Another turnip trauma

Now that the trauma is fading into memory and the household has been purged of all trace of the offending substance, I am at liberty to describe what may well have been the most wretched meal I have ever encountered. The only meal in memory that even comes close was the incident with the dog-hairs in the frosting, and that occurred in another time and another place--and it was not perpetrated by someone with whom I expect to spend the rest of my life. When a neighbor serves you a birthday cake studded with dog hairs, you can at least take comfort in mentally inventing excuses to avoid eating there again. This option is unavailable when the cook is the love of your life.

The current culinary trauma occurred last Thursday, when my wonderful helpful husband called me at the office with exciting news: "Don't worry about supper," he said. "I put some bratwurst and turnips in the crockpot."

I was not, as you would imagine, overcome with glee at his words, but I knew he was just trying to be supportive. Still, I steeled myself for the ordeal ahead by stopping at the grocery store on the way home and stocking up on ice cream, just in case we might need a little distraction after the main dish.

And what a dish it was. My husband makes bread to die for and grilled meats to make Bobby Flay salivate, but crockpot cooking is not his forte. While turnips and bratwurst made up the base of the stew, he had also added little dabs of this and that from the fridge: pepperoni, frozen summer squash, ground pork, mashed potatoes, green beans, and I was afraid to ask what else. These duelling ingredients congealed into a gloppy mass with a consistency and texture not unlike that of vomit, only with bigger chunks.

And the flavor! Let us pass silently over the folly of mixing the bland with the ridiculous. My son and I looked at each other over the crockpot and struggled to find words to express a complex message: "We appreciate the effort, but please don't ever do it again!" After dutifully finishing a petite portion, I put down my fork and said brightly, "I hope you like this, honey, because I suspect you'll be eating a lot of it in the next few days!"

And he did. The young man and I have been studiously ignoring the leftover Turnip and Bratwurst Surprise lingering loathesomely in the refrigerator, but the husband doesn't believe in wasting food so he has been making steady progress on the diminishing disaster. He doesn't complain, and neither do I. It was edible, after all, and it wasn't decorated with dog hairs.

And best of all, it's gone.