I often think I’ve exaggerated the awfulness of my mother’s cooking; it couldn’t have been that bad, could it? But then someone calls to remind me that it was actually worse than I remember. Last week I spoke to one of my brother’s oldest friends, who said that my mother once made him an “unforgettable meal.” When I asked what it was, he grimaced. “Duck in chocolate sauce,” he said. “And if that wasn’t bad enough, the duck was barely cooked.”
Looking through my mother’s recipe file, I found a few doozies. I don’t remember that she ever cooked this very ’50s dish; I think I would have remembered.