I remembered the roasted cauliflower GMR prepared the day before. I could add that to the soup (so as not to recognize what it really is: canned soup). I had a momentary thought, “I wonder what GMR would prepare if he weren’t at the theater? I bet some tall blond is all going, ‘oh GMR, you are sooooo wonderful! Ohhh, I wish you were MY husband! I’d sure enjoy your food love….ohhhh your wife is a FOOL munch munch mmmmmm yummmm ummmm ohhhh ummmm!’” *sigh*
I slooshed the soup from the can, added the roasted cauliflower, a little pepper, and then swirled it with the puree thingee . . . hmmm, not quite. I opened the fridge. AHA! Sour cream! I added a dollop of that—Oh! I was clever! And black beans! Hey! I added a few spoons of those. Then I swirled it all about with the puree thingee. Well. Now. There.
Um. Okay. I placed a napkin over it and put the bowl in the microwave. 3 minutes later—KaDing-Done!
When I took off the napkin, what greeted my eyes was what looked exactly like vomit. Yes, Vomitus americanus. Spew. Hurl. I tried to pretend otherwise. I sat down with my spoon and bowl of “Soup” and took a bite, then another—tasted like . . . tasted like . . . the bottom contents of my stomach; yes, just as it looked is what it tasted like: as if I’d eaten it hours ago, let it ferment in my belly, then brought it back up into the bowl. *sigh*
I threw it away, and oh I hate wasting food.
There was a time I cooked, I thought to myself, as I watched the gloppy glunk sludge away, I just choose not to. And, besides, every time I’d cook one of my “specialties” GMR would outdo me—huhmph. Why bother? I can’t win. And we all know it’s about winning, right? We all know marriage is one big ass competition to be on top. To be the best. To be the one everyone says, “You know, She is okay, but HE is wonderful! He is sooooo perfect. SHE doesn’t deserve what she has. Lucky Her. But, she’s okay, I guess. But if he was my husband, I’d appreciate that cooking. But, bless her little heart.”
Later, GMR came home, and in his hand he held the most glorious cinnamon bun I’d ever seen. He said, “Look what I brought you.” I nonchalantly grabbed it out of his hands and scurried away on all fours, growling and sniveling and drooling, “Food! Food! Snnnarrl.” Then I peeled that bun and ate it layer by sweet wonderful layer…ahhhhhh. Twas sweet.
I don’t even know the point to this post. Though there are all kinds of lessons and all kinds of “the moral to this story is . . .” and all manner of women wanting to bomp me upside my head for having a husband who cooks for someone who has become bored with food. I can hear them, “Send him to my house, bee-otch!” And I just smile that smile, that patient one, that one where I know what it means, but they don’t know what it means . . . and then I shrug. Because, really, no one knows the whole story of Man And Woman And Marriage, do they?