Salmon

My dad thought any food could be improved by the addition of a bit of canned salmon.

We kids disagreed.

"Your mom is going to her singing lesson tonight, it's just me and you kids. We'll have to fend for ourselves for dinner."

We'd hang there in anticipation.

One of two things were about to happen.

1. We'd go out for pizza.
2. Dad would cook.

Now, I hate to make sweeping cultural generalizations. I really do. Our country is a melting pot. We're a better place for it. But. But, my dad, who as far as I know, has not a drop of Scottish blood running through his veins - may very well be the cheapest man alive. Or at least he used to be. There have been rumors, since I flew the nest, that Dad actually spends money now. I choose not to believe those rumors.

He'd call himself - frugal.

"Honey, I got a great deal on 200 pounds of winter wheat today."

"Um-huh", my mom would absently reply.

"Wait, did you say 200 pounds of wheat?" she'd cry, snapping to full attention. "And what exactly constitutes a good deal? I swear, if you told someone you'd deliver their baby for free again ...."

We kids would watch this exchange like we were at Wimbledon. You just never knew what crazy thing Dad would agree to when faced with the opportunity to save money.

But back to dinner. Usually the Scottsman in Dad won out over pizza.

"Hey kids, put the big pot on the stove! We're making Mac and Cheese!"

One of us mouthier children would ask. "Mac and Cheese and what?"

"Nothing, just Mac and Cheese."

Right. We'd heard that one before. And we weren't falling for it.

Somehow a number of perfectly good  boxes of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese had be ruined by this charlatan masquerading as our father, and we had a right to be wary.

Hanging around the kitchen to make sure no such travesties occurred this time, we'd watch the water boil. Dad would tuck a dishtowel into the waistband of his dress pants and get things lined up. All seemed to be going well. Noodles were boiled, then drained, the appropriate measure of butter and milk standing at the ready. And then. And then?

All Hell would break loose.

"We need to fancy this up!" Dad would crow.

"Somebody get me some of that canned salmon your uncle sent from Alaska."

"And while you're at it, find where your mother keeps the whole wheat macaroni noodles."

We'd whine that we couldn't find the noodles. And that mom had given the salmon to a needy family that had come begging to our doorstep. (What? Come on. You're going to tell me that someone who delivered a child in exchange for a golf tam wouldn't believe our yarns?) He didn't. He'd come bustling into the pantry, and for someone who could never see the mustard when it was right in front of him in the refrigerator door, he'd locate the salmon and the whole wheat macaroni with a quickness that didn't bode well for us.

We just could not watch. Dad would be back in the kitchen. Whistling as he boiled up the wheat pasta. That ready, he'd stir everything together, dump in an alarming amount of canned salmon, and call to us kids that dinner was served.

Dad never seemed to understand why we weren't eating his masterpiece. I would like to state here and now, for the record: it was because we had taste buds.

I don't know if you've ever had the opportunity to eat a whole wheat noodle? It isn't fun. It should be considered inhumane. It just might need to qualify as an Olympic sport.

And the salmon. Really fishy. Really oily. Coating the delicate faux cheese, mingling with the whole wheat pasta. You could taste nothing else. But Dad was a stickler for one thing: you must always finish what was on your plate. And you could not be excused until you did.

There we'd sit. Little kids. Innocent little kids. Choking and gagging to get Dad's "Masterpiece" down.

It appeared that Dad was immune to his own poisonous concoctions. He'd sit at the head of the table daintily forking down mouthfuls of his creation, flourishing his fork as is his custom when something is particularly toothsome to him, declaiming this dish to be "much better than the boring version printed on the back of the box.

We were sure glad when mom quit her singing lessons.