(Author's Note: The following is a piece that I wrote some years ago that had been tucked away forgotten until I came across it this weekend while looking for something else. So I thought I'd share it here; apologies in advance to those who might wish after reading it that I had decided otherwise...)


I came home from work one day some years ago and found my wife in the kitchen, doing her daily juggling act: our young son Joshua in one hand, our dinner in the other.

On the counter in front of her, I noticed a package of hamburger meat. A large package of hamburger meat. Immediately I began to worry.

"That's not for meatloaf, is it?" I asked.

She shook her head. "No," she assured me. "I'm going to make us each a couple of hamburgers and freeze the rest of it for later."

I must have let out a sigh of relief then, because my wife shook her head and wore that same sad expression I've seen her wear many times since whenever we have this same basic conversation. After all these years of marriage, she knows all too well that meatloaf and yours truly are not exactly on speaking terms.

It was not always thus. I used to like meatloaf. I really did.

I can remember a time when meatloaf ranked among my five all-time favorite foods - right behind Canadian bacon pizza, barbecued chicken, Long John Silver's fish, and a good medium-well T-bone steak smothered with A-1 sauce and a baked potato on the side. Which ain't such bad company, culinarily speaking.

Of course, I was spoiled in those days. My mother was the creator of what was quite possibly the Finest Meatloaf Known to Man. It was her second greatest contribution to this planet; I was her first, of course, but in all fairness she did have a little help where I was concerned.

As a young child, I used to think that God had put my mother on this earth so that she could show everyone else just what He'd had in mind when He created beef cattle.

Having said that, I should point out that even though Mom's was my favorite, meatloaf in general was something that I definitely enjoyed in those halcyon of my youth. Beef is beef, after all, and (to paraphrase Will Rogers) I had never met a meatloaf I didn't like.

Until high school, that is.

I've never told this story before. The reason is that even now, so many years after the fact, I shudder whenever I think back upon those four years. I believe I can safely say that Edna Watkins - the little old lady who worked as my school's head cook - was very likely the most dangerous woman who has ever lived.

Miss Watkins (not her real name, by the way; I wouldn't want to embarrass her) was actually a very sweet woman, one of the kindest individuals I've ever known. It's just that she couldn't cook a decent meal to save her soul.

Fortunately for Miss Watkins, the salvation of her soul did not depend upon her ability to cook.

During that first year in high school, I quickly learned that Miss Watkins had a very strict plan which she adhered to, scheduling her meal in such a fashion that we were always served a particular meal on the same day each month. For example: every third Wednesday we had to suffer through something she tried to convince us was spaghetti. (I'm still not convinced...) Every second Tuesday it was chicken and rice, every first Thursday beef and noodles, and every fourth Monday...

Take a wild guess.

Remember that at this point in time, I was still only beginning to understand just how devastating an Edna Watkins meal could be to my insides. Still, I had to wonder just how much damage even she could do to a meatloaf.

Ah, the naivete of youth!

"I used to think the same thing about spaghetti," Ryan Shoven reminded me as we stood in line in the cafeteria. A greenish tint colored his cheeks. "That was before I started using Miss Watkins' spaghetti to re-string my guitar."

Preston Hunt nodded in agreement. "Didn't you know that they're using some of her leftover dinner rolls to build the new city hall?"

I knew they both had valid points. But I also knew that meatloaf was one of God's most perfect creations. Okay, so Miss Watkins wasn't the local equivalent to Julia Child... was that any reason to doubt her meatloaf?

It must have been, because after the three of us took our seats at our usual table we all just stared at our plates for the longest time. None of us dared to be the first to take a bite of the stuff.

Eventually I began to cut an extremely small piece. "Well," I announced softly, "one of us has to be first."

Ryan reached across the table and placed his hand on my shoulder. He seemed genuinely choked with emotion. "You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din."

I stared at the bite-sized hunk at the end of my fork, trying to convince myself that I had been right. For the very first time in my life, I was actually sporting doubts about meatloaf. But I couldn't let the moment drag forever, so - after taking a brief moment to settle things with God - I shoved the piece of meat in my mouth and hoped for the best.

I didn't hope hard enough.

Almost immediately I was hit by the strangest sensation. - actually a number of sensations, all of them hitting me at once and none of them pleasant by any stretch of the imagination. The prologue was an overwhelming wave of nausea which bombarded my insides like the Japanese at Pearl Harbor. Then I found myself wondering if the stuff had been laced with some sort of hallucinogenic substance; my vision began to blur, and I witnessed all manner of bizarre happenings.

I saw green-and-purple tigers leaping high into the air, over airplanes that were dropping waterbombs on 90-story anthills. Errol Flynn shot an apple off Basil Rathbone's head, while Snow White and Cinderella frolicked nude in the tall grasses. (Give me a break. I was a teenaged boy; you know how they can be.) Off in the background I saw skeletons running in fear from a living, breathing piece of meatloaf that was trying to feast upon their remains, plus a few other visions that I really prefer not to recall just now.

I think I stood up then; I don't remember clearly, because everything went dark about that time.

I don't remember anything else that happened that day. But from that day forward, I've never been able to eat meatloaf again. Not even my mother's. The one time she tried reviving my interest, I bolted from the table and ran screaming from the house. As far as I know, she may still be sitting there, wondering what she did wrong.

So if you're reading this, Mom, it wasn't your fault.

Really.

(Copyright 2010 by John A. Small)