By Theresa Blume

Featured Columnist

My husband has mentioned that I never make special food on football game days. Because football is not my main priority, it never occurs to me that we should have something special until the game starts. But living in Wisconsin this week, even I knew that the Green Bay/Dallas game was important, so I was ready this time.

Though I had never made them before, I decided to try making chicken wings I had saved for the occasion. I baked them in a slow oven that morning to make sure they were thoroughly cooked. Then I simmered them in my special homemade barbeque sauce.

Meanwhile I cut potatoes in wedges and drizzled them in olive oil, lightly salted them, sprinkled just enough paprika to give them color, and put them in a hot oven. Meanwhile, my husband was watching pregame stuff from his chair looking as pleased as a cat about to eat a canary.

Five minutes before kickoff the phone rang.

My son’s frantic voice told me that his wife had just broken her toe. He asked if one of us could come over and watch their 1-year-old daughter so he could take his wife to the emergency room.

Keep in mind they have only been married for two years. After 28 years of marriage, my sweet husband would have walked out in the cold during a commercial and started the car for me so I could drive myself.

Since I was in the middle of cooking hubby’s fantastic football snack fest, I suggested they drop their daughter off on the way to the ER. “She broke her toe, Mom!” my son insisted.

I told him my husband would be right over. Hanging up the phone, I informed my husband that he needed to watch our grandbaby for just for a few minutes. Countering his confused look, I told him the food was not ready yet and reminded him that they had a big-screen TV. Like the gentleman that he is, he immediately grabbed his coat and went over there.

My wings turned out better than expected, and a few minutes later the wedges were done. It seemed a shame not to eat a perfectly finished meal while it was hot, so I made myself a plate and enjoyed my own meal. Even though I was not necessarily watching football, it was great.

I texted my son to see how his wife was doing and received a picture of a crooked, very broken toe from the ER.

About the end of the third quarter my husband came back home, went straight to the food, which I had kept warm, and helped himself to a big plateful. He sank deeply in his comfortable chair and watched with pleasure as the Green Bay Packers proceeded to win the game. The warmed up food must have tasted even better judging from the speed that it exited his plate.

None of us planned the direction this day went, but it could have been worse. My football feast turned out great, dear daughter-in-law has all her toes, and the Packers won. I am already thinking about the Super Bowl. When is that anyway?