Cooking Gone Wrong

Ever since I took a home economics course in 7th grade, I’ve loved cooking.

Over the years, my cooking has evolved considerably. No longer are the days when Hamburger Helper is my prized entree. I cook from scratch with as wholesome of ingredients I can muster.

At the risk of sounding a tish prideful, I do enjoy receiving compliments on my cooking. Not so much because I think I’m spectacular at it, but really, I love it when others enjoy the meal I’ve worked to prepare for them. It makes me happy when palates are pleased.

I still make many blunders, and by no means am the best cook in the county. I think it’s safe to say I know my way around a kitchen, however.

It’s the latest blunder that has me a bit bewildered, questioning my cooking judgment or abilities.

We hosted Hubs’ family for Thanksgiving, and they arrived the night before. We had a ham dinner, and it really was delicious. The ham was one of the cuts we purchased from our local butcher, and was one of the best tasting I’ve ever had.

After dinner, I set to preparing more items for the following day’s holiday meal. Before this day, I had already made one pumpkin pie and several kuchen. In prep for Thanksgiving, I had one more pie to bake, and a pasta salad to put together.

Cooking some of the following day’s food the night before would save me time and energy on Thanksgiving day itself. I set to work, obviously showcasing more of my brilliant cooking abilities.

Once the second pie was in the oven and while I was making the pasta salad, I had a startling realization.

I was missing a bandaid from my finger.

Earlier in the day, I had somehow bent my nail back while doing laundry. I put a fingertip bandaid over it and went on with my day. It was on a majority of the day, and I remember it being on while I was serving dinner.

At some point between the clearing of the dinner dishes and preparing more food for the following day, it had fallen off.

If you could have seen my face at the moment of realization, there would have been no question something was amiss. I felt my eyes widen and my face flush.

In a subdued panic, I looked everywhere, as discreetly as I could, for that bandaid. I had only assembled the sauce of the pasta salad thus far, and I knew it wasn’t in there. It was not anywhere on the counter. The missing bandaid was not anywhere around me on the floor. It was not in an oven mitt. It was not in my apron pocket. I felt around on my clothes in case it was stuck to me somehow.

The bandaid was missing. Really missing.

For the rest of the evening, I looked (as inconspicuously as possible) for that bandaid. I checked my finger many times to make sure it was really gone. (It was.)

As the evening wore on, I went to bed before Hubs did, and did not have a chance to tell him what happened until the following morning.

“I need to tell you something.”

I nearly whispered the words, in case our company or one of the kids had super-hearing in that moment.

As I told him what happened, Hubs began to giggle. “You have to tell them,” he said between chuckles.

“I know. But I’m hoping I find it first, and it’s a non-issue.”

“Do you think it’s in the pie?”

“I think it’s in the pie!” I whisper-shouted to him.

All night long, I had wondered where the bandaid could have been. It made the most logical sense that it had come off my hand at some point while I was either mixing the pie ingredients, or pouring them into the pie crust.

I was picturing the beautiful homemade pumpkin pie with a grotesque, used bandaid somewhere in the middle of it.

Thanksgiving day, I sliced small but decent slices of the first pie I had made – the pie I knew was safe from this holiday cooking mishap. Everyone had a serving and there were still three slices left over. Maybe, if I played my cards right, we wouldn’t have to cut into the second pumpkin pie at all.

Late that night, my unsuspecting father-in-law asked, “Is there anymore pumpkin pie for tomorrow?”

Hubs giggled again.

I smiled and quietly answered, “There are three slices left from today’s pie. There is also a second pie…. but…. it may be a gamble to eat it.”

I had to fess up about my missing finger bandaid, and my suspicion of it being baked inside that pie.

“Gamble pie? I’m in.” said my brother-in-law.

Gamble Pie? Or Humble Pie?

The next day, I once again cut thin slices from the pie. I was not trying to stretch out the portions this time, however. I was trying to find a missing bandaid.

Once the whole pie was sliced, I served up to those willing to take a chance. Of all my cooking or baking experiences, this was by far the most humbling.

Seated around the table, each person exercised caution as they also savored the homemade pumpkin pie. It was delicious. But also terrifying.

We never found the bandaid.

I can only hope – and pray – the bandaid somehow fell off at the exact right moment as we threw away items from dinner the night before.

We will never know what happened to the bandaid. But I can tell you with one-million percent certainty, I will always know the whereabouts of my bandaids in the future.

This is one cooking story I will only experience once. Hallelujah and amen.

One Reply to “Cooking Gone Wrong”

  1. Val, you had me on the edge of my seat waiting for the discovery of the bandaid.
    Your story brought an anxious yet exciting apprehension. I expected you to say it was in your hubby piece of pie.

    This will be the story shared by someone in your immediate family every year. 🤗

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