Not all meatloafs are created equal

As newly minted teenagers, neither my brother nor I knew how to cook much beyond a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. So my dad, finding himself in the kitchen for something beyond a cup of coffee, was thrust into figuring out how to feed a couple of stinky, hungry boys.

My mom, God bless her, gave cooking her best shot. Culinary peaks arrived around the holidays, but the standard fare was pasta, a few stews and fish sticks gracing our Monday-through-Friday table. In all fairness, she grew up in the Highlands of Scotland, whose traditional food is never included in global culinary conversations. Haggis — look it up, and you will understand.

But back to a house with three males, none of whom could cook.

My dad did his best. At one point, I thought we owned stock in Hamburger Helper, our shelves filled with endless mixes. And then lunch-meat sandwiches — why not for dinner? I think our oven died a quiet death of abandonment.

Then, one day, my dad showed up with a new invention — a microwave oven.

As large as a portable generator, the chrome-gleaming monstrosity occupied nearly one-third of the counter space in our kitchen. And while I’m not sure, it seems as if the lights dimmed when we pushed the start button.

Tucked inside the cavernous cooking space was an eight-page cookbook. Sitting at the kitchen table, we thumbed through the black-and-white pages. Soups, scrambled eggs and — lo and behold — meatloaf. Somewhere in the distance, I thought I heard an angel get its wings.

Meatloaf was a comfort food in more ways than one, more a peek back into a time when Mom would be cooking away in the kitchen.

So, my dad bit. Meatloaf became the comma between our endless diet of Hamburger Helper.

The meatloaf was warm and filled our bottomless teenage tummies. While the loaf was lifeless and as gray as a Midwest winter sky, we dipped the rigid pieces into ketchup ponds on our plates.

But, regardless, we all agreed microwave meatloaf was progress.

A few years later, I met my one-day-to-be wife. One night, she served up a meatloaf, which stopped my fork mid-air. The meat was not battleship gray, and the texture did not require a knife to cut. And spread across the top was a red layer of tasty paste complementing the moist layer below.

Apparently, microwave meatloaf, which required ample amounts of ketchup to eat, was not the kitchen breakthrough my dad and brother thought.

Today, I eat meatloaf with a renewed sense of excitement. Moist, tender and filled with hints of flavors and spices absent from my dad’s recipe.

Dad, I tip my fork to you — you did your best. Thank you.