An open letter to my Grandson:
Dear Grandson, now that you are an older person and a lot wiser, your Grandfather has something to tell you about that gray haired Grandmotherly lady feeding you strained prunes. Do not believe her outwardly gentle appearance, as she is actually a sadomasochistic person who has inflicted cruel and unusual punishment on her own children. It is still going on to this day.
Beware if she mentions meatloaf (not the Rock Group), especially on Tuesday. Run and hide! There was a time when your Grandfather, Mommy and Uncle were subjected to dine on frozen square hockey-pucks every Tuesday-night. Your Grandmother was at night school, so we had to eat this terrible stuff.
There was the thawing-out/defrosting, of the freezer package which could be accomplished by; 1) taking it from the freezer in the morning, 2) five minutes in the microwave (nuking), 3) 10 minutes in the oven/toaster oven, or 4) 20 minutes sitting on the forced hot water baseboard heat register (just like a steam table). The latter technique was employed during frequent power failures while we resided in New England. There were other means too ominous to mention. Cooking was just an afterthought at this point and we ravenously gobbled down the meatloaf "tartar." Your Grandmother got her degree in Computer Science and we all got heartburn.
So when the dreaded word "meatloaf" is mentioned for dinner on Tuesday and your Grandfather, Mommy and Uncle tremble, you now know why. Eat your prunes, or are they prunes?