There’s an old saying, “The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”  Maybe you don’t hear it so much today, but I heard it a lot when I was growing up.  It implied that in order to make a man happy, you had to be a good cook!
Apparently, I took this to heart, because my husband and I are both overweight.  I’m not saying that I’m another Martha Stewart in the kitchen, but the meals I make have kept my husband happy and satisfied for over thirty-nine years.
          I don’t remember learning much about cooking from my mother.  I helped by peeling potatoes, cleaning vegetables, and washing dishes.  The meals Mom prepared were nutritious, tasty, and plentiful.  She made everything ‘from scratch’, including bread.  Vegetables came from our own garden, and we raised chickens.  Dad was a hunter and fisherman, so wild game and fresh fish were always plentiful.
           After I was married, I wanted to show my husband that I was a good cook.  One of the things I brought with me to our new home was a Betty Crocker cookbook.  It was the 1960 version, the one that doesn’t mention any mixes!  My high school Home Economics teacher ordered one for each of us in the class.  She said it would help us become good cooks.  I almost wore that book out, looking for new recipes to try. 
            My husband told me often what a good cook his mother had been.  With a far-away look in his eyes, he would describe her chicken and dumplings.  “She would cut up a whole chicken, put it in a big pot with potatoes, onions, carrots, celery, water, and let it simmer all day.   Just before supper, she would mix up the dumpling dough and drop it into the pot.  Man, I can still taste that!”  I swear a small trail of drool would leak from the corner of his mouth as he described this heavenly meal.
          The time came when I simply had to try chicken and dumplings.  Out came the Betty Crocker cookbook.  Yes!  There was an actual recipe for it!  I was in luck!  I cut up vegetables and chicken, added spices and simmered that mixture all afternoon.  Then just before supper, I mixed up the dumpling dough according to Betty’s instructions.  I dropped spoonfuls of the sticky stuff into the bubbling pot.  My family was at the table, my husband smiling from ear to ear.  “Sure smells good, honey!”
           After bringing the big bowl to the table, I crossed my fingers.  Would it meet his mother’s standards?  We bowed our heads as our son said Grace, I silently asked that my chicken and dumplings would meet my husband’s standards. Then everyone helped themselves to portions of the golden mixture.  The moment of truth had arrived.  I picked up my fork and cut into a dumpling.  It was stiff, sticky, and dense.  My heart fell.  I was a failure.  This was not how dumplings should be!  Betty said they should be light and fluffy!  I looked over at my husband, ready to apologize for my terrible meal.  His mouth was full and as he chewed, his eyes were closed.  He swallowed, sighed, and then looked at me with a huge smile on his face.  “Honey, this is wonderful, just like Ma used to make!”
           Since that first attempt, I have learned how to make good dumplings.  My husband now talks about the wonderful chicken and dumplings that I make!