s–Greatest–Hits sort of cook, but I cannot claim to be any kind of foodie at all.
And surely worse, I’ve sometimes attempted to pass off my store-bought contributions as creations of my own. At least I did, initially. In my willingness to assume the role of food-prep imposter, I once went so far as to smile with pride at the chorus of accolades for my bourbon chocolate pecan pie: “Terry’s dessert takes the prize!!”
But then, pressed for the recipe by an inquisitive aunt, I at last confessed my fabrication: the dessert in question was posed atop my most regal cake plate, yet it was, in fact, a Kroger’s “Pick of The Week” that I had been trying to pass off as homemade. “But it was made close to home,” I added lamely, in an effort to give the dessert an “authentic” taste. How ashamed I felt about what a fraud I had become.
Why the charade? I’d wondered to myself after the family had given a merry wave goodbye as they went down the front steps. Why not concede that, be it holiday or no holiday, hanging in the kitchen just isn’t your thing? These were questions I’d asked myself over and over throughout the years. But somehow now, caught in an outright lie, the explanation that it just wasn’t my “gig,” would never square up with the sense of comfort I felt when paying my monthly NYT Cooking subscription.
Then, two days ago, as I popped open a can of tomato soup for my lunch, these “whys” circled in my thoughts once again. Had there ever been a time when I’d had confidence enough to believe that I could pull off a meal more complicated than a plate of sauce-from-a-jar spaghetti? Or a casserole of macaroni and cheese from a box? Nope, I thought, thinking about how much of a “not-a-Betty-Crocker” I’d always been.
“All that’s just emotional leftovers anyway,” I mumbled to myself, as I spooned a ladle-full of Campbell’s into my large soup mug. And suddenly, memories of the insecure young mother I once had been assumed command in my mind.
I recalled how, when my daughter Grace was a kindergartener, I’d worried that my Stay-At-Home Mom friends—all wonderful cooks—might begin to brag about what they were making for dinner that night and then finally begin to quiz “Working-Mom-Me” about what I would be stirring on the stove. Wouldn’t these “Neighborhood Mamas” judge me as being lesser-than-they, a mother who truly didn’t belong in their “exclusive” domestic club?
I remembered, as well, that my own mother—chronically overwhelmed by the responsibilities of tending eight children while holding down a menial part-time job—had never dished up anything more complicated than a skillet of ground beef and canned peas swimming in catsup. With no model to emulate, and few memories of Mom ever even being present at the dinner table, I’d always felt lost and alone in the kitchen, even when my husband was chopping away at the makings of that night’s salad.
I hated what I thus perceived to be a shortcoming. Though I did occasionally fantasize about the tantalizing aromas I could create if only I tried hard enough, the kitchen was the room that brought back my most upsetting memories of childhood. As such, it was the place in which I often felt most lonely and sad—and sometimes, depressed by my inadequacy, as well.
The one memory that lingered longest, however, was of how humiliated I’d been when my daughter, a college student back then, began to reminisce about the lunches that she had carried in her backpack when she’d been in middle-school:
“Lunchables, Mom,” Grace had deadpanned. “Not even PB & J! Just those friggin’ Lunchables every damned day.”
In trying to defend myself, I’d responded, with bewildered candor, that I’d ranked these slick plastic containers, with their circles of processed ham and rectangles of low-fat cheese, as being far superior to peanut butter and grape jelly on white bread. I’d absolutely believed that the snappy brand name blazoned across the package in red ink, certified my choice to be near-gourmet fare.
As I pushed my chair back from the kitchen table, holding in my hand my choice for what I hoped might be this year’s winning Thanksgiving recipe, I felt amused by this reminder of my kid’s penchant for snark. And, I consoled myself, finally ready to give up my sense of shame: you were nurturing in so many ways. You can let the past go, especially if you avoid confessing that you once believed Betty Crocker was a real person.
To my surprise and delight, I can report that these sprinkles of insight spurred me to action. Yesterday, after going online to search further for recipes with a fall theme, I spent the afternoon shopping and then stirring up a homemade “Pumpkin Chili With Heat” that I then hand-delivered to my daughter and her partner some six hours later. Also in that “goodie bag” was a fancy harvest salad I’d prepared with—yes—a homemade vinaigrette, a made–from–scratch plate of cornbread, and a tasty apple crumble. I had worked like a woman possessed to show Grace that now I could manage more than a Lunchable.
Did it actually matter that my daughter had declared this startling meal as “very impressive, Mom!”? Or that Adam, a certified gourmet consumer and a most lovable people pleaser, had proclaimed that my chili was one of the “best bowls of red” he’d ever eaten?
Though their reactions made me happy, they weren’t what mattered most, however. While my power-cooking had scored a big win, it was really the knowledge that I had pushed hard against old and vexing self-doubts and so achieved some measure of pleasure and hope. And though I can’t guarantee that there will be a sweet potato pie bubbling in my oven this Thanksgiving, I can say this: Confidence is high.
