Granny's Secret Recipe

Words=925

“Oh gross,” I stated and stuck out my tongue. Granny’s secret meatloaf family recipe called for diced asparagus. If I had known that as a little tyke I wouldn’t have scarfed down and asked for thirds at every meal. Now I know why my parents were beaming when I ate it, they tricked me into eating my veggies!

I was mortified for a moment or two thinking about eating that abomination from the vegetable world. I lost all control of my motor functions as I shivered. A cold streak raced down my spinal cord. I regained control of my functions and went back to reading Granny’s recipe.

Beet juice I read from the card, “Beet juice?” My eyes scanned the word just to make sure they weren’t deceiving me. The rational hitting me harder why my parents loved taking me over to my grandparents weekly meatloaf night. Once again I stuck out my tongue, the beet juice was nasty.

A nutritionist told me to eat a beet a day when I started having my gallbladder problems. It worked for a few months until that infamous day I was on a naval exercise high above the Sierra-Nevada Mountains when the family curse turned into a ticking time bomb. The more I thought about it, the more I realized what my parents were doing.

Thankfully that was the last of nasty wicked curveball thrown in my granny’s secret recipe. I washed my hands and mixed the ingredients together. My auburn haired wife bounced in as I continued to mix the meatloaf by hand. She picked up the 3 X 5 card and read it.

“Asparagus! My favorite!” the excited woman declared.

“Since when?” I dryly quipped.

“I’ve always like asparagus and…,” she replied and puckered her lips, “OOO! Beet juice! I love beet juice! It’s my favorite too!” She playfully twisted her torso back and forth as she held the card in her hands.

I nearly shoved the raw dinner into the oven and shut the door. I glared at my too perky wife as I lowered my head. “Since when do you like asparagus and beet juice? Huh?”

She giggled and put the card down. “You take things too seriously at times luv.”

“No, I’m just livid what my parents did to me. Asparagus is disgusting. Beet juice is putrid. I don’t mind eating a beet every now and then, but drinking a glass of its juice. Bleh.”

The fiery woman picked up a rose, plucked a rose petal and played that game all women do at one time in their lives, “He loves me.” She plucked another one, “He loves me not,” followed by another, “He loves me.” She looked up, smirked and went back to plucking with her eyes locked onto mine.

My wife plucked the last petal as she smiled, “He loves me!” The smile turned to a blissful one as she held the naked rose to her breasts. “Ah, my honey bun loves me!” She closed her emerald pools and purred.

To which I dryly retorted, “I know you do, that’s why you married me and not for my rock hard chiseled chest, right?”

“And your arms, legs, and abs!” she exclaimed, “Who needs Lieutenant Mitchell or Lieutenant Trevor when I have Lieutenant Ryan Wolf, world renowned chef!”

Oh boy, she was fattening me up for the kill, she was up to something. I raised a curious eyebrow as I looked at her. “World renowned chef?” I paused for a moment and finished, “What do you want?”

“Oh nothing,” she innocently replied. We bantered back and forth like a long drawn out boring tennis match until she gritted her pearly teeth and caved in, “Okay…FINE!”

Normally I would rejoice when I win, for they are rare and minuscule like when my Miami Marlins win. However, (You younger readers pay close attention) when a woman says, “Fine,” in any tone at the end of a sentence, it is not a good thing (You'd rather be happy, than be right). Her mouth slowly opened but she was interrupted by a rude kitchen appliance.

The oven dinged, signaling the end of the fight that we quickly forgot about as our growling stomachs took priority. I donned the mitts, pulled out Granny’s secret meatloaf; the aroma of the entrée filled our kitchen. We were drooling as I set dinner on the cooling racks.

Minutes later I grabbed a knife as my wife set the plates down on the stove. I cut us two helping heaps of Granny’s concoction. We licked our chops and dug in.

I know I’m not Rachel Ray but there was something seriously wrong, it didn’t taste like Granny’s special meatloaf. I looked over at my fiery goddess, she looked over at me. My manners were sorely lacking, my cheeks were bulging with food as I asked, “Ketchup?”

She enthusiastically nodded her head. The ketchup didn’t help as we chewed away. We drowned in in ketchup and it still didn’t work. In sheer desperation we downed it with our favorite soda. “Sorry,” I vehemently apologized and checked the recipe again. I made her world famous cakes before with heavenly results, but this was the first dud.

We had a good laugh as I read, “Don’t forget a pinch of ginger!” Ginger. How could I forget it?!? I married a voluptuous ginger haired debutante. She snickered and snorted, totally distracted so I thought nothing of it when I reached over and daintily pinched her rear end.

I slept on the couch for a week.