A personal account of a cooking catastrophe.
When my husband and I were married 53 years ago, we moved into his grandparents’ farmhouse. Nobody had lived there for 11 years, and it needed a lot of work. There was no plumbing, and the cellar was the only room with electricity, so we ran an extension cord up from the cellar, so we could cook with an electric skillet and a hot plate.
As soon as we were able to cook on our stove, I invited my family and my husband’s for Easter dinner. There would be a total of 23 of us, which meant large quantities of food. I worked hard, and the meal was a success.
That night, after everyone had gone home, I noticed the oven light was on, and the temperature was set on warm. When I opened the door, there sat a two-gallon pot of baked beans that I’d forgotten to put on the table. We ate beans for a week! In 53 years, I have never again made baked beans for a family meal.