Years ago, a bona fide gourmet cook showed me how she passed off store-bought bread as homemade by sprinkling a little sifted flour on top.

From that day forward, I was always suspicious of her offerings at large gatherings, although I greatly admired her ability to economize time and energy.

Not long after, my mother tried to pull a fast one on us as well. She was a wonderful baker known for her Christmas cookies. But one year they looked just a little too perfect, a little too uniform and a little too thick.

She said it was a new recipe from a friend. It was. The cookies were from her new best friend, Mrs. Fields, who lived at the mall.

I told her the next time she needed to smear the frosting on a couple of them to make it believable—and not to leave the box in the kitchen trash, but to take it to the garage.

For me, the biggest time and labor expenditure before a big family gathering is making mashed potatoes. So, from time to time, I have engaged the assistance of my good friend Bob. Bob’s last name is Evans. He lives in the refrigerated case by the meat section at the grocery. I know Bob likes helping me, because the word “Family” is stamped in big, bold letters on his containers.

Because we have some purists in the family, I let Bob rest in a slow cooker set to low before people arrive. I then garnish the Bob potatoes with a pat of butter and sprinkle of fresh parsley before ferrying them to the table.

The finer palettes in the family are all on to me—but that doesn’t mean Bob and I are dissolving the partnership.

The second most time-consuming dish before a family gathering is potato salad. The potato salad of a nearby deli is highly regarded by many in the family. So, I did a taste test not long ago.

The oohing and ahhing over the potato salad and “best ever” comments went on and on until a son-in-law put his fork down and named the deli.

Busted.

One of the grands looked at me with big eyes and asked if it was really homemade.

“Well,” I said, “I went to the deli, brought it home and made it sit on the table. Home. Made.”

I rest my case. And my kitchen.

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