My Secret Mealtime History

I’m having trouble figuring out how to break the news to Mrs. Banks that I’m not a huge fan of pot roast. It’s my own darn fault. At a dinner at her parents’ years ago when we were first dating and I was straining to make a good impression, I found myself in suck-up mode and, in retrospect, laid it on a bit thick in my effusion over Mrs. Banks’s mother’s cooking. “These potatoes are great!,” I said to her (and meant it) but then added—and this is where I crossed  the line—“And this pot roast! I’m a bit of a connoisseur, and don’t think I’ve ever had one this good.”

You see the problem. It was only a whitish lie, but there never seems to be a good time afterward to set the record straight on these matters without running additional risks.  In theory, I suppose I should have been able to admit to Mrs. Banks the next day that I’d spent most of the prior evening lying through my teeth to her parents. But in practice, I couldn’t quite summon the nerve. And so the myth was born that my favorite meal in the whole world is Mrs. Banks mother’s damn boneless beef rump with carrots and onions, braised half to death in chianti. I get it every birthday. I get it every anniversary. There was even some talk that we have it on Thanksgiving, too, as an add-on to the turkey, before I put my foot down. “I don’t think the Pilgrims ate beef, for religious reasons,” is how I think I was able to end the discussion.

I can’t be the only husband in this predicament, though; suitors were saying dumb things at the dinner table long before I came along. And now that I think of it, matters could be worse. Somewhere out in America, I bet some poor schlub has to face, say, lima bean casserole every year on his birthday, or roast Spam surprise, all because of some foolish dinnertime remark he made years ago in the hopes of scoring some points. Next to meals like that, what I’ve been dining on is actually pretty darn good.

Nor (now that I think about it some more) can I deny that this particular meal has grown on me over time. For one thing, Mrs. Banks is one of those cooks who could turn an Air Jordan into something tasty if you give her enough time to plan and prepare. And anything you can slather with horseradish can’t be all bad. So on second thought, I’ll keep quiet. Thinking back on our family dinners through the years, with loved ones gathered around the table and laughter in the air, pot roast or not I can honestly say I haven’t had a bad meal yet. So pass the horseradish; let’s eat.

Follow @BanksConrad.

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