Naiveté + Inexperience = Disaster On our seaside honeymoon, we decided to be really frugal. Instead of eating a shrimp dinner in a restaurant, we thought we would have lots more shrimp if we cooked it ourselves. With that same frugal spirit, we decided to buy the cheapest shrimp available. It turned out to be the smallest shrimp available, too. Six hours later, we had peeled and fried hundreds of the little things and by the time they were ready to eat, we were ready to run screaming from that kitchen. So we had them for dinner, and then the next day for breakfast, and resolved that from then on, it wouldn't be a terrible thing to eat restaurant meals every now and then. We also decided there was something to be said for buying the larger sizes of shrimp when and if we ever had the taste for preparing our own shrimp dinner again. When my children were very young, they decided that they would bake a cake for my birthday. With misgivings, I allowed them free reign in the kitchen. The cake appeared after supper, looking nicely browned but completely flat. It couldn't have been more than half an inch tall. I took a bite, a little scared, and was surprised that the cake was crunchy. I asked Phil, my eldest, to tell me a little bit about the cake. He explained to me that the cake called for only egg whites, so he had thrown away the "yellows and clears." The cake was filled with crunched-up eggshells. I was a recently married woman, totally new to the kitchen, and was working my way through a somewhat alternative cookbook. I had been cooking for all of about three weeks when I decided to try making potato noodles. It seemed like a great way to use up extra leftover mashed potatoes. The More with Less Cookbook is written and published by Mennonite women, most of whom have served as missionaries around the world. These women are used to making do and coming up with substitutes using local ingredients. Lest I give the wrong impression, there are many good recipes in it, but a few clinkers as well. Eric and I were equally inept in the kitchen and enjoyed learning together. We had the tiniest kitchen I had ever seen, but it was ours. Instead of actual counters, there was a drainboard, and our dining room table. Our refrigerator was the size of two shoeboxes, and the freezer was the size of one shoebox when it was newly defrosted. It was practically impossible to keep it frost-free though, so all the room was used up by one ice cube tray. As for the dishwasher, well, let's just say she was young, slender, and still gazed often at the new ring on her left finger. The kitchen was lit by a single dim bulb, and was easily hidden away altogether by simply shutting two folding doors. We lived on campus at the seminary where Eric was studying to be a minister, so he came home between classes every day to make and eat lunch together. We had only an hour or so before he had to leave again, but felt that was more than enough time to make potato noodles. How difficult could they be after all, with so few ingredients? Mashed potatoes, flour, and maybe an egg or two. I remember that it seemed to take hours to get the stuff to solidify enough to be rolled out and cut into noodles. We kept on having to add more flour. Finally the noodles were ready to be cooked. The first batch we made tasted terrible with the recommended pats of butter, so then we tried them with ketchup. No improvement. Although by then it felt like a lost cause, we ended by trying them with syrup. Suddenly we realized that not only had the noodles been a resounding failure, Eric's whole lunch time had come and gone. His next class was in minutes. That was the first time I had ever defaced a book. The recipe is illegible now, thanks to wide black marker. Even seventeen years later, we still shudder when we remember those potato noodles. I had just graduated from college and was glorying in the fact that I had my very own apartment. I decided to invite my parents to come over for supper. I prepared a pasta primavera from one of the earlier Silver Palate cookbooks. It called for snow peas, among other things. My parents raved about the meal, and at one point, my mother said, "So tell me what's in this!" I happily listed pasta, red bell peppers, blah, blah, blah, and . . . snow peas. "Snow peas? Hmm . . . I don't believe there were any snow peas in mine," she said thoughtfully, picking over her plate. Huffing a little at her ineptitude, I pointed out a very obvious snow pea, and then another and then another on her plate. "Ohhhh!" she said, very surprised. "Those are snow peas! Oh. Well, you do know, don't you, dear, that snow peas don't need to be shelled?" Here I was, pointing out these peas that were about the size of the period at the end of this sentence. I had shelled them! No wonder they seemed expensive for what I ended up with! BACK TO MAIN DISASTER STORIES PAGE Catherine S. Vodrey is available for freelance writing, editing, fundraising/development, and photography projects at: Post Office Box 835 East Liverpool, Ohio 43920 USA E-MAIL: WordBanquet@gmail.com Thank you for visiting www.WordBanquet.com!