I was asked the other day by a slight acquaintance whether or not my husband cooked at home. I think some men are good cook, some men are not good cook but they are good helper , and then there is the others. The others are the one you don’t want them in the kitchen. My husband fall in the other category.
My husband used to cook before we were married, but I’ve put an end to that. I do the cooking in my home for two reasons:
(1) when I cook, I turn the music on and start to cook and dance as a way of relaxing.
(2) Which the most important reason for not encourage him to cook, is to preserve my sanity.
When my husband decides to cook his specialty, which is pasta with simple tomato sauce, he sends me to the family room because he will be in charge. Each time I’ve quietly retired to the basement and gotten into a book, or a television movie, he calls me and asks where the kettles are for the water and the tomato sauce. I go upstairs, find what he wants, and give them to him. It doesn’t seems to bother him that the kettles are right in front of his eyes, the same place they’ve been since we moved into this house. I ask if he needs anything else before I return to my book. “Of course not,” he exclaims.
Not too long after getting back to the family room, he shouts again, “where is the olive oil?” Then. “Where is the garlic?” And on and on, through the spices and even the salt. Although climbing the stairs helps keep my weight down, it’s the exasperation that eventually gets to me.
After having located all of the ingredients, I eventually get the call that dinner is served. My daughter and I head for the dining room, but first I need to explain what the kitchen looks like.
There are five dirty pots in the sink-I have no idea what he has used that many pots for, but there they are.
There are a number of dirty bowls on the counter, again with no explanation. There is a modern art painting on the white tile behind the range, where he apparently used tomato sauce as the medium. There is another masterpiece on the kitchen floor. How the sauce jumped from the pot to the floor is another unsolved mystery.
After having eaten, and I have to admit that his sauce is quite good, he tells me that because he cooked, I would have to clean up the kitchen and wash the dishes.
I’m hopeful that someday he’ll learn that cooking a meal includes getting his own ingredients together as well as cleaning his own mess when its all done. He should also leave the modern art to professional artists.