I’ve discovered Sir has way too much time on his hands, of late.
Over the years, he has perfected the art of breakfast, and turns out spectacular bacon and eggs with confidence and aplomb. I haven’t got him convinced that cracking the eggs on a flat, rather than sharp, surface is the way to go, so I’m left at times with a stovetop looking somewhat worse for wear, but when all is said and done, it is up to the kitchen lackey – that is, in this case, moi – who has to clean up after the chef. After all, the house rule is that he or she who produces the food is thereafter absolved of further duty.
He took it into his head last week that he wanted to produce dinner, his having espied a tasty recipe – to which I was not a party – and seemed keen and eager to try his hand.
Oh he dropped hints by the bucketful, peppering me with questions for a couple of days. Despite the fact that he has lived in the house as long as I have, it seemed to have slipped his mind where the strainers were kept, where the saucepans lived, and whether or not we owned a whisk.
I was starting to get a tad concerned – there appeared to be an ever-growing list of utensils needed for this gastronomic delight.
I then got the odd call from him at the store. “Why are there so many ##$%^ types of $%^^& pasta?”; “where do I find the mayonnaise”; “what the $%!@# is Italian dressing.” Dinner was starting to take shape in my mind, as he bewailed the fact that dinner had to be refrigerated for two hours, and he was running out of time.
I called him on my way home from work, giving him the half-hour warning that if food had somehow by miracle or fate appeared on the ceiling, now would be an awfully good time to clean it up.
For someone not well versed with anything but breakfast, he made a pretty good fist of things. The pasta was well cooked and seasoned; the sauce very tasty; celery and green onions were nicely chopped; the chicken nuggets – say what? Chicken nuggets? Well, anyway, they were perfectly prepared as well. The meal was complete.
Well, almost. Sir then explained the “slight” tweaks he’d made to the recipe.
“Well, it was supposed to have sliced olives and red peppers, but I don’t like them, so I didn’t put them in. I couldn’t find the Slick seasoning, so that’s not in it. The Italian dressing was too hard, so I got Balsamic instead. Oh, and soy sauce was called for, but I hate the stuff, so I didn’t add it.” Oh, and it’s supposed to be crab not chicken, but chicken was easier.
So I suppose, if I really thought about it, if his cold crab and pasta salad was in fact chicken nuggets and pasta alone, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich could indeed be presented as filet mignon under the right light.
God bless his little cotton sox.
Annie Dear lives in Lee’s Summit. Email her at firstname.lastname@example.org.