Let There Be...Meatloaf!

I love meatloaf—not the early 80s arena rocker—but the other one, that much maligned all-American dish. How many times did we hear the refrain in all those family sitcoms from the Fifties through the Seventies, in which one or more children are heard moaning: “Oh no! Not meatloaf…again!” But I think the hatred for meatloaf is urban legend; a falsehood; a conspiracy by the Broccoli Growers Association. Kids really like meatloaf. Why? Because it tastes damn good and it has ketchup in it; that’s why!

I grew up on meatloaf. And now that I’m a parent, I know why. It’s kid-friendly, inexpensive, and easy to make. It also makes great leftovers. Meatloaf sandwich anyone? (My mom packed meatloaf sandwiches in my Space 1999 lunchbox on more than one occasion.)

Perhaps I need to tamper my enthusiasm. I must admit that meatloaf does have an image problem. As Rebecca Orchant of The Huffington Post noted, “[t]he problem with meatloaf is that even if it tastes great, it rarely looks great.” So true. 

Yet no matter how it looks, nothing says comfort food like meatloaf. And like any great comfort food, there are a million-and-one ways to prepare it. Meatloaf can be as humble or as haughty as one’s imagination will make it.  No matter what, for me there is no compromise when it comes to the ketchup. It must be Heinz!

What goes well with meatloaf? Of course, any kind of starch will do. I like egg noodles with lots of black pepper and butter, but when I was a kid, the best, the absolute best, was mashed potatoes. Just imagine. It’s a cold winter’s night, and you’ve finished your homework early, so you can watch the latest episode of Mork & Mindy or Battlestar Galactica (the old one without the hot blond Cylon). You casually ask your mom “what’s for dinner?,” trying vainly to mask the trepidation in your voice—God, please don’t let it be liver and onions; I promise I’ll be nice to my little sister—and, after what seems like an interminable pause: meatloaf. Score!

So the next time you think of meatloaf as a pedestrian, passé dish, reconsider; just try it.  It’s the ultimate great comfort food, and full of nostalgic memories, even if you don’t pack it in your vintage Partridge Family lunchbox these days.

Here’s the Insouciant Chef’s Meatloaf Recipe:

Classic Meatloaf

Ingredients

1 1/2 pound ground chuck
1 medium onion, finely chopped
1 medium green bell pepper, finely chopped
1 garlic clove, minced
1 cup of bread crumbs (this keeps the meatloaf from being too greasy)
2/3 cup of ketchup (plus 2 tablespoons for topping)
2 extra large eggs (or three large eggs)
2/3 cup of chopped parsley
1 teaspoon of dried thyme
2 teaspoons of ancho chili powder
2 teaspoons of kosher salt
1 teaspoon of cracked black pepper

Preparation

Knead all the ingredients in a large bowl with your hands  (don’t whimp out and use some kind of spoon). Take this glorious mass and put in a loaf pan (hence the name “meatloaf”). Take about 2 tablespoons of ketchup and spread evenly over the top. Put the loaf pan on a baking sheet and place in an oven at 350 degrees for about an hour or until the sides have pulled away from the pan or a thermometer in the center reads 160 degrees. Let it rest for 15 minutes; serve; enjoy. 

Sunday Supper

“Every tribe has an ancestral food that its exiles yearn for, and that its children can’t live without.”

—Judith Thurman

It’s Sunday evening as I write this. An early, overcast, autumn Sunday when the lights come on a bit earlier. The dreariness of the day is emphasized by the strident contrast of the previous one—warm and bright and sunny. I’m not particularly fond of Sunday evenings. They arrive packed with melancholy and anxiety. It’s not surprising that Morrissey sang about a seaside resort town whose days are behind her and croons, “every day is like Sunday.” 

I’m likely too harsh on Sunday. The day is not all bad, at least not all of it. There’s coffee and the Sunday paper in the morning. (Along with vinyl, I insist on a real newspaper on Sunday morning—analog is not dead yet!) There’s brunch. Who can argue with Eggs Benedict and a well-crafted Bloody Mary? Booze before noon! Of course, there’s Easter, probably the best Sunday in the world if you are a child or the parent of a child. And every now and then Christmas falls on a Sunday. 

Sundays, when I was younger—like many things—were decidedly more upbeat. It was the 1980s. I was a teenager living in the D.C. suburbs and a Redskins fan. Sundays typically came with a beat down of the Eagles or the Giants by the notorious “Hogs.” It also meant Sunday supper, which in the South is not the same thing as “dinner.” Supper is something later than lunch but earlier than dinner. And thankfully my mom graciously planned it so it didn’t interfere with the Redskins game, whether it came on at 1:00 p.m. or 4:00 p.m. My preferred time for Redskins games was 1:00 p.m., so there would be plenty to talk about at supper, win or loss.

Sunday supper took on many forms. Virginia ham and green beans; roast chicken with white rice and gravy and green peas (my favorite); pot roast with potatoes and carrots; beef stroganoff with egg noodles; meatloaf and mashed potatoes; and, of course, fried chicken with potato salad. All staples I love today. And just to keep my Proustian memories in check, there were some dropped passes for this teenager: Brussels sprouts, spinach, beets, and cabbage, just to name a few. I will add, however, that these are all some of my favorite vegetables today. 

Sunday supper is as rare today as an episode of Miami Vice (another 1980s staple). We seem too busy; too atomized; too lazy. I’m guilty as charged. That’s a shame. 

As I polish this up for publication on a Monday evening, I realize that it’s October 15, 2018, eleven years since my mom died. I forgot. The guilt is palpable, but I’m going to be positive. I’m now at the point that I will remember her life more than her death. I will remember her virtues. I will remember her faults. But most importantly, I will remember her Sunday suppers.