I really should pay closer attention when doing my menu planning.
For the last couple of weeks, I’ve been hankering after a dish my mother used to prepare for us growing up: Welsh Rarebit. I remembered tangy cheesy, saucy little points of buttery toast topped with crisp little wisps of salty savory bacon. Oh my! Such exotic fare in the midst of my Fluffernutter youth. Yes, I staunchly decided, my children needed to be exposed to the sophistication that is Welsh Rarebit. So I scanned my cookbooks, found a likely recipe and put it on the calendar for the next Thursday evening. But that Thursday afternoon as I was assembling my ingredients and looking a bit more closely at the actual … yanno recipe, I had a realization. Welsh Rarebit calls for beer.
You know, the alcoholic beverage?
Casting my mind back, I could clearly remember my mother, opening one of my father’s little brown glass bottles of Budweiser ale and pouring it into a saucepan on the top of her avocado green Hotpoint range. And while beer was a ready commodity for my Episcopalian mother, exactly how in tarnation does a chubby little headcovering, dress wearing Baptist gal such as myself obtain a can of beer?? I did what any godly woman of the new millennium would do: posted a status update on Facebook. Like a boss. And sixty-some-odd helpful responses later, little Bethany solved my dilemma by offering to pick me up a can at the convenience store and drop it off at my house.
She’s not a Baptist anymore so it’s okay. Mmhmm.
So I made the Rarebit and served it alongside a fresh light salad of spinach and oranges when we had a nice young missionary couple to dinner last night.
Oh Facebook, I couldn’t’ve done it without you.