The Great Pot Pie Overeat of 1983, or, Why I Hate Chicken Pot Pie: A Cautionary Tale

[unixknight]

1983.  Ah, 1983.  It was the year Return of the Jedi was released.  It was the year I turned 9 and, the year I first lived in a house.

We (meaning my mom, my dad and I) had been living in a 3 bedroom apartment but rents were going up and it was time to move on.  We managed to find a nice 3 bedroom house for only $400 a month.  Even for 1983 that rent was low and my parents jumped on it.  Eagerly, Mom and I went over to the new place one day after work with a car full of things, just to get the ball rolling.  Actual move-in day was  to be that weekend but Mom wasn't exactly known for her patience and I, being an 9-year-old kid wasn't going to complain.  

So we get there, and it's time for lunch.  Mom had bought a couple of those small, single serving frozen pot pies, and heated them up for us to have.  The hot pies came out of the oven, smelling great and ready to eat except for one problem... We had no silverware in the house yet.

Frustrated, Mom didn't know what to do.  We had brought clothes, clothes, and a few of my favorite toys...  Eureka!  Toys!  I had brought one of my most prized possessions, my collection of toy smurfs.  Among these items was the Smurf Village Windmill, a fairly large toy which had a working crank that turned the blades of the windmill.  More importantly, it had a wraparound balcony, with two planks that made a 90 degree angle, owing to them being beveled rectangular pieces that came to a point on one end.  They were made form a very durable, hard plastic that made them highly useful as knives and then, spoons... sort of.

I volunteered the use of these items and we were able to eat our lunch.

Now, that could have just been a fun, happy childhood memory that  makes for a funny story on an Internet forum 36 years later.  But no.  I don't remember it for that.  I remember it because my Mom's primary love language was gifts.  You see, I told her that I really liked the pie.  Which I did...  that wasn't a lie.  The problem is that in the 20th Century Standard English to Mom translator, "This pie is really good" translated directly into "Since you love me, you should buy me more of these pies, preferably by the case."

As a result, over the next few weeks, I ate a lot of pot pies.  I mean... a LOT OF POT PIES.  I mean, when I was to the point of having gotten over how good they were, and mentioned it to my mom, she looked all hurt and said "Oh...  I thought you liked them..."  Which made me feel like a complete heel.  So I reassured her that I only meant I was tired of them for that particular day (a lie) and that definitely, they were just amazing.  You can imagine what happened after that.

It's now 2019, and my wife's favorite meal is home made chicken pot pie.  Whenever she tells me we're having  pot pie for dinner, my stomach lurches.  It's been 36 years and I still would rather eat grilled tarantula than a pot pie.  (That isn't a joke.  I would literally prefer grilled tarantula at this point.)  Now, to be fair, my wife makes a killer chicken pot pie.  Everyone who has dinner at our house on a day she's making pot pies loves them.  It's one of the reasons I like it when we have the missionaries over for dinner on a day when the pot pie is coming out... they love it and I know I'm safe from having to eat leftovers.   

The strangeness is that once I'm actually eating it, it's not so bad.  I don't have to struggle to clean my plate or anything.  It's just the hours leading up to dinner that are so revolting.  I'm not mad at my mom for this.  She was just saying "I love you" in the way she knew how.  It's just that I feel like I could be dealing with it better.

Why am I posting this?  Well, 2 reasons.  1) I'm hoping other people have similar stories to share, so I don't feel like such a jerk and 2) I'm hoping for advice form anybody that has some.

 

[anatess2]

My husband has the same reaction to Hamburger Helper - especially the beef stroganoff.  His mom made it almost everyday of his growing up years.  I don't know how much of a hyperbole that statement is but I have to say... a lot of times when I walk into his parents' house unannounced, she's making Hamburger Helper.

But my kids and I love beef stroganoff.  I try to make it the good way, not the Hamburger Helper way... No dice.  My husband will not eat it.  He won't even try it.  But he will eat it if we're at his mother's house.  Interesting, huh?

Anyway, I don't have advice for you.  It's just a quirk my husband has.  We have a pact - I won't make him eat it if I make beef stroganoff and he won't make me eat spinach.

And as I type, there's left-over chicken pot pie - made from scratch by my kid's girlfriend - sitting in my fridge right now.  My kid swears he loves it.  But, that thing has been sitting there for over 2 weeks waiting for him to either eat it or toss it.  I'm not gonna do it for him.  Hah hah.

 

[Sunday21]

I know how you feel. Firstly my parents were from working class Scottish backgrounds. This ethnic group is famous for being truly aweful cooks. Surely the worst cuisine in the world. Ever seen a Scottish restaurant in North America? Me nether!

Next my mother cooked the same 7 dishes in the same order every week. I cannot even describe these classic Scottish dishes without feeling ill. Liver was part of the rotation. And liver is high in cholesterol so is not even good for you! Pair it with turnips boiled into submission. Ugh! 

 

Edited February 2, 2019 by Sunday21

[Midwest LDS]

9 hours ago, unixknight said:

1983.  Ah, 1983.  It was the year Return of the Jedi was released.  It was the year I turned 9 and, the year I first lived in a house.

We (meaning my mom, my dad and I) had been living in a 3 bedroom apartment but rents were going up and it was time to move on.  We managed to find a nice 3 bedroom house for only $400 a month.  Even for 1983 that rent was low and my parents jumped on it.  Eagerly, Mom and I went over to the new place one day after work with a car full of things, just to get the ball rolling.  Actual move-in day was  to be that weekend but Mom wasn't exactly known for her patience and I, being an 9-year-old kid wasn't going to complain.  

So we get there, and it's time for lunch.  Mom had bought a couple of those small, single serving frozen pot pies, and heated them up for us to have.  The hot pies came out of the oven, smelling great and ready to eat except for one problem... We had no silverware in the house yet.

Frustrated, Mom didn't know what to do.  We had brought clothes, clothes, and a few of my favorite toys...  Eureka!  Toys!  I had brought one of my most prized possessions, my collection of toy smurfs.  Among these items was the Smurf Village Windmill, a fairly large toy which had a working crank that turned the blades of the windmill.  More importantly, it had a wraparound balcony, with two planks that made a 90 degree angle, owing to them being beveled rectangular pieces that came to a point on one end.  They were made form a very durable, hard plastic that made them highly useful as knives and then, spoons... sort of.

I volunteered the use of these items and we were able to eat our lunch.

Now, that could have just been a fun, happy childhood memory that  makes for a funny story on an Internet forum 36 years later.  But no.  I don't remember it for that.  I remember it because my Mom's primary love language was gifts.  You see, I told her that I really liked the pie.  Which I did...  that wasn't a lie.  The problem is that in the 20th Century Standard English to Mom translator, "This pie is really good" translated directly into "Since you love me, you should buy me more of these pies, preferably by the case."

As a result, over the next few weeks, I ate a lot of pot pies.  I mean... a LOT OF POT PIES.  I mean, when I was to the point of having gotten over how good they were, and mentioned it to my mom, she looked all hurt and said "Oh...  I thought you liked them..."  Which made me feel like a complete heel.  So I reassured her that I only meant I was tired of them for that particular day (a lie) and that definitely, they were just amazing.  You can imagine what happened after that.

It's now 2019, and my wife's favorite meal is home made chicken pot pie.  Whenever she tells me we're having  pot pie for dinner, my stomach lurches.  It's been 36 years and I still would rather eat grilled tarantula than a pot pie.  (That isn't a joke.  I would literally prefer grilled tarantula at this point.)  Now, to be fair, my wife makes a killer chicken pot pie.  Everyone who has dinner at our house on a day she's making pot pies loves them.  It's one of the reasons I like it when we have the missionaries over for dinner on a day when the pot pie is coming out... they love it and I know I'm safe from having to eat leftovers.   

The strangeness is that once I'm actually eating it, it's not so bad.  I don't have to struggle to clean my plate or anything.  It's just the hours leading up to dinner that are so revolting.  I'm not mad at my mom for this.  She was just saying "I love you" in the way she knew how.  It's just that I feel like I could be dealing with it better.

Why am I posting this?  Well, 2 reasons.  1) I'm hoping other people have similar stories to share, so I don't feel like such a jerk and 2) I'm hoping for advice form anybody that has some.

 

My dad is a thrifty man (not in a cheap way, he just likes to save money). I lived with him for a while after my parents got divorced. There was a sale on something called veal patties. Think those microwaveable chicken patties but made with veal. He bought enough for us to have it for dinner every night for two weeks straight. Even today, many years later, the thought of eating another one of those cheap patties turns my stomach. It's not that they tasted awful, although even then I wished they were chicken patties. But night after night of eating those patties has left me with an existential dread of them, from which, like you with your pot pies, I probably will never totally recover from.

Edited February 1, 2019 by Midwest LDS

[anatess2]

12 hours ago, Sunday21 said:

I know how you feel. Firstly my parents were from working class Scottish backgrounds. This ethnic group is famous for being truly aweful cooks. Shurely the worst cuisine in the world. Ever seen a Scottish restaurant in North America? Me nether!

Next my mother cooked the same 7 dishes in the same order every week. I cannot even describe these classic Scottish dishes without feeling ill. Liver was part of the rotation. And liver is high in cholesterol so is not even good for you! Pair it with turnips boiled into submission. Ugh! 

 

Oy!  I thought Fionn's Maccool was a Scottish Pub!  But yes, that doesn't really recommend them because, goodness gracious, I ordered shepherd's pie and that was awful!!!