When I married into my Finnish husband’s family, my culinary world expanded to include a plethora of new delights. Mojakka, rich with beef broth and veggies, steaming on the back burner getting our tastebuds ready for supper. Meatballs and gravy with that special Finnish touch (whatever did my mother in law add to make them so succulent?) with creamy mashed potatoes on the side. And no one could make puuro like hers. I would wake up to the sound of the spoon stirring the cream of wheat to perfection as the morning sun streamed in through the window. Then there was Grandma Karjala’s special chicken prep, fried and then “broasted” quietly in the oven for Sunday dinner after church. Oh, the aroma! And always, Finnish bread, baked into those beautiful rounds for slicing sideways and spreading liberally with butter.
After dinner we would sit around the table on the yellow plastic chairs in the kitchen, sipping coffee and munching on gingersnaps or rhubarb custard pie. Sometimes there were homemade donuts sprinkled with sugar. Always there was plenty to eat, and my mother in law seemed to produce it effortlessly, although as I look back I can appreciate the effort she had to put forth when we came to visit.
Meal planning is a lifetime struggle. What shall we make for dinner this week? I’m fumbling around in the freezer, inventorying its contents, shoving that frozen rhubarb from three summers ago into the back where I can’t see it. Just can’t bear to throw it out. Suddenly I come upon a mysterious white bag. What is this? I open it and read the label. “One medium rat”. I reel backwards in horror, then remember the beloved python who lives in the glass case in the bedroom of our houseguests.
I wonder how he would taste in a savory meatloaf? Maybe no one would notice, and with the price of beef, it might not be a bad idea.