Bless her heart, Mother did the best she could, but her meals have remained in my mind (not my heart) for many years.
Mondays were laundry days and the chef's choice was always vegetable soup. I don't remember what meat was included, if any, but the beets, turnips, rutabagas, and carrots are a lasting memory. It was reddish, so some form of tomatoes must have been included! To this day, I do not relish anything, except potatoes and onions, that grow underground.
I was forced to eat carrots because they were known to improve the eyesight. Since I got my first glasses at age six, I suspect that Mother was misinformed. Bread crusts were alleged to give the consumer curly hair. So much for her psuedo-science!
Remember the starving Armenians? I would gladly have given them what remained on my plate had I known how to send it to them. I saw through this entreaty at an early age.
Sunday dinner began with Mother grabbing a chicken by the neck, twisting it around , and giving it a good toss. After the headless chicken quit jerking around in the backyard, Mother would pluck the feathers, hold the carcass over the gas on the stove to singe the pin feathers, clean it, and begin the Sunday dinner. The whole process rather took away my appetite.
Hiding bread crusts and unwanted morsels under the rim of the plate proved no match for the lady of the house, who cleared the table.
Chocolate milk was a treat . Of course, stirring the Hershey's into the glass always left a layer of chocolate at the bottom that no amount of stirring would dislodge.
I grew strong and healthy on peanut butter sandwiches while my parents ate liver and onions, oyster stew, cold tongue sandwiches, and exotic things like fried turtle. I spit out more buckshot from fried rabbit than I care to remember.
But my best memory of my mother's cooking was my traditional birthday meal. Homemade noodles with beef and a homemade angel food cake. Thanks, Mom, you were the best!