Breaking Up with Betty Crocker

This summer, I made a bold move: I broke up with Betty Crocker.

Not because I wanted to. Not because I stopped loving her sensible advice, her no-nonsense directions, or her uncanny ability to know exactly how long to bake a pork chop. No, our split came on suddenly, without warning, triggered by one very specific culinary dilemma: I was trying to make a frittata.

Let’s rewind.

With the price of eggs resembling a speculative cryptocurrency, and prepared foods creeping into luxury-item territory, I decided to make some practical changes. Out with the overpriced deli quiche, in with the humble homemade frittata. Eggs, veggies, maybe some cheese — simple, healthy, and (in theory) economical. Perfect for summer.

So, I turned to the Internet, as one does. Big mistake. Every recipe I found seemed to assume I was either feeding the cast of Hamilton or operating a brunch buffet for 35. “Frittata for a Crowd!” “Feeds 12!” “Uses 20 eggs!” I just wanted breakfast, not a catering job.

Defeated but not deterred, I turned to my lifelong kitchen companion: the Betty Crocker Cookbook. Betty — my ride-or-die for the last 50 years. She taught me how to make meatloaf. She guided me through the mysteries of creamed spinach. She gently explained what “fold in the cheese” meant before Schitt’s Creek made it a meme.

But when I searched for “frittata” in her trusty red spine… nothing. No frittata. Not even a whisper of one.

Reader, I gasped. I flipped through every page like a frantic librarian in a fire drill. “Surely she didn’t forget,” I thought. But alas — Betty had ghosted me. 

It felt like being stood up by an old friend who always showed up — until she didn’t.

And so, frittata-less and betrayed, I ventured alone into the wilds of cooking blogs, YouTube chefs, and Pinterest boards. After approximately 50 contradictory internet recipes, I cobbled together a plan: eggs (a modest six), sautéed onions, mushrooms, a splash of milk, a little Broccoli floret and some cheese.

I even bravely ignored a video that insisted on adding baking powder for “fluffiness.” (Should I have listened? Probably.)

The result? A brave little frittata. Burnt around the edges. A little flat, possibly a touch rubbery. But honestly? Not bad. I ate it with pride and a little hot sauce.

No, it wasn’t perfect. But it was mine.

And as for Betty — we’re not completely done. She still knows how to whip up a mean cornbread and I might need her at Thanksgiving. 

But it turns out, sometimes you have to break up with your old culinary security blanket and venture out on your own — burnt edges and all. Besides, what’s summer without a little trial, error, and an overcooked egg or two?