Meatloaf

Okay, I've been wanting to do this blog for some time now. I often lie awake at night with what I consider interesting stories running around in my brain and I can't sleep. So here is my attempt at a blog.

And, of all things, my first entry is about, yup, meatloaf. Let's just say that I suck at making meatloaf. In fact, I don't even really like it. I mean, who came up with the idea of slapping a hunk of meat into a pan intended for bread, of all things, and bake the bejeebies out of it? {shudder} Yes, hamburgers are also hunks of the same meat, but at least they are a more manageable, dare I say, feminine size. And meatballs, well, the name doesn't exactly thrill me either, but dainty nonetheless. But meatloaf. Seriously. Even the name is, like, a loaf made of MEAT? No, I'm not vegetarian. But this is a little much even for this meat-lover.

Anyway, when I got married, it turned out that the man in my life not only liked meatloaf, but liked cold meatloaf on a bun! {major shudder} So, I thought I should be a good wife and make him some homemade meatloaf for supper one day. Well, needless to say, that was a bad idea. That meatloaf was the worst concoction I've ever made, and I usually consider myself an okay cook.

A few years later, I thought, well, how hard can it be? I mean, you slap some ground beef in a bowl, dump in a little of this and that, and voila! Meatloaf! Well, the second attempt didn't turn out any better than the first. Neither did the third. Or the fourth. You get the picture.

I sought help from a professional - my mom. She shared with me a "No-Fail" recipe for meatloaf.

Ha ha, what a joke. It failed.

Finally, my usually tactful and considerate husband said to me, "You don't have to make that again."

Yeah, it was that bad.

Well, here we are, several years later, and suddenly I had a burst of confidence (or insanity) to try again. I got yet another recipe from a friend with a fantastic reputation in the kitchen. I followed it to a T - well, mostly.

I preheated my stoneware loaf pan. I slapped that slab of meat into the pan. I let that baby cook, and cook...and cook. She said 40-45 minutes. An hour and 15 minutes later, we sat down to eat. As I sliced the loaf, I wondered if beef was supposed to be this colour. It looked ill. I unselfishly served my children the outside pieces, hoping that it wasn't as raw as it looked. I took the third slice, and hubby got the fourth, closest to the centre. Uh, yeah, he took one look at the slop on his plate and smirked. Yes, he did. He smirked.

At the time, I was a little put out, you might say. But, now as I sit here thinking about the whole ordeal, praying that none of us will get food poisoning, I have to chuckle to myself. I think I'll just file that recipe somewhere where it will never be found again. And all meatloaf in the future will be eaten at moms.

That reminds me a little of life. How often don't we mess up, and make a mess of something that should be so simple? You know, I think God smirks at us too. Not out of meanness. But I think He wants us to laugh at ourselves more. And to realize that not everything is your gift. Sometimes we just gotta leave that one thing for someone else to do better. And that's okay. So, my meatloaf resembles dog food.

I sure make great cinnamon buns. ;-)