You might think that after decades of working at a college that had a quality chef training program, I’d have acquired at least a basic understanding of Things Gourmet. But nothing could be further from the truth.

My knowledge of the fine points of haute cuisine doesn’t go beyond The Big Three — Frank’s Hot Sauce, Lowry’s seasoned salt, and Weber’s mustard. If one or more of them can’t season any dish to perfection, I don’t know what can.

Not surprisingly, I was the bane of the chefs training labs’ lunches. Lunches were held each day and the students would invite some employees members to sit in. But it wasn’t the ivory tower’s equivalent of a soup kitchen – it wasn’t done just to stuff our gaping maws. Instead, they wanted our feedback. And after lunch was over, everyone gave it. . . or at least ALMOST everyone.

“A bit too heavy on the cilantro,” said one.

“The Caesar salad was good, except I noticed too much of a lemon aftertaste,” said another.

“I think the chowder was excellent, but the green beans were slightly undercooked,” said a third.

Then it was my turn.

“Hey, everything was great,” I kvelled.

The room fell silent.

Then they all gave me a look as if I’d said I’d just gotten busted for shoplifting … for the fifth time. It was one part disgust, one part condescension, and one part pity — that special pity reserved for hopeless knuckleheads.

I had no idea what I’d done wrong.

Eventually, after this had happened several times, Chef Paul Sorgule took me aside and patiently explained it. Saying everything was delicious was no help to them. So they could focus on and improve their flaws, they wanted constructive criticism. Sadly, I couldn’t offer any, and eventually — for obvious reasons — the invitations dried up.

All that said, I’m not a total inept in the food prep dept. I make Legendary Mac & Cheese. Unfortunately, it’s all I can make. But peeps like it, especially Lisa Keegan. I’ve been invited to Thanksgiving dinner with her and Joe for years, and each time she INSISTS I bring my LM&C. Of course, I’ve always been happy to — till last year, when my happiness vanished like mist in the morning sun.

—

Disaster T’giving 2018

Joe, in addition to being the Mike Tyson of Academe, is a brilliant cook. He does a huge and varied T’giving feast, all by his lonesome, and because of that, he’s in a nonstop cooking frenzy from Sunday on. Last year he was so busy, he was still cooking at dinner time, and thus my T’giving Bummer at the Trough.

The ideal — in fact, the ONLY — way to serve mac n cheese is when it’s in its molten state. So I always time my arrival at Joe’s at exactly dinner time. Last year, dinner time was 5:30 and I was Dopey-on-the-Spot, walking in the door at 5:31. But woe betide me!

It was the culinary equivalent of The Battle of the Alamo, with Joe starring as the American garrison. In other words, he was overrun by the enemy — in this case, several dishes he’d not prepared in time. He — like Jim Bowie, Davy Crockett, et al — had no choice but to keep on keeping on. So dinner wasn’t ready at 5:30 .. .or 6:00 … or even 6:30. And by the time it was ready and set on the table in perfect array and temperature, my LM&C had turned cartilaginous. It looked less like any kind of food than what gets thrown out of the OR at day’s end.

I vowed, Never again!

—

Going green?

As this year’s T’giving approached, fearing a repeat of last year’s disaster, I found myself grousing about it maybe happening again, which obviously got on Jen-Ex’s nerves.

“Look,” she said, finally, “Why don’t you just skip the mac n cheese?”

“Oh? And do what?” I said, a bit too snottily for my own comfort.

“Take a salad,” she said.

“A salad?” I sputtered. “A freakin’ salad?”

“Why not?” she said.

“Because it’s an insult, that’s why,” I said. “My Legendary Mac n Cheese isn’t something you just throw together and shlep to a cub scout pot luck. Besides, at Thanksgiving no one eats salad. It’s like putting a compass in a casket. It might look pretty and not do any harm, but it won’t do any good either.”

She rolled her eyes.

I rolled on.

“My Legendary Mac & Cheese is masterful or transcendent or something like that,” I said. “And it sticks to the ribs a whole lot better than salad.”

“I think everything there will be sticking to ribs,” she said.

And how right she was.

—

Lonesome LM&C

When we walked into Joe’s kitchen, it looked less like a Thanksgiving dinner than it did the wedding feast of Henry the Eighth. Every available surface was covered with a food container of some sort; the air itself was intoxicating. Forget the turkey. There were mashed potatoes, casseroles, gravies, beets, cranberry sauce, rolls, stuffing, pies, cakes, and on and on — all homemade.

On a cabinet shelf I pushed a bowl of caramelized Brussels sprouts to the left and plate of brownies to the right, and set my still-bubbling-to-perfection LM&C in between. And as soon as I did, I realized all was lost. Or more exactly, my LM&C was lost — lost among all the dishes, bowls, pie plates and crockery that filled the place.

Yes, dinner began on time. And yes, my LM&C had arrived in perfect condition. But compared to the other foods, it was humdrum, perhaps even shabby. If anything, it looked like something someone just threw together to take to a Cub Scout pot luck.

And there it sat the entire dinner, as ignored and alone as a bastard at a family reunion.

OK, so my slaving over a hot stove and agonizing over whether dinner would start on time were all for naught. But several good things came out of the dinner.

First, the food was delicious, the company delightful, and the event a success.

Second, I went home with a boatload of leftovers, including at least four full meals of my LM&C.

And third, I knew I’d never be disappointed at Joe’s T’giving feast again: From now on I’m taking a salad.