I don’t like to cook. Yes, I sincerely mean it. Being in a partnership means I have my share of responsibility for our food. Frankly, I have about one miserable failure a month. I learned the hard way early in our married life that you shouldn’t put Saran Wrap in the oven.
The good part about my issues is that I have a husband with extremely low standards, so it works out well for me.
He’s a marvelous cook but only cooks when he has time to do something special. So, he’s the extra cook, the person who makes the corn and pimento casserole for a funeral, the person who makes the rare special birthday cake or anniversary meal. He’s famous for his meatballs, his mandarin orange cake, his holiday carrots, and a host of family request. He’s tackled a standing rib roast and his holiday meals often contain something new and wonderful.
During the week, I’m the primary person responsible for food. My Beloved prepares the weekend meals. Mind you; I’m not complaining. I’ve had breakfast in bed every Sunday for as long as I can remember. We’re talking freshly ground coffee beans, chocolate chip muffins, and fresh fruit, perhaps pineapple, blueberries or strawberries. Or an omelet made to my specifications.
Weeknights I may pick up two large berry salads at Wendy’s or Subway. Sometimes I will cook from my repertoire which hasn’t changed from my twenties, nachos, spaghetti, lasagna, tuna melts, tuna salad sandwiches, cucumber sandwiches (he doesn’t like), the Big Salad with grilled chicken (as Elaine on “Seinfeld” says) or fish grilled on the George Foreman.
Thursday night I tried to fake him out, because I didn’t feel like cooking and everything I could pick up bored me stiff. I sent him an email at work that said, “It is okay if we have fish sticks for dinner?” My evil ploy anticipated his response being, “Oh, no, let me bring home Outback or Longhorn.” I mean, seriously, who still eats fish sticks? Don’t even get me started on what I think the “stick” part is.
Nope. He said, “Great, and can we have macaroni and cheese with that?” Meaning the Bob Evans Mac and cheese in the refrigerator.
I should have known. Low standards. Not sure why there are fish sticks in the freezer. The tartar sauce in the fridge expired about the time Generalissimo Francisco Franco did, so I tossed it. I made my own, a little pickle relish, a little Mayo (no Miracle Whip in this Yankee’s house.)
He loved it. Dang. It’s an incongruous situation because his mom was a fine cook. When he and his brother went to potlucks, they only ate what Mom made. Everything else was unacceptable.
As I came home Friday night, I noticed the American Legion’s marquee proclaimed “Chicken Livers and Gizzards” night. And they have take-out. No way was I going to try to trick him again. I cannot abide food that sounds like the Jed Clampett family has it for Sunday dinner in the billiard parlor, using the pot-passers.
I should have known better about the fish sticks. After all, of the five of us who traveled to Scotland together, he was the only one who finished his haggis.