Sunday Dinner Gone Wrong

The warm weather this past weekend made a lot of people happy. The winter doldrums can set in this time of year. Christmas is over. Spring can seem so very far away. We have had several really cold days and the ice and snow took forever to melt. So when the temperature was downright balmy many folks probably went for bike rides, long walks, fathers and sons tossed the ol’ pigskin in the backyard making for dozens of Norman Rockwell-esque scenes around our hometown.
The Pyle family did not act out one of those scenes. We opened every window in the house and went to a burger joint. Why would we do that you ask. Well, basically, because I’m an idiot.
Let’s go back to Sunday morning. My wife and the kids are going to go to church. I am going to go to work and do things I never seem to be able to accomplish during the week. Claudia (my wife, for people new to this column) says to me, “I’m going to turn the pork roast up to medium. Can you turn it down to low before you go to work?” I pause to consider. This requires absolutely no culinary talent and very little thought, so I respond I will be able to do that.
Several minutes go by and I have completely forgotten about my assignment. Luckily there is a waft of delicious smell that gets my attention as I am packing my bag with the work I need to do. The smell of lunch cooking is a much better communication device than texting or e-mailing when it comes to getting a message to a forty-five year old man. The stomach rumble reminded me I was to turn the roast down.
I went into the kitchen walked directly over to the roaster which was sitting on the counter not far from the sink. The dial was set so it was pointing a little past the middle. To me that seemed to indicate medium. I then turned the dial so it pointed to the left and little down. To me that indicated low. I then congratulated myself on a job well done, grabbed my car keys and left for work.
Well, fair reader you may think everything sounds hunky dory so far. Why are you an idiot? My olfactory sense may have helped me remember the task, but my other senses failed me. I did not use my sense of touch to become aware the roaster was room temperature. I did not use my sense of sight to see the roaster was not plugged in to the electrical socket. I did not use my sense of hearing to pick up the slight bubbling sound coming from the pot on the stove which truly contained the Sunday dinner Pyle family pork roast, which was still furiously cooking away on a burner set to medium heat as I blithely drove many blocks away to be a good employee.
Flash forward with me now about two hours. I have turned the corner and I am driving down the block towards my home. I see the silver minivan (also known as the signature for married with children, a mortgage, credit card debt, and no chance whatsoever of jetting to Monaco for a diverting weekend at the roulette table) parked in the driveway. The family is home so we can have a pleasant lunch together. Then I see daughter number 2 opening the windows to the living room. My thought is the warm weather is being taken advantage of and we are going to enjoy the fresh air in the house. Then I see my wife is opening the window next to the kitchen sink. My thought is we don’t usually open that window, hmmm? Then I park my car, step out onto the driveway and the smell hits me.
I jog up the front steps and even before I get to the door I am calling to anyone in the house, “I turned it down.” Then I look into the kitchen and see the smoking, blackened pot on the stove and the reality of it all sinks in.
Earlier I referenced all the different Norman Rockwell images depicting the touching moments of family togetherness and said we resembled none of them. That is because I do not remember a single Rockwell work titled “Mercilessly Making Fun of Father.”
Several days have passed now. The charcoal briquettes, formerly known as potatoes, have been thrown in the dumpster. The pork roast, which had spot welded to the pot, has been disposed of. The smell has almost left the house. But Dad is still the rump roast of the jokes.