Over Christmas, we were talking with my mother about an old cookbook that she had been using, and she mentioned a recipe for meatloaf.
“Have you ever had meatloaf?” I asked Mr. P.
“Meat… loaf?” he repeated.
“I bet you’d like it,” I said. “It’s like a warm, big pate.”
My mother wrote down the recipe for self-proclaimed “favorite meatloaf.” And then our meat CSA delivery was replete with ground meatstuffs. And then we were held hostage in our house by a thundersnow storm that required us to shovel 18 inches of heavy wet snow from the driveway. Indeed, the signs were auspicious for meatloaf.
I never made meatloaf before, and was surprised by how easy it came together. I slapped the mushy pile of meat into a loaf and it eerily held its shape. I added thrice the recommended dry mustard and substituted turmeric for celery salt, giving a decidedly yellowish tinge that made the whole thing pop.
“How do you eat meatloaf?” Mr. P asked me as the smell wafted out of the kitchen, kindling his hunger.
“With lots of broccoli to offset the inherent dietary hazards!” I said.
Meatloaf: paradise by the oven light. Mr. P, indeed, enjoyed the meatloaf, though he seemed intially phased by its inelegant showing on a dinner plate. “Big, warm pate,” I reminded him. “With ketchup.”
