I am telling this story third hand.
I, myself, did not make this goulash, and I want to make that very clear, for reasons which will soon become apparent. However, I will tell the story in first person POV, as it is easier for me this way.
The person involved has asked that her true identity shall not be revealed.
This story is based on actual events.
It may be disturbing to some readers.
I had visions, certain ideas, as a child, that when I was a parent, I would
1)Not have any rules at all whatsoever
2)Not dress in typical 'mom' fare-- ie) light washed, elastic banded, pocketless jeans with a lavender Tshirt with a flower pot applique- or any kind of applique.
3)Not use the term: "I'll give you something to be sorry about."
and lastly: 4 never, ever, not ever, no matter what--serve my kids 'goulash' for supper, or anything icky for that matter.
Needless to say, point #1 went out the window shortly after my first born started walking.
On two and three, I am still holding strong.
On four, I transgressed, rather incidentally. It's not like I just woke up one morning and said "I'm going to make goulash for supper." It was something I kind of fell into.
I was looking at the leftover Shepard's Pie, wondering what could be done with it.
It was composed of: Ground beef, peas, carrots, and mashed potatoes.
There was about half a pan left. It was on the second day, and I knew that if it didn't get eaten soon, it would be garbage.
So I threw it in the crock pot, an idea forming in my mind.
I opened the cupboard, and withdrew a can of stewed tomatoes, which I would later describe as "real nice" tomatoes- by which I meant diced, not whole. (As an aside: Describing tomatoes as "real nice" is something which I didn't think I would ever do, either. It has me, quite frankly, kind of scared that it's all going to shit. I might as well break out those whitewashed elastic jeans that go up to my ribcage and applique T shirt.)
I added some macaroni to my concoction, which looked concerning. Grayish, slightly congealed looking hamburger at the bottom, covered in grayish patches of potato masses. Stewed tomatoes floated at the top, with peas and carrots poking out at random.
I looked at a can of corn, pondering it. But then I shook myself out of that line of thought. "Fuck.No," I said out loud. "I can't really be thinking about this."
This was getting out of hand.
"Did the kids eat it?" someone would later ask me.
I hesitated. "Not initially. But they did after I added ketchup and Cheez Whiz."