Third Chances

"Do you believe in third chances?" I expectantly ask my husband as he takes a bite. I've made beef stroganoff for the second time in my life, and it still doesn't taste like Mom's. He was eagerly scarfing down the contents of his plate while I was eyeing a box of Macaroni & Cheese in the pantry.

The first time I made it, I had a very poorly stocked pantry so there was no cream of mushroom soup to add as the main flavor of the dish, the meat was tough, and I had defaulted to adding a tablespoon of butter every time it looked dry...lets just say that even though everyone ate it with smiles on their faces, I thought it was blah and had a snack two hours later. Thank you for being so gentle with such a pathetic cook.

Then today, I added too much cream of mushroom soup, too much horseradish sauce (I know, my mom doesn't even put this in at all), and the meat was tough. I'm going to try again. He is willing to continue being my food critic as I search my soul for the true stroganoff. Hey, as long as he gets dinner, he's happy.

I remember going through the perfecting stage with my spaghetti sauce. Two cans of tomato sauce, three tablespoons of sugar, a whole lot of garlic, some dried oregano until you see little flecks throughout the whole pan, onion powder if you accidentally added too much pepper, pepper if you accidentally added too much sugar...But unfortunately, even though my spaghetti may be delicious, you just can't eat it every day. So I'm expanding my horizons and working on stroganoff. (I've also perfected an all-fruit smoothie! 6 fruits and juices, no sugar added...unfortunately, that doesn't really count as dinner)

There are very few things my husband won't eat. He has a problem with fruit mixed with meat, such as raisins or grapes in chicken salad, and pineapples on pizza, he won't eat rhubarb, and he doesn't like liver. You'd think my job would be fairly easy: feed the hungry man who will eat practially anything. But I'm the one that is hard to please. He may say it tastes great and go back for seconds, but if I think its awful, he must be bluffing. So even though my stroganoff may be substandard to me, he just douses it with salt and pepper and garlic and eats it as if it were his last meal. I'm warning you, it just may be.