Sorry Mom, You Suck at Cooking

Once in a blue moon we’ll exit a brunch establishment wishing we had never gone. Although it’s always somewhat rewarding to paint the perfect picture surrounding a restaurant’s menu and atmosphere, sometimes you just have to be brutally honest.  

Let’s face it, we aren’t picky eaters and most of the time we are in fact thrilled with brunch. Even if the food is bland or has a curly black hair in it you can still wow us with large quantities, a cheap bill, booze, fully stacked waitresses, or endless dipping sauces of sausage gravy, honey mustard, and spicy mayo (not served in one setting).

Today, we’re going to Mom’s. No, not my mom’s. We are going to Mom’s Place on Dale Mabry.

Most children don’t have the nerve to tell their mother they suck at cooking. My brother is actually not one of those children. Although I’d never label him as a picky eater, he’s never shied away from saying food is “crap.” I’d like to make something very clear. Mainly because my mother is a reader of the Sunday Meatball Chronicles. My mother by no means sucks at cooking. She’s Italian and simply focuses on those foods. She makes chicken parm, eggplant parm, meatballs, sausages, lasagna, stuffed shells, and other saucy high carb items that are to die for.

There are always two or more versions to every story but my brother is a very honest kid so I’d like to go with his version. Just a few years ago my mom attempted to slip an absolutely ridiculous meal by my brother, in hopes that pure hunger or the desire to grow even taller would result in him eating it.

Not so lucky. When my mother presented her delicacy to the king of the castle he simple refused to accept it. Why? Well, apparently some adults are truly offended by Kraft macaroni and cheese covered in chopped up hot dogs. As the loving child I never would have turned down a meal under your roof Ma, but it all seriousness I have to ask you, what in the hell were you thinking?

As we enter Mom’s Place I decide to first scope out the bathroom. There is no changing table so a mom (hopefully not the “mom” who’s cooking in this place) is changing her baby’s poo ass on the counter next to the sink. The baby is just as upset about this scenario as I would normally be but lately my baby fever is so hot I welcome the opportunity to attempt disgusting me, so long as there is a baby involved.

As I was washing my hands the baby’s abrupt thrust sends its tiny head falling into the sink. I catch the baby’s head in my hand without skipping a beat and hand it back to its tiny body in hopes the human neck functions like a Slinky. The crap covered mom says thank you, I say no problem, and exit. It’s not until retelling this story to Ryan that I realize the interaction to have just occurred in the bathroom is anything but normal. Did I “save” that baby’s head from being baptized in an unkempt public restroom sink, or did I take it a step further and save its tiny neck from breaking? Either way, I’m thrilled to have been a part of it.

We’re seated and 8 or 9 sips into our mediocre coffee when Ryan begins strategically arranging the menu and other items on the table for Mom’s first photo.

Dumbfounded Waitress: Are you okay over there sir?
Ryan: I am doing just great. How are you today?
Dumbfounded Waitress: Okay. Are you done taking pictures?
Ryan: For now.

When Ryan’s not thrilled with someone’s attitude or unnecessary questions he has a way of sternly addressing them that turns me on. He never has to be rude; in fact sometimes his words are actually kind. But his tone alone will make you want to start your day over.

We order. Ryan gets some creole omelette with crab, Old Bay, and a few other surprises with a side of biscuits and gravy.  I get the roast beef and cheese omelette. It doesn’t take long for our food to arrive.

Scorched eggs with little to no trace of meat. What is this, roast beef for ants!?!?  I do what I do in any emergency situation – turn the omelette into a breakfast sandwich. Maybe bread and condiments will save it. I cut the omelette in half and make one monster sandwich between my side of toast. Nope. Still sucks. Maybe I’ll milk my husband for a bite of his – how is yours over there?  

“Scorched eggs, imitation krab, salsa. Yuck.”  I don’t dare ask him about the biscuit seeing as it’s covered in white gravy with a chopped up sausage link – Hm. Looks like Ma’s hot dog delicacy.  

Let’s get out of here; this wasn’t worth the trip at all. Home Depot is down the street, can we please go buy a hybrid cactus so I can leave North Dale Mabry with something to brag about?  As we head out the door I recall that I’m incredibly talented when it comes to appearing pregnant in public. Somehow, I am capable of sticking my gut out far beyond my waistline and oddly enough I’ve never shit myself in the process. I pose for a “pregnant mom picture” directly in front of Mom’s sign and strangers smile.   Ryan snaps a picture and we’re off.

So, back to children not having the balls to tell their mother they suck at cooking. If you fail to do this, or at least hint at it, your mother may end up opening her own establishment like Mom’s Place.  Directly next to Mom’s is Pop N’ Sons – Is this the same family? Was mom so bad that her own family turned against her and opened a separate establishment? What a tragedy; but let that be your lesson kiddos.  

Speaking of tragedies: We are incredibly saddened to inform you that due to a technology meltdown we have lost all food pictures from Mom’s. No food, no pregnant moms.  The following images have been stolen from other’s adventures.