Mom was an excellent cook. She prepared a gourmet meal with a homemade dessert each evening. I was always in the kitchen with mom who taught me food preparation. So I probably learned to cook before I could talk or walk.
By the time I was nine, my mother could say, “Make the salad. There are pears, sour cream, carrots and lettuce.”
I was expected to put a salad together using the ingredients she gave me, no matter how unusual. At age ten, I could bake cookies and cakes from scratch.
My mom went to the hospital for surgery when I was eleven, and she put me in charge of the kitchen. Dad took hamburg out of the refrigerator and said, “Make meatloaf for supper. You know all that goes with it.”
The meat looked bad. When I opened the package, it smelled worse. “Daddy, I think this meat is spoiled.”
He said, “Don’t worry, when it bakes it will kill anything that’s not good for us.”
I cooked supper but didn’t have time to whip up the cheese sauce for the broccoli as mom had taught, so I served plain vegetables. Other than that the meal was good.
Several hours after supper, my little brother threw up. I wasn’t feeling so well when one of my sisters vomited. For the rest of the night we all took turns throwing up and running to the toilet.
By morning we had survived, just barely.
“Daddy, I really think that meat was bad.”
My Dad had a dry sense of humor and loved to tease. “No it was the broccoli. It wasn’t normal.” He said with a twinkle in his eye.
Yes, when I was eleven I poisoned everyone in my home.
And we all lived to tell about it.
“For our light affliction, which is but for a moment, is working for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory.” II Corinthians 4:17