A Stepmom’s Tale of Making Food and Family

One winter Saturday afternoon, my husband arrived home from the state forest near our small, rural town. He climbed the steps up to my office, and stood at the doorway, smiling.

“There’s a squirrel for you on the cutting board, hon!” he proudly announced.

“A what!?” 

“A squirrel. We’re going to roast him for dinner!”

“You can’t put that thing in the oven,” I said, stalling. “I’ve got potatoes in there.”

“He won’t eat any potatoes, hon! He’s already dead!”

Downstairs in our kitchen, my husband and my younger stepson, then 16, beamed with their anticipation of challenging me. Indeed, a hunk of cold, cleaned, raw meat wrapped in clear plastic lay on the cutting board. It looked like chicken.

My husband threw down the gauntlet. “Are you going to try it, hon?”

From Strangers to Family

He and my two stepsons are hunters. I am not. They grew up in central Pennsylvania’s hunting culture, part of a hunting family, part of a longtime hunting community and gun club. I respect hunting for many reasons and by then had cooked plenty of venison.

But I did not grow up within a hunting family, nor hunting culture.

I’m from the Cleveland suburbs, where people got their shrink-wrapped meat at the grocery store. We watched neighborhood squirrels spiral up and down tree trunks, hanging upside down on bird feeders. Never once did I think of shooting one for dinner.

Yet, here I was, becoming family with people who did.

I fell in love with my husband the night we met at a Halloween party, the moment light flashed across his face when he mentioned his sons, 15 and 13. Seriously — love at first sight is real and possible. He is kind, strong and sexy. A good man and good father. 

I was 41 and did not have children, until I met the boys that first weekend of December. Instantly, I felt an avalanche of love and a fierce drive to nurture and protect them. 

I am not their mom. She loves them very much. Yet, they are “my” kids. All this is true at the same time. My job is to respect her place and to partner with their dad to provide a warm, loving home for them.

Teenage boys are too big to rock to sleep or be tucked in with a bedtime story — all the ways in which I long ago pictured nurturing my children. 

Sure, I said “I love you.” But as the daughter of a mostly absent father I also knew that what mattered most was showing it. I cheered them on at their sports events. (All that training in how to project from my diaphragm as an energized, loud fitness instructor paid off.) 

And I fed them. 

Cookbooks Included

Their Dad’s new girlfriend arrived in their lives with a huge pile of cookbooks, collected over many years as gifts from my mom and grandmother, and freebies from the publishing industry.

“You have a cookbook just for Thanksgiving?” my older stepson had said, eyeing the book with the classic roasted turkey on the front cover.

With fresh perspective — and new, VIPs to cook for — I thumbed through the dog-eared cookbooks and the ones barely opened, flagging the pages of recipes they might like with Post-Its, zipping by ones too far beyond their meat-and-potatoes comfort zone.

We started with family breakfasts on Sunday mornings, when I folded mashed bananas into Dorie Greenspan’s recipe for buttermilk pancakes.

The banana caramelized as the batter hit the foaming butter on the griddle. Tangy buttermilk lifted the cakes, filling the kitchen with warmth and sweetness. Teenage boys, I quickly learned, not only have ravenous appetites, but turn everything into a competition, including how many pancakes they can eat. 

Soon, I was making two batches for the four of us.

They were always hungry. They wanted filling, familiar and fast.

I learned to cook differently, and quickly produce a tasty meal for a crowd. And, when I’d tackled too much, they learned to be patient. 

Chili made the cut, along with paninis and tomato soup. I leaned on Sara Moulton, queen of the family-friendly weeknight meal, especially her recipe for chicken thighs with sausage and hot peppers. I kept the pickled okra in her Cheatin’ Jambalaya, added extra meat and used brown rice. We all swooned for Sara’s fish tacos. 

Trying New Things

They would eat what I put in front of them, I learned. So I could still experiment — a little.

Peeking into the pots simmering on the stove, my husband and the boys had squirmed many times.

“What’s that?”

“Oh,” I’d say. “I thought you’d like it because I know you like [whatever ingredient had sparked my inspiration].”

“I’ll try it. I just want to know what it is.”

And so it went. Meal by meal, trying new things, listening to what they liked and didn’t, until we had a stable of family favorites. 

Until, that is, we built a family that included me. 

I transformed their family meals. They turned my life upside down in the best possible way.

The rule always: They would try anything I made for them.

Cracked, Sizzling — and Ready to Eat

As my husband placed the squirrel meat in a metal pan to roast, without one drop of oil or bit of seasoning, I knew I’d have to try it. There was no escape. 

It was a rare treatment of meat from the woods. My husband makes incredible venison burgers, and I often make a venison stew in the slow cooker with portobello mushrooms and red wine. This food is honored, and not wasted.

But that night, I stepped back and thought it best to not intervene.

We sat down to dinner: chicken, potatoes, probably broccoli — and squirrel, cracked and still sizzling. 

I took one bite. Stringy and dry.

Awful. I chewed it, swallowed and sipped some water.

Done. 

My younger stepson soon relayed the news to his older brother at college. I earned a few points that day. A little cred.

Our boys are now men, 24 and 22. Our oldest is married now, with a kitchen of his own. 

They are still passionate hunters, and the rule remains: I’ll try anything they have hunted. They will try anything I put in front of them.

This past February — when we had no inkling of what was coming — our family and friends gathered at hunting camp for our annual Thanksgiving in February celebration. It was our last big family dinner before the pandemic hit.

The boys offered to cook Friday night dinner for 12 people so I would be less stressed. They made venison meatballs, Greek spaghetti and salad. I stayed out of their kitchen, stood back and enjoyed a very proud stepmama moment.

~ Lisa Duchene

Lisa Duchene is a freelance writer, foodie, blogger, owner of Polished Oak Communications — and, most importantly, a proud stepmama in central Pennsylvania. Lisaduchene.com