Living and Cooking Solo

              Uncle Frank stood his ground at the head of the table, knife in hand, relishing his importance as the annual turkey carver. My Aunt Roberta smiled deviously from behind; her two sisters Myrtle Mae and Loretta supporting her with devilish grins of their own.                   Frank lifted the tinfoil covering pressing the outline of what appeared to be a rather large bird, slowly at first and then quickly to reveal a small Cornish hen seated in the center of the otherwise empty platter. His mouth flew open but no sound emerged. “Well, I believe we see Frank speechless for the first time in his life,” said my grandfather, who followed the remark with a laugh that vibrated around the room, joining the laughs of others just now getting the joke.                   Fin...

           Loretta Arlene Elder Clasen Lallman made noodles that melted in the mouth like chicken-flavored pudding.  But this feisty woman, who happened to be my mother, made noodles only when the mood struck her because cooking anything just because someone wanted her too might indicate a weakness of character, something no one dared suggest she possessed.  We never knew when the mood would strike, or what that moment might celebrate.  We just waited for the words, “I think I’ll make noodles” and prepared ourselves for a heavenly treat; think cliché, “to die for.”             All of my mother’s cooking depended on her mood, which meant delicious when she felt kindly toward the idea; not so good, possibly terrifying, when she felt forced into the kitchen, which rarely happened mainly because no one wanted that experience.          ...