Mom went on, “and on their table is an assortment of ground meats, different kinds of bread crumbs—like maybe garlic bread, rye, pumpernickel—and ingredients in pretty little dishes.
Ketchup, barbecue sauce, onions, roasted garlic, maybe Dijon mustard, maybe chopped tomato.”
“Back up,” I told her. “An assortment of ground meats?”
“Of course,” said Mom. “I’m thinking lamb, pork, veal, beef and turkey to start. Then we can have chicken and buffalo, too, once business picks up.
Buffalo meat is very current.”
“Just raw on the table?”
“Sure. How else are people going to make their own meatloaf? The best meatloaves are a mix of meats. You would know that if you’d tried the one I made on Sunday and looked at the cookbook like I asked you.”
“I’m a vegetarian,” I reminded her.
Mom went on, ignoring me. “At MeatMix we’ll be letting people choose the mix they’re in the mood for!” letting people choose the mix they’re in the mood for!”
“MeatMix?”
“That’s the name of the restaurant. Or maybe MoodMeat. Or maybe KitLoaf? Juana thought of KitLoaf.” She took a drink from her wineglass.
“You’re going to have hygiene issues,” I told her. “All those people mixing up raw meat.”
“We’ll have rubber gloves,” said Mom. “So people can actually mix with their hands. That’s half the fun of making meatloaf, feeling it squish between your fingers. It’s not the same if you use a spatula.” She stood up to clear the table.
“Meatloaf takes an hour to cook,” said Dad, as if coming out of a stupor. “What are people going to do while they wait for their food?”
“There’s going to be a full bar!” snapped my mother, as if he were an idiot. “People will bond.
They’ll talk over recipes and give each other tips.”
“Not everyone is as into meatloaf as you are,” Dad cautioned.
“Comfort food is a new trend in restaurants,” Mom said.
“Are they gonna eat in the same place they cooked?” I wanted to know. “Like on a table covered with scraps of raw meat?”
“An hour is a long time to wait for your meal,” Dad said. “I don’t know if just drinks will cut it. Isn’t this a family kind of place?”
“If you’re letting kids in there, the hygiene issues are going to be even more serious,” I argued. “What if they get snot in their meatloaf? What if they drool?
Are you really going to just stick a snot meatloaf in the oven and serve it to a customer? Even if it’s the customer’s own snot?”
“I’m not certain you’re going to find investors for this, Elaine,” my dad said gently.
“Why are you two so unsupportive?” Mom exploded. “All I do is support, support, support both of exploded. “All I do is support, support, support both of you, all the time!”
“It’s ten thousand dollars a month,” said Dad. “In the year before we send Ruby to college.”
“This kind of attitude is just what I’m talking about!” she cried. “You can’t even imagine for a single second that something of mine is going to be a success, can you? You can’t think that it might make money and pay for Ruby’s damn college.”
“It’s a meatloafery,” I said. “You’re not even a chef.”
“It’s make your own !” she said, stamping her feet.
“Elaine,” said Dad, in a pleading tone of voice. “I’m not trying to be unsupportive. I—”
“You’re cutting me down!” said Mom. “Neither of you lets me even finish explaining my business plan.
You think you’re so quick, so clever, making me feel stupid. But is that a positive way to deal with other people? Is it?”
I knew she was partly right. But she was so unsympathetic. She was living with two broken people, two people deep in the pain of Reginald.4 My grandmother was dead. My true love had turned cold.
Dad’s mother was gone. And Mom acted like our sadness was one big irritant: an obstacle in her quests for smoked meat, yogic enlightenment and
Ketchup, barbecue sauce, onions, roasted garlic, maybe Dijon mustard, maybe chopped tomato.”
“Back up,” I told her. “An assortment of ground meats?”
“Of course,” said Mom. “I’m thinking lamb, pork, veal, beef and turkey to start. Then we can have chicken and buffalo, too, once business picks up.
Buffalo meat is very current.”
“Just raw on the table?”
“Sure. How else are people going to make their own meatloaf? The best meatloaves are a mix of meats. You would know that if you’d tried the one I made on Sunday and looked at the cookbook like I asked you.”
“I’m a vegetarian,” I reminded her.
Mom went on, ignoring me. “At MeatMix we’ll be letting people choose the mix they’re in the mood for!” letting people choose the mix they’re in the mood for!”
“MeatMix?”
“That’s the name of the restaurant. Or maybe MoodMeat. Or maybe KitLoaf? Juana thought of KitLoaf.” She took a drink from her wineglass.
“You’re going to have hygiene issues,” I told her. “All those people mixing up raw meat.”
“We’ll have rubber gloves,” said Mom. “So people can actually mix with their hands. That’s half the fun of making meatloaf, feeling it squish between your fingers. It’s not the same if you use a spatula.” She stood up to clear the table.
“Meatloaf takes an hour to cook,” said Dad, as if coming out of a stupor. “What are people going to do while they wait for their food?”
“There’s going to be a full bar!” snapped my mother, as if he were an idiot. “People will bond.
They’ll talk over recipes and give each other tips.”
“Not everyone is as into meatloaf as you are,” Dad cautioned.
“Comfort food is a new trend in restaurants,” Mom said.
“Are they gonna eat in the same place they cooked?” I wanted to know. “Like on a table covered with scraps of raw meat?”
“An hour is a long time to wait for your meal,” Dad said. “I don’t know if just drinks will cut it. Isn’t this a family kind of place?”
“If you’re letting kids in there, the hygiene issues are going to be even more serious,” I argued. “What if they get snot in their meatloaf? What if they drool?
Are you really going to just stick a snot meatloaf in the oven and serve it to a customer? Even if it’s the customer’s own snot?”
“I’m not certain you’re going to find investors for this, Elaine,” my dad said gently.
“Why are you two so unsupportive?” Mom exploded. “All I do is support, support, support both of exploded. “All I do is support, support, support both of you, all the time!”
“It’s ten thousand dollars a month,” said Dad. “In the year before we send Ruby to college.”
“This kind of attitude is just what I’m talking about!” she cried. “You can’t even imagine for a single second that something of mine is going to be a success, can you? You can’t think that it might make money and pay for Ruby’s damn college.”
“It’s a meatloafery,” I said. “You’re not even a chef.”
“It’s make your own !” she said, stamping her feet.
“Elaine,” said Dad, in a pleading tone of voice. “I’m not trying to be unsupportive. I—”
“You’re cutting me down!” said Mom. “Neither of you lets me even finish explaining my business plan.
You think you’re so quick, so clever, making me feel stupid. But is that a positive way to deal with other people? Is it?”
I knew she was partly right. But she was so unsympathetic. She was living with two broken people, two people deep in the pain of Reginald.4 My grandmother was dead. My true love had turned cold.
Dad’s mother was gone. And Mom acted like our sadness was one big irritant: an obstacle in her quests for smoked meat, yogic enlightenment and
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