EPISODE 4 EPISODE 4It was another gloomy winter afternoon in our working-class English village. While we were stationed in the sleepy village of Molesworth in the flat Cambridgeshire countryside, I often found myself counting the minutes until Francis got home from work.
At that latitude, the sun set around four o’clock, leaving me with nothing to do but pop in a Barney video for Hayden and contemplate dinner.
One day, I wandered nonchalantly to the pantry to examine the usual lineup of canned vegetables, dried noodles, and jarred pickles. And there it was—staring at me from between the peanut butter and salsa with smug indignation—a box of Shake ‘n Bake. It had belonged to the woman who had come before me in Francis’s life. She had bought it, presumably, for a cozy dinner with the man who was now my husband.
Melissa was Francis’s old girlfriend. Somehow, her Shake ‘n Bake, along with her gawd-awful dining room chairs and etched wine glasses, had become mingled with our joint marital property when Francis and I got married. Somehow, even after three more moves, the Shake ‘n Bake had survived.
I accepted the chairs and glasses out of necessity—we needed all the hand-me-downs we could get in those days—but what were we still doing with this lousy box of Shake ‘n Bake?
I don’t use tawdry cooking shortcuts, I thought. It was cheap, just like Melissa with her frizzy red hair, overdone makeup, and Boy George hats. I wanted to be rid of this relic of Francis’s past life, once and for all. The vacuum-sealed pouch of pork chop coating might have expired, but I sentenced it to death. I grabbed the offending box from the shelf and headed for the rubbish bin.
But wait, I thought. Why not use this as a teaching moment?
The mixture seemed surprisingly fresh for its age, more than four years old. I followed the package instructions, throwing meat into the bag with the pouch ingredients and laying the coated pieces out on a cookie sheet.
When Francis arrived home, the “Melissa Memorial Dinner” was ready.
While Francis changed out of his uniform, I eagerly anticipated his reaction to the meal. I envisioned the disappointment that would most certainly appear on his face as he bit into the cheapened chop. I would ask innocently, “Do you like it, Honey? I made it with that old box of crumb coating. Wasn’t it—oh, what’s her name again—Melissa? Wasn’t it Melissa’s Shake ‘n Bake?”
Surely, he would spit the bite into his napkin and declare the meal a culinary embarrassment. He would confess I was a much better cook than Melissa. He would realize again why I was the love of his life and Melissa was a mistake.
“Smells good,” Francis said as I doled pork, green beans, and potatoes onto his plate. He carved a particularly large bite of meat, plunged it into his potatoes and opened wide.
I watched intently for a grimace, a groan, a gag.
“Mmhmm,” Francis mumbled, shoveling forkfuls into his mouth. I waited patiently for my opportunity to blame Melissa for his inevitable disgust.
“This is delicious, Hon,” Francis said, spearing a second chop. I nibbled a bite myself and had to concede he was right. The Shake ‘n Bake wasn’t half bad after all.
My insecurities had driven me to kill an innocent box of bread crumbs, trying to burn an old girlfriend in effigy. But the Shake ‘n Bake wasn’t a threat to my marriage any more than she was.
I sheepishly confessed my plot, and we both laughed hard at my ridiculousness. I raised a glass to Melissa, giving credit where credit was due, and promised to make her signature recipe again.
After all, it wasn’t a mistake; it was just Shake ‘n Bake.