The Memory and Stark Reality
By Mr.e

My childhood memory tells me that my mother cooked tasty meals.

Reality tells me something different. Very different.

Every time I eat at her house, I am a little apprehensive about what she will put on the dinner table. It’s gotten so bad that an invitation to dinner at moms’ place fills me with dread, anxiety and well, ... fear: The fear of being poisoned by the food she’s prepared.

I’m having a very difficult time with this one. Over the past few years it’s been an agonizing process of trying to figure out just where my memory of tasty meals came from and where her current culinary skills took over. As much as I want to tell her that her meals taste odd, her cooking techniques could use some improvement and that I don’t enjoy eating her fare, I don’t want to hurt her feelings.

Instead I’ve opted for the ‘go full’ (not hungry) approach. When I’m invited for dinner, I make sure that I’ve eaten enough before I go to put my appetite into a coma for the duration of the dinner visit.

What troubles me with this tactic is that since adopting this approach a few years ago, my mother has never mentioned that I never take a second helping and don’t load up my plate in the first place. Surely she must have caught on by now because I eat much more when they are over at my place for dinner.
I cringe to think that the proverbial cat will claw its way out of the frayed bag and leap yowling into the spinning blades of a really big fan. Yikes...! (The s...t hits the fan).

It’s hard enough to keep my mouth shut and not to ask her about the torturous technique she employed to completely dry out the once succulent salmon or ask her why she faithfully uses vegetables that are visibly past any semblance of freshness. I can’t bring myself to offer even the teeniest compliment about any part of the meal. To do so would only stir up the goings on in her kitchen.

Every time I leave there I swear to myself never to go back for dinner again, resolute to suggest to her that I drop by for tea or coffee instead, when she serves up another dreaded dinner invitation.

I love my mother, but I don’t care for her cooking. That’s the dilemma. If I told her how I felt, she would stop calling, inviting me for other things or worse. Mind you, if the end result of actually telling her how I feel about her cooking is not being invited for dinner again it wouldn’t be such a bad thing ... but I think that other things would be affected also.

So, for my health’s sake I’m sticking to the go full’ tactic. I’ll smile politely or grimly and pass on the bowl with the grey, limpid looking beans and shred the fish on my plate to present the illusion of having eaten most of it. Mom called today and invited me for dinner next Sunday. Unfortunately, I wasn’t quick enough and said ok and when she hung up the dread set in. It remains a touchy situation.