Dinner for neighbor takes (nauseating) shape

You know how some people don't like it when the different food groups touch each other on the dinner plate? That doesn't bother me except when one of the groups is canned beets, but I have a different kind of food aversion.

I don't like it when food starts as one thing and is mashed up and shaped into something else. This would include sausages, meatballs, most hot dogs, the puzzling dish called a terrine and the entire meatloaf family.

I couldn't tell you why or how this started for me. Perhaps there was a dry meatloaf when I was seven, and I had to stay at the table until I'd eaten half of it (and at least four lima beans).

But I couldn't, and I sat until well past dark, staring into that gray/brown abyss of mush.

Or perhaps it has something to do with the song, "On Top of Spaghetti," which my sister would sing while I cried at the part where the meatball rolls away and gets stomped in the garden.

Whatever the reason, meat that is ground up, reshaped or rolled and then cooked just seems wrong.

So why is it that I found myself this week in the kitchen making, of all things -- you got it -- meatloaf?

My neighbor's son was returning home after a week out of town for back surgery, and I arranged to take dinner over. I remembered that the boy actually liked meatloaf, so I fired up the computer to find something.

"The most delicious ever!" shouted the reviews on allrecipes.com. It called for veal, pork and beef, and promised to be juicy and comforting.

I put the meat into a bowI, chopped the bread into crumbs, and then chopped the onions, crying because I would soon have to get my hands into this mess.

Holding my breath, I rolled up my sleeves and plunged in with a vile squish.

It was like that Halloween party game where, blindfolded, you are forced to touch strange and slimy things. Only in this case, I had eyes wide open and I was touching dinner.

And here's where things got really frightening.

The recipe told me to add a cup of milk to the mixture. Milk? It seemed both unnecessary and wrong, and not kosher, not that the neighbors are.

But a few more squishes, some salt and pepper, a gagging reflex or two and into the oven.

After an hour or so I took a peek and found a gray lump swimming in gray soup. Was the milk a practical joke?

But the neighbors were waiting for dinner. The mashed potatoes and green been casserole and banana bread were warm and waiting. I pulled out the meatloaf, by now a bubbling cauldron of yuck. It smelled funny. I called a friend, a good cook.

"Pull it out of the liquid and let it rest," he said.

As I waited for the wet lump to turn into something that looked like dinner, I eyed the side dishes. Could I take the potatoes and beans and pass them off as an intentional vegan dinner?

Taking a leap of faith, I covered the meatloaf in foil and walked across the yard. Standing in the neighbor's kitchen, I almost apologized for the meatloaf, but kept my mouth shut. I was fairly certain I'd baked it for long enough not to kill them all.

Back at home, I prayed a little, and occasionally listened for ambulance sirens or shrieks of repulsion.

The next morning my phone beeped with a text message.

"Delicious!" my neighbor wrote. Maybe she meant the potatoes, or the banana bread. Or maybe the meatloaf really was good.

I wouldn't know. I don't touch the stuff.

Beth Dolinar is a former Riverside resident and Pittsburgh television reporter who is staying at home to raise her two children. She can be reached at cootieJ@aol.com.