Supper on a Slice

For Nathan and Justine on the occasion of their wedding, June 28, 2011

Scott and I were much like you, Nathan and Justine, when we married—our missions had brought us together, we faced many years of school and presumed poverty, we lived our first few months of married life in a tiny basement apartment (although your bathroom is far more suitable—ours had falling tile in the shower), and we were both working—Scott even taught at Missionary Training Center just like Nathan.  Most importantly, like you, we were also madly in love.

Seeking to be the ever-provident wife, I had insisted upon a food storage bridal shower a few weeks before our marriage. Thankfully, most of my guests did not all bring wheat. At my host’s request, each guest also brought a favorite recipe. So I began married life with a sheaf of hand written recipes on index cards neatly filed in a cute little tole painted recipe box and a narrow galley kitchen with the most hideous red carpet.

Those first few months of marriage we were very, very busy. And those first few months I also discovered that my husband was also very, very cheap—he had calculated the actual cost per gallon of a carton of milk that could be purchased at the Cougareat and refused on principle to buy any milk there, despite the fact that he loved milk. He was so penurious, I felt guilty even so much as purchasing a candy bar. Needless to say, we brown bagged our lunches and most evenings we cooked dinner at home. It was the rare occasion that we splurged at the Cougareat getting a salad at the salad bar (the true art to maximizing the yield was edging one’s salad bowl with cucumbers) or a combo 2—enchiladas, rice, beans and salad. So when I looked at the recipe from Gwen McMullin, one of my mother’s best friends, I knew I had a winner. Supper on a Slice—it was easy, quick, cheap.

Supper on a Slice is sort of like a layer of meatloaf spread across a loaf of French bread sliced lengthwise. The bread crisps in the oven as the meat conglomerate bakes. Scott and I were meatloaf kind of people and we heartily devoured Supper on a Slice the first time I made it. And the leftovers wrapped up nicely for lunch the next day. So easy, so quick, so cheap. Perfect for the modern Mormon bride with aspirations of doing it all. Supper on a Slice became a staple of the newlywed Stornetta household.

There will come a time in your honeymoon cottage when you suddenly realize you are no longer playing house. You will still be blissfully happy, most of the time, but the reality of the demands of daily life plays havoc with eternal aspirations. Dirty socks and dirty dishes, burnt meals, tight budgets and toilet seats that seem permanently locked in the up position suddenly loom a little larger than ever before.

More than a few weeks into our marriage and the new semester, that reality hit me. I was severely sleep deprived because I had great difficulty navigating the lumps in our second-hand mattress. The tiles kept falling each day as I showered. And I was struggling a bit in school—Middle English just did not seem to come to me naturally. So I was a little weary as I sat down one Saturday to prepare a grocery list for the coming week. As was my habit, I asked Scott what he wanted to eat during the coming week. My request was and still is more of a courtesy. In twenty-eight years of marriage he has rarely replied. Thinking about what to eat is not part of his realm of thought. This Saturday, however, was atypical.

“May I speak frankly?” he answered hesitantly, returning my question with one of his own.

Oh, no, I thought. There is something serious on his mind. I guess the groceries can wait.

“Yes,” I replied with trepidation, not knowing what to expect.

“It’s just that . . .”

“Yes . . . ” I encouraged him on, wary, worried about what he found so difficult to share. What had I done?

“It’s just that . . .”

My weary mind snapped into gear as I reviewed my actions of the past few weeks. What grievous wrong had I committed?

“It’s just that . . .  "

"Yes," I slowly replied, my tone belying my panic. Would our marriage survive, I wondered. I tried to remain outwardly calm amidst the maelstrom of my feelings.

“It’s just that if I have to eat Supper on a Slice one more time, I think I will die,” he blurted out.

“That’s it?”

“Yes,” he replied, a weight lifted from his shoulders. We both gave a collective sigh of relief.

I wasn’t sure if I could laugh. I did not want to offend my husband. As I looked at him, I thought of my father. At the outbreak of World War II, he was serving a mission in Washington and Oregon. For many, many months, he and his companion ate meals of only rice and beans in order to economize. After his mission, my father refused to eat either again. (His losing fifteen pounds on a trip to China is testament to that.) As a child, I did not know my father liked neither rice nor beans. My mother just did not serve either. Of course, she also did not serve spaghetti, tacos or pizza, staples of my generation. My dad was a meat and potatoes kind of guy.

When I found out about my father’s imposed rice ban, probably just after my mission spent eating rice in Japan, I asked my mother how she was able to get my father to eat her Chinese noodle and hamburger casserole. It was a family favorite and a staple widely circulated in ward Relief Society cookbooks during the sixties. It had rice in it and for that matter, soy sauce, a rather exotic ingredient for middle America at the time.

“Well, I just made it. I assumed because it was in a casserole, your father would not mind as much. And he never really said anything, so I just kept making it and you kids seemed to like it so much. One day, however, I found out how much he really hated it. He had been suffering in silence for years. So I stopped making it.”

How many weeks had Scott been struggling to swallow each bite of Supper on a Slice, I wondered. Had he ever really liked it?

From that day forth, Supper on a Slice was banished from the Stornetta household. I have not made it since. Although my curious children, who have heard the tale of its banishment, have begged me to make it, I have not. It makes a far better story than a supper.

So I bequeath to you a copy of the recipe for Supper on a Slice, not because I expect that the two of you will ever make it, although curiosity might get the better of you. But I do expect this bit of family lore to serve as a reminder in your early days of marriage. May you respectfully and freely speak your minds. May you not suffer trivial matters in silence. May you have the courage to share feelings that might be difficult to share. And may you banish from your household that which most troubles your spouse.

Supper on a Slice

2/3 cup evaporated milk 1 1/2 pounds ground chuck 1/2 cup cracker crumbs 1 egg 1/2 cup onion, chopped 2 teaspoons mustard 2 teaspoons Worcestershire sauce 1/2 teaspoon pepper 1 ½ teaspoons salt 1 teaspoon Accent 1-2 cups shredded cheese (Cheddar and Monterey jack) 1 loaf French or Italian bread	Combine the ingredients well. If you like you may reserve some of the cheese to top the mixture. Place foil on a cookie sheet. Cut the loaf in half lengthwise. Place the bread slices on top of the foil. Crush the foil around the sides of the bread, but do not cover the top. Spread the mixture on the cut sides of the bread. Sprinkle with reserved cheese if desired.
Bake at 325 degrees for 45 minutes. Cut the bread into 2 to 3-inch pieces to serve. .

Lost and Found

Today we discussed the three parables on redemption: the Parable of the Lost Sheep, the Parable of the Lost Coin and the Parable of the Lost or Prodigal Son (Some have suggested the parable would be better named the Parable of the Compassionate Father. I agree--both sons are in some sense lost and both seem to be reclaimed by a compassionate and loving father.)

Activities: I started out with a rather fun activity that was perhaps a bit too noisy for the class meeting on the stage. Before class, I took some gold and silver coins, play tender, of course, and hid them around the ward gym.  I asked the students to find them. (If it had not been fast Sunday, I would have used chocolate coins, which would have increased the energy level of the class, both before and after the search.) We avoided turning on the lights in the gym, relying on the bit of light from the skylights, so the darkness help conveyed the difficulty the woman had in finding her coins.

Anyway, my students identified with the searching, finding, and rejoicing of the woman.

Class Goodies:
The Ring: Because it was Fast Sunday, there were no goodies today. Instead I brought some cheap rings from Party City to represent the ring that the father gave his prodigal son. The rings were nice and sparkly and we talked about how the ring was a signet that symbolized the authority and heritage of the father and the son. Had I thought ahead, I would have bought some CTR rings while I was in Utah last week. They might have more aptly conveyed a sense of a royal heritage. Alas, not thinking well enough ahead.

While at Party City, I did pick up some ring pops. I intend to use them next week to review. I have always found it helpful to use the symbols a second time to see if my students can remember a week later what we talked about. (Sometimes when I ask my class what we talked about last week, one student will first remember what we ate and then use it to clue him into what our theme had been.)

The Fatted Calf: Of course, I had forgotten it was Fast Sunday until Friday evening. So I spent the past two weeks thinking up an appropriate feast for my class. There were many possibilities. First, I thought about a fatted calf. I was thinking about Beef Shish Kabobs to represent the fatted calf. Nathan pooh-poohed the idea. He didn't think it really represented a fatted calf. Not enough fat, and he felt small pieces of meat did not adequately convey the sense of an entire calf roasted for a celebration.

Point well taken, so I thought of other ways to represent the fatted calf. I thought of a bacon-wrapped roast or filet mignon. Too much work for a Sunday morning, so I abandoned the fatted calf idea. Ring pops sounded like a much easier feat.

Shepherd's Pie or Sheepherder's Bread: I also considered each of these to get us into the mindset of the Shepherd. While we hearkened back to our discussion of shepherds from a few weeks before, I decided to focus more on the other two parables.


Coin Cake: I think I probably would have gone with a tradition from my childhood. My mother used to bake us coin cakes for our birthdays. She would wrap pennies, nickels, a few dimes and one quarter in foil and then drop them into the batter of an angel food cake. She then frosted the cake with chocolate frosting. There was enough money in each cake for all of us to get something. Nonetheless we all hoped for the quarter. Some of my nieces and nephews became so obsessed with finding money, they would eat or at least pick through three or four pieces of cake, necessitating my mother's baking at least two cakes for every birthday.

I am not quite sure where my mother got this tradition, but it is similar to the King Cakes of many European traditions at epiphany and of Louisiana at Mardi Gras. Anyway, I think the cake would have conveyed aspects of the parable--searching for hidden coins, and the delighting and sharing the discovery of coins.