Mister Husband has the occasional urge to build a huge flame and char meat on it, as most manly men do. It must be genetic. And it’s OK with me if the flames or other food related indignities occur in the back yard. Not so much if it happens in the kitchen.
Before we continue I have to admit that he has not, to my knowledge, caused any pyrotechnics in the kitchen when he cooks, and he cooks often. Usually whatever he cooks is mighty tasty. (that’s Texan for “really good”) What he does have a tendency to do and I have yet to figure this out is to decide, on an occasion when everyone is suffering from an extended bout of stress induced exhaustion and wants nothing more than to go to bed, to create a disaster area in the kitchen and then invites everyone to participate.
Hubman is normally an extremely generous, you get what you pay for, quality over quantity, type of man. But ever so often some primal part of his brain bubbles up and he substitutes a pot roast for the pyre on the patio. He starts out with a cut of meat hacked from the shriveled hind quarters a of cow that escaped 3 Mile Island. The cheapest hunk of animal flesh on sale at the grocery store. He’s going to wrangle this thing into submission if it kills him. Maybe it’s a coping mechanism. Who knows?
I want to say, or yes I have actually said out loud “oh come on, if we need to economize I’m right on board with you, and I’ll do with a smile, but I’d rather do without than eat questionable beef. I’ll eat beans and rice for 6 months and donate the savings from food money to charity. I’ll do almost anything to escape eating gnarly pot roast. I’ll go hungry. It won’t hurt me for at least a week. I’d even prefer a fire in the kitchen. We could call for take out. At this point I’m not talking to hubman anymore – I’m bargaining with God.
A city worker rang the doorbell about an hour ago and explained that there was a water pipe break down the street and the water will be off for 3 -5 hours. Instead of ‘oh bother’, I thought ‘hot damn! the water’s out, he won’t want to cook.’ Called him immediately to tell him the good, I mean bad, news. But, Oh NoOOoo, he’s going to soldier on and mortify this pot roast, come hell or no water.
As a last-ditch effort, I texted him and asked “how are you going to wash your hands after handling the beef?” It is a good thing that I’m not a well-known political figure because that question could be taken way out of context. Anyway it’s been a while and he has not responded. I give up. It’s rot poast for dinner.