I’m trying to lighten up and not rage about politics, so while I’m taking a knee, yelling at the TV, and donating to relief efforts, let me offer this bit of annoying privilege.
In our early courtship days, when Sam asked me what I wanted for dinner, I started crying. That’s totally weird, and I didn’t expect this emotional response. How bratty that I can’t choose. Figuring out what to eat is like passing Econ 101 for me. I just can’t do it.
Because he’s so nice, Sam took over food preparation. We’ve been married for almost seven years and I’m very spoiled now.* We are happy, ebbing and flowing like any couple. He’s a social butterfly, which is fun to watch from my comfy corner of the party. On quiet nights at home, he likes our movie marathons. But food is his arena, not mine (except for Cheetos and dessert).
I won’t mention some of my concoctions, mostly involving ranch dressing and canned peas.
This semester poses a challenge. Sam has long hours this fall and I need to start cooking. There is no space for my cooking panic. In the grand scheme, this is nothing. Look at these hurricanes, these earthquakes, the floods, the chaos in government. We don’t even have children (or pets). I am fortunate to chop wood and carry water for him.
Still, there are neuroses to conquer. Let’s start with grocery stores. So full of delicious things, but so full of choices. What goes with what? The longer I walk up and down these cluttered aisles, the more I want to run home. You have to bring a list and plan. Grab a cart, dodge people, find the shortest line, and dart home. Repeat. Readers who grocery-shop (and with children) on a regular basis, you are heroic to me.
Last week, I made salmon, a monumental feat since I’m afraid of fish. Sam told me to cook it for 20 minutes at 350 degrees. I cooked it for 30 minutes at 375 degrees just to kill any critters lurking inside. Progress.
It occurs to me that this is part of marriage, helping your spouse, and his happiness when he sees the laundry and dinner ready is so worth a million trips to the store. Though, he really doesn’t like my cooking. He pretends, like the prince he is.
Next stop: Cooking chicken or going vegan altogether.
*While knowing and appreciating every day how lucky I am.