The Chef is in

Mark is an adventurous eater, and will try almost anything. Which, as his mom, I love, but as his cook, I hate. Each time he eats something wonderful and exclaims, "Mom, you should make this!" I nod, and say I will. But we both know my version will not be nearly as tasty.

However, he finally picked a recipe I could not only replicate, but I could improve. That was the good news. The bad news is that he requested something I not only refused to make, but am vehemently against in the first place.

"Mom, will you buy me some Uncrustables?" he begged, last time we went grocery shopping.

"Some what?" I asked.

He dragged me to the frozen food section.

"Uncrustables!" he shouted, pointing to--I kid you not--a box of frozen peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

And true to their name, the crusts had been cut off, leaving rounded, UFO-shaped white-bread sandwiches.

I stared at Mark. "Seriously?" I asked.

I'm not sure if he'd finally lowered his standards to my skill level, or if he...gulp...really just wanted some crappy PB&Js. I'm guessing it was the latter.

Seeing those frozen sandwiches brought back painful childhood memories. My own mom went through a time-saving phase for lunches, pre-making and freezing PB&Js and cheese sandwiches. She'd pop them in to our lunches to defrost by noon, but they never did, instead turning to soggy, mushy messes. (Surprising that my brothers and I all refuse to make sack lunches to this day!)

Anyway, I shuddered at the memory, but then I felt bad for the kid--he wasn't asking for much. So the next morning, I did what any good-intentioned mother would do...I made Mark my own version of an Uncrustable. (I made him a pair!)




They came out pretty well. I used wheat bread instead of the processed white stuff, and cut them out using a round glass. The edges weren't scalloped like the name-brand Uncrustables, but other than that, they were pretty close facsimiles.

I bagged the sandwiches and sent Mark to school. When he returned, I asked him how he liked his Uncrustable.

"It was good!" he said. "Except..."

"Except what?" I asked.

"It needs to be more...cold," he told me. "Like it just came out of the freezer."

I smiled, then responded by smacking him on the head.

I may not be a great cook, but even I have a shred of dignity and pride. If I'm gonna win a cooking beat-down, I want to lose to the Iron Chef, or a Top Chef--not to Smuckers!