Open letter to Betty Crocker:
 Dear Betty,
 Hope all is well. Just wanted to drop you a quick line to let you know that you’ve failed me, yet again, and that absolutely nothing in your “Quick and Easy 30 Minute Dinners†is quick, easy or do-able in a 30-minute time frame.
 Your ranch-style chicken, quite frankly, left something to be desired. It didn’t taste like ranch (despite the sheer volume of ranch salad dressing involved – don’t tell me you don’t own shares in Kraft, lady), nor does it meet your preqrequisite of being ready in 30 minutes. In fact, this meal actually took 58 minutes to complete, at the end of which I had cried twice, smoked the house out completely, and consumed half a bottle of Chardonnay. Note to the editors: start adding a good bottle of plonk to the necessary ingredients to complete your recipes; the women who try to complete them will most certainly need it.
That said, I am not writing this letter to let you know that I am discontinuing use of your cookbook all together (especially now that it’s in the trash beneath seven pounds of half-baked ranch style chicken breasts). Nor am I writing this letter to inform you that my husband does NOT look like the statisfied man on your book’s cover (especially now that he’s seen the photogaph of what could have been, and questioned whether I even breaded the chicken at all). No, no. Not me. I’m simply writing to let you know that you can stop preaching your “anyone can cook†attitude because quite frankly, you and I both know that’s not true. Having now accepted this fact, as of 7:07 p.m. this evening, I can officially add to this note the interesting development that did emerge from this little experiment: I may not cook, but I know longer give a shit.
 That’s right, Betty. I don’t care. Yes, I realize I have $35,000 worth of small Kitchenaid appliances stashed behind beautiful, hand-made cabinetry my contractor assured me would give the allure of a real “chef’s kitchenâ€. Yes, I realize that my mother and father will never be able to turn to any of their friends, lean in indulgently and with a beaming smile of pride whisper “Our Amanda is simply a wonderful cook.†And yes, I realize that giving up all together means we will likely eat enough cereal over the next few decades to shift the market research done by the likes of Honey Nut Cheerios and Special K. But I still don’t give a shit.
Because good dinner parties aren’t about food. They’re about having the kind of people around your table that couldn’t care less what you’re eating, so long as there is a decent glass of wine handy, and a chair beneath their bum. And even at that – the chairs are optional. Some of the best dinner parties I’ve been to have taken place around a fondu pot, with the four of us each holding our own bottle of red in our own lap, legs crossed beneath us directly on the carpet (you know who you are).
All that said, Betty, please accept my sincere thanks for making the effort to help gals like me become women like you. Please understand that there may be converts out there for you yet, and that I’m not likely to be the norm. And perhaps most importantly, please send my regards to Mr. Crocker. Tell him I wish him well in life, and that I hope he’s really appreciated all the warm cooked meals you’ve put in front of him over the years – and I hope he realizes what kind of luck he’s had in this life. As for Mr. Crombie, the poor soul is still downstairs trying to scrape the ranch dressing off the ceiling (don’t ask), and the smile has never left his face. The man still doesn’t realize what he’s gotten himself into.
Best regards Bet; no hard feelings.
Amanda
