The good part about my issues is that I have a husband with extremely low standards, so it works out fairly well.
He’s a marvelous cook but wants to cook when he has time to do something special. So, he’s the holiday cook, the person who makes the corn casserole for a funeral, the person who makes the rare special birthday or anniversary meal. He’s famous for his meatballs, his mandarin orange cake, his holiday carrots, and a host of other things family members 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 his unusual combination of freshly ground beans for coffee, chocolate chip muffins, and fresh fruit, perhaps pineapple, blueberries or strawberries.
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, lasagne, tuna melts, tuna salad sandwiches, cucumber sandwiches (he doesn’t like that), the Big Salad (as Elaine on “Seinfeld” says) or some meat grilled on the George Foreman.
Thursday night I tried to fake him out. I sent him an email 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 Lone Star.”
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 Franco did, so that got thrown out. I made my own, a little pickle relish, a little Mayo (no Miracle Whip in this Yankee’s house.)
He loved it. Damn.
As I came home from work 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 Clampett family has it for Sunday dinner in the pool parlor.
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.
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