Grammy and Grampy (aka my parents) arrived this afternoon via the train. It was a much anticipated moment. We had to drive into DC to pick them up and that was fun ... really ... I mean it. It was. We drove past the National Christmas Tree and everything. It's from Vermont this year, so that glimpse was special too.
We arrived home to the comforting aroma of chili bubbling in the crockpot. All I needed to do was make cornbread and start rice for dinner. Which I did. It's my dad's birthday today. He's never been much for celebrating his birthday, but he gets a shy silly grin when we remember him and it's always been my job in the family to remember. I like that job. It's my princess joy.
We sat, ate, talked and laughed our way through dinner. And as we did, dinner yesterday came up. I'd made a childhood standard ... oven-fried chicken. I'd had it so often growing up, I really barely considered it above macaroni and cheese on the priority scale of entrees. But it seemed like the thing to make for dinner last night. So I did. Harumph. Ross declared it a meal fit for a king and has been whining ever since about my holding out on him for 20 years.
What. Ever. I relayed this story to my mother and she got a quizzical look on her face and said, "Did I make that before you left home?" Uh. yeah! About that time my father piped up with, "Hey, this chili is good, but I've never had it served over rice before."
This stopped me cold.
My father taught me to make chili. He taught me to use diced up stew beef or venison, depending on what is available at the time. He taught me to use a little maple syrup and other secret ingredients.
And he always. But always. Served it over rice!!
So we all fell out laughing at our mixed up memories ...