The meatloaf is in the oven, and hopefully the heating element is doing what it was designed to do, and generating enough warmness to bake it all up into a brown loaf of goodness, so that we can eat sometime before the boy is forced to shower and don his pajamas.
I have to admit that I didn’t start my life out loving meatloaf. In fact, if I am recalling the facts properly, I cringed every single time my mother laid a baked loaf of meat and other edibles, which she had labored over to smoosh into a misshapen blob, onto the table. My dad seemed to adore the meatloaf, with an enormous glob of mashed potatoes beside it. My mother seemed to thrill to the prospect of having sandwiches the following day out of leftover meatloaf. (As if it wasn’t bad enough the first time around, my mom would go and eat it cold, slapped between two slices of Wonder Bread and decorated with a slice of tomato and some Miracle Whip.) My sister never seemed to care, one way or the other, about a chunk of meatloaf on her plate.
I, however, dreaded the meatloaf dinner as a little girl, and I sympathize with Randy, from the movie A Christmas Story, every single time we watch that show. “Meatloaf! Meatloaf! I hate meatloaf!”
Hubs claims that meatloaf was one of his favorite meals as a small fellow, when he still wore Toughskins jeans from Sears. Hubs was one of those eccentric children who actually ate goulash and meatloaf and tuna casserole without being told to.
The boy is following along in his daddy’s shoes, as he loves a good meatloaf. Tonight, as I was squishing it all together, he waltzed into the kitchen for a drink of water and asked, “Oh man! Is that meatloaf you’re making? That’s cool, Mom!”
And then he completely ruined the praises he’d sung to me by proclaiming, “You know, you should get Carter’s mom’s recipe for meatloaf. The last time I spent the night with Carter, she made meatloaf, and it was fantastic. I loved it. It’s probably the best one I’ve ever eaten.”
This recipe that I’m trying out tonight is a new one, from a cookbook filled with recipes for life on a ranch. Hubs loves the cookbook, as it holds nothing but recipes made with butter, meat, butter, cream, meat, butter, meat, potatoes, cream, and butter.
Although my taste buds have evolved and become more mature over the years, causing me to now be able to tolerate a slice of meatloaf on my plate in the evenings, I have to say that I only bake one up about once a year, because I loathe making them.
Squishing my bare hands into a bowl of raw hamburger and eggs grosses me out.
I have taken one for the team tonight. They will have the meatloaf for dinner, and I’m not sure that either of my team members even cares that I have all but ruined my hands with the Clorox bath I participated in after the meatloaf was plunked into the oven. The skin on my hands is red and raw.
I think I washed my hands nineteen times during the making of the meatloaf.
I think I used an entire gallon of Clorox Clean-Up to hose my kitchen counters down after the making of the meatloaf.
There will be meatloaf here tonight, but there will not be any salmonella whatsoever.