That’s How You Can Tell It’s Done

My Honey does most of the cooking at the Bright Compound.  Thank God (the God that created Chicken Fried Steak and Shrimp Mediterranean), otherwise we’d likely starve.  We have a pretty good deal set up: He cooks the dinner and I clean it up.  I’m totally on board with this plan.

I can cook, I’m just not good at it.  I am in charge of all large feasts, and I do have a few signature dishes:  Chicken Parmesan (Paul Newman’s recipe), Lasagna (my mom’s), Chicken Enchiladas (my grandmother-in-law), and Sukiyaki (mmmmm Japanese!).  However, all of the above menu items take a great deal of planning.  I’m also in charge of all the baking.  I’m generally very happy with this since baking has such a lovely outcome.

Every once in a while, My Honey puts his foot down and declares that he’s not cooking dinner, “What’s for dinner?” he’ll say oh so subtly.  At those times, I am happy to cook my go-to dinner.  Spaghetti.  Sometimes with meat sauce.  Every so often meatballs.  I can almost guarantee that I’ll forget the bread – either it will never make it to the oven or I’ll forget to take it out.  If there is some sort of a miracle, like if  the spirit of Julia Child possess me, there might be a salad. 

Once in a while I consider divorce because he’ll specifically make spaghetti on say a Tuesday and then on Wednesday he’ll say the line. 

“What’s for dinner?” he says all innocent and sweet, knowing that he’s set me up.  I’ll never be able to get away with spaghetti two nights in a row.

I simply lack the skill to walk into the kitchen and come up a meal on the fly.   I will stand in front of the open refrigerator, then I’ll open the freezer and stand there a bit.  Then I’ll go to the laundry room and open the big chest freezer and stare down into it’s freezing, cavernous depths.  After a few minutes I’ll wander over to the pantry and stare helplessly in there.  I will quickly come to the pathetic conclusion that I’ve got nothing.  I’ll make a couple of laps doing this.  I’ll open the doors and sometimes even touch some food item or other, but I soon realize that I’ll never be able to come up with a side dish to go with it – or even how to cook it.  I can’t even broil chicken without a recipe. 

I’m truly pathetic.  It’s a damn good thing I don’t determine my worth by the ideals of 1950’s womanhood.

I’ve narrowed down the problem.  It’s my attention span.  When it involves something I don’t really like, it can be alarming short.  I love to eat, just not so crazy about cooking it.  I get no sense of accomplishment from it.  I’m generally just happy that it’s edible.

Tonight, My Honey got dinner started and then gave me the simple task of watching it while he helped Sassy with her homework.  You know how I knew it was close to being done?  The smoke alarm tipped me off.  It’s very handy that way.  I was busy screwing around on line.  I’ve burned meals due to reading, writing, finishing crossword puzzles.  You name it. 

I keep trying to convince people that the extra bit of carbon is very tasty.  So far no takers.