To the best of my recollection, I ate well growing up. What I mean to tell you is that my mother was (and is) a good cook and I can recall that she cooked dinner every night for us, eventually forcing me to learn how to cook dinner too. Every Sunday we had Sunday dinner, mostly a pot roast, always a bit stringy swirling in colorful gravy. (This gravy was colorful because besides being a good cook my Mother also has her own ideas of what food should look like and that usually involved and still does an odd assortment of food dyes, yellow and red being her favorites, and in this case yellow #6 added to the roasty roux.) Despite that one little idiosyncrasy, every meal had yummy, creamy mashed potatoes with flecks of black pepper or maybe corn off the cob, lovingly sliced, the corn milk expressed from the cob with the flat of a knife making creamed corn
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