She sends her pizza delivery man a Christmas card, she never looks at a menu at Frisch’s, and her kitchen is only for resale value.
Her used stove is brand new.
But once a year — when her husband, her son and daughter-in-law, her daughter and son-in-law, and her four grandchildren gather for Christmas — Debbie dusts off her apron, fumbles through her recipe card file, and shocks them with a home-cooked meal.
She’s like Santa. She delivers but once a year.
Last week, Debbie, 57, with a special chicken breast recipe a friend suggested in hand, went to Walmart to purchase the ingredients for her annual Christmas meal.
When she walked into the grocery section, she looked out of place — like Tom Brady in a toupee parlor.
An employee, who could see the confusion on Debbie’s face, asked: “May I help you?”
For the next hour or so, the woman Debbie called her “personal shopper,” filled Debbie’s cart with groceries.
Debbie prepared the meal for her family last week. By all reports, the meal was delicious. She did good.
But, since it’s Debbie, the story can’t end here. What fun would that be, right?
As Debbie dished out her chicken breasts — covered with cranberry sauce and Russian dressing — when she came to the last two plates, there were no more breasts.
There were 10 people at the dinner table, and eight breasts.
Finally, someone asked Debbie why she cooked eight breasts instead of, say, 10.
“The recipe only called for eight breasts,” she said. “It never dawned on me.”
In Debbie’s world, that makes perfect sense.
Later that night, Debbie’s children and grandchildren said they were still hungry. They wanted a pizza.
Debbie handled that task.
Without a recipe.
This is our Debbie...Grandma...Mother...Mother-in-law!
