Adam’s Apple Pie

When I was young I thought my mom was the best cook  in the whole world.  As I grew up I realized that I was, perhaps, biased and that there were, perhaps, better cooks.  But I still assumed that all men thought their mothers were good cooks. Then I met Ryan.

The first time I  took Ryan to my Mom’s house for dinner he looked around in amazement at the roast chicken, at the heaping mound of buttery mashed potatoes, at the fresh green beans, the tossed salad, the bottle of Chardonnay  and the apple pie she had made for dessert.

“Who else is coming?”  he asked, concerned.

I was confused.  “Just us,”  I said.

Now he was confused. “Is it Thanksgiving?”  he asked.

“No,”  I said, “it’s Tuesday,”  and I added that this was how my mother cooked dinner pretty much every night when she was raising her large family and he nodded, speechless.

After dinner he told me, “You’re mom is a great cook.”

“I think so,” I said. “But all boys think their moms are great cooks.”

“Oh no they don’t,”  said Ryan.

Several months later I went to New Jersey to meet Duckie, the woman who would eventually become my mother-in-law. We were at our hotel and Ryan was talking to his mother on the phone.

“No,”  he was saying earnestly.  “No need to do that.  Really.”  He paused.  “No, let’s just go out.” Another pause. “Please?” he said. “Fine!” and he sighed and hung up.

“Duckie’s cooking,”  he said grimly.

“Awesome!”  I said.  “A good home cooked meal!”  He said nothing but gave me an inscrutable look.

On the way to Duckie’s house he tried to warn me.  “Duckie is a horrible cook,”  he said, adding that he was not sure if she was a horrible cook because she hated cooking or vice versa. To illustrate this he provided several anecdotes and mentioned that until Boston Market came along, Thanksgiving dinner for his  family consisted of four Swanson  “Roast Turkey” TV dinners.

I was appalled. “You mean the dinners in the foil tray? With the cranberry sauce that would scald your tongue if you tried to eat it?”  and he nodded.

I was puzzled for something positive to say.  I gave up.  “What’s she making?”  I finally asked.

“Tuna and rice,”  said Ryan and his Adam’s apple jumped convulsively.

“Yum!” I said.

Duckie greeted us warmly and told us that supper was almost ready.  Ryan’s dad, Charles, was silently setting the table.  Everything Charles did was done silently:  the man never spoke.

Soon we sat down and Duckie served the dishes with a flourish.  I looked down and felt my Adam’s apple jump convulsively.  Dinner consisted of a spoonful of tuna fish (chunk, in oil) scooped directly from the can onto the plate; if Duckie had told me it was cat food I would have believed her. The tuna was accompanied by a spoonful  of Minute Rice (until that night I did not know it was possible to wreck Minute Rice) and a square of lime Jell-O on a limp lettuce leaf with a drizzle of Miracle Whip on top. (Until that night I did not realize it was necessary to chew Jell-O.) Dessert was a burnt Mrs. Smith’s apple pie.

“Is she mad at us?” I asked Ryan after dinner.

“Not at all,”  he said. “She really likes you.”

As we were saying good-bye I thanked Duckie for dinner and Ryan managed to choke out, “Thanks, Ma, that was good.”

Duckie beamed.  “Go on,”  she said good naturedly.  “All boys like what their mothers cook.”