So I'm madly trying to dry my hair because in 22 minutes I'm supposed to be in church, seated at the organ playing quiet prelude for my 95-year-old neighbor's funeral. Hence, it's up to my kitchen-challenged husband to make the funeral potatoes, which must be cooking during the funeral because they're feeding something like 200 close friends and relatives after the funeral.
Imagine my surprise when my husband has no clue how to make funeral potatoes! What? How could you live with me 35 years without somehow picking up on this staple?
"How hard can it be?" I yell.
My hair, of course, is not co-operating and by now it's crunch time. I will my wet hair to dry but willing it dry doesn't work. If poor Velma lived all these years to finally die at last, the least I could do is show up on time to start her prelude. "Velma!" I talk to myself. "Start your funeral later. I'm never going to make it."
Continuing my conversation with myself, I say, "Calm down, get a grip." Husband is hollering something over the blow dryer. You've got to give him credit. He keeps trying.
"Do you need a big can of cream of mushroom or a little can?"
"Whatever we've got, big, little, I don't care, my gosh, it's just funeral potatoes," I yell back. "Honey, just throw it all in the bowl and mix in those frozen hash browns."
I hear cupboards banging, drawers closing, the can opener humming.
Another question floats over the roar of my hair dryer. Sweat is pouring off my face. Stupid 100 degrees. Stupid swamp cooler. But what is husband saying?
"Do you want a can of cream of celery too?"
"Yes, yes, cream of celery, good choice, pour it in! And get that sour cream out of the fridge."
"You need sour cream too?"
Exasperated, I switch off the blow dryer and storm into the kitchen.
"Yes, yes, sour cream, soup, milk" ("Milk?" he asks.) "Yes, milk, and stir it all together. Throw in some grated cheese. Put it in the oven, we've got to go. Velma is waiting! Don't forget the tinfoil. And make sure the pan looks very neat."
My hair still damp, I grab some earrings and my hymn book and lunge down the stairs with husband following close behind.
Switch to funeral mode. Stand in line for the viewing, hug the mourners, sign the book, and zoom (reverently) for the organ. Husband stands about shaking hands with people, while I set the stops and hope I've chosen some hymns Velma would like.
I realize too late the family is planning on me to accompany the two special numbers, but we somehow make it through each song with no major mishaps.
Immediately everyone starts talking, and I step it up louder. (There's really no way to describe the feeling of hearing sacred hymns blasting from the organ to out-noise the crowd) and the last straggler's looking for the cultural hall where dinner will be served.
Suddenly I remember the funeral potatoes! We rush from the building, jump in our car and screech around the corner. We remove the tin foil, sprinkle on more cheese, pop it back in for a couple minutes and add the crowning glory touch that would make Velma weep. Crunchy onions!
We grab the pan and rush back to the church, bursting through the kitchen door just in time for the kitchen crew to seize the pan and rush it to the serving line. Hooray!
The family members dig in and Velma's daughter says to me, "Oh, we just love your funeral potatoes. They're the best! You are such a great cook."
"Thank you," I humbly reply and turn to my husband to give him the first smile he's seen on my face today.
"Way to cook, honey! You're the king of funeral potatoes!"