My favorite meal in all the world is one my mother used to make when I lived at home. It is, you might say, my mother’s recipe, although it isn’t a concoction ripped from the pages of my great-grandmother’s cookbook. (I don’t eat meatballs or chicken soup or brisket, so I’m essentially a pox on the family). My favorite meal in all the world is made almost entirely from items sold in packages at California grocery stores. I consider this processed nightmare of Mexican chefs and dietitians everywhere a recipe because I’ve tried it with other boxes and cans and with homemade components and nothing, nothing compares to the culinary victory that is my mother’s combination of products. Nothing.
It is as follows:
If I ever find myself requesting a last meal, it will be a feast made in twenty minutes from this collection of store-bought delights.
My mother, who is actually a fantastic cook and an excellent baker and an extraordinary cake decorator, hates me for referring to this as a one of her “homecooked meals.” In my defense, she once fed this to someone who prides himself on gourmet cooking and he told her it was the most delicious Mexican food he’d ever had, so as far as I’m concerned she is a genius.
(P.S. Yesterday, Fertile Myrtle told me that when she gets email alerts that I’ve published new posts, she feels compelled to stop whatever she’s doing and read them immediately. That makes me feel really powerful. Dear friend, what were you doing just now?)