Monday, April 20, 2015

no one is perfect



It's a wonder that I've lasted this long. And that our two children managed to reach adulthood without being malnourished because their mother hates to cook and will do almost anything to avoid that odious (and in her case, odorous) chore. It's also been beneficial that I enjoy cooking and am even a pretty good cook, if I do say so myself. So I think it's fair to say that I may have saved the lives of those two children by cooking as often as my schedule allowed. 
Everyone has something, some chore or responsibility that they would rather not have to do. But they do it anyway despite sometimes having an intense dislike, or even abhorrence, for that task. Mary, my dear sweet, loving, and otherwise nurturing Mary, would rather clean the bathrooms in a men's locker room after a pissing contest. And she'd be smiling the whole time if that meant she wouldn't have to put a meal together instead. 
Our family lore is rife with stories about Mary's cooking or, should I say her attempts to do so.  
There was the time the recipe called for separating the eggs, so she put the white ones in one bowl and the brown ones in another. Then there was the time she meant to drain the spaghetti by dumping it down the drain with the water it was cooked in. Both kids still complain about the summer sausage with ketchup sandwiches she put in their school lunches.  Whenever family or friends get together for a meal, Mary surprises no one by bringing the bag of chips. If it's a really special occasion, she'll bring two bags. And if it is a superduper extra special get together, the two bags will be different.

At our old house, we went so far as to build an addition on the house so that she could get out of the house without having to pass through the kitchen. That, I think, saved her unknown amounts of angst and made her life, and consequently, ours, much happier. 
Yes, we do eat out a lot when neither of us feels like cooking. Or we get something and bring it home. But even then, Mary's fetish like avoidance of anything cooking related comes into play. Take today as an illustration of that fetish. I told her I would run out to Culvers for a couple of hamburgers for supper. She said to be sure they put everything on them. I replied that we could put our own ketchup and mustard on them, no big deal. She said, no way, I'm not cooking tonight.
You have to admit that anyone who equates opening a can or spreading mustard on a sandwich, with cooking, would have a serious problem if some genius hadn't invented the can opener and the butter knife.

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