Strict Interpretations

As I am completely enveloped in my new writing assignment, I spent most of the day yesterday planted in front of the computer, leading to flare ups of both carpal tunnel and tunnel vision. My husband would say things like, “Can you get her some ice water?” And I’d say, “Hold on, Luke just crashed his car.” But don’t worry, I went and got the drink as soon as help arrived on the literary scene. And my husband has been very supportive this weekend, even going so far as to make dinner last night. He’s picked up dinner before, eats it on a regular basis, but making it was a new venture. And let me state for the record that he has grilled and warmed things in the oven. And the record I’m stating that for is the marriage record where if I don’t concede that point, he’ll never make dinner again. But last night’s meal was a far removal from his previous warming and grilling experiences. I had planned on making a new bacon, linguine, and tomato pasta dish. (BLT). He agreed to give it a shot.

So, once the kids were settled in with their babysitters, Charlie & Lola, my husband launched into making dinner while I worked on revisions. I had typed approximately three words when he said, “Where’s our Santoku Knife?” Ah, yes. This was a Pampered Chef recipe, the people who bring us many great kitchen tools, but also write their recipes in a manner that would lead you to believe your family may go hungry if you don’t invest in each and every product they offer. I went in the kitchen and handed him an old-fashioned regular knife. From our knife block, of all random places. “This’ll work?” he asked. I looked at the first line of his recipe. “Slice bacon crosswise using Santoku Knife.” Yeah, honey, I think this knife can cut the bacon crosswise. I’ve seen it do things as impressive as slice through a chicken breast. What I really said was, “Yeah, it’ll be fine.” I went back to the computer and typed four more words. “Wait. We don’t have this Large Micro-Cooker, either?” No, but I’m sure my friend, N, would let you come to a Pampered Chef show and buy all of these items you’re missing. “What do you need that for?” I asked. He paused then said, “I’m supposed to cook the broth and tomatoes together until hot.” Gee, let’s see, didn’t we have something around here that worked for warming things? What was that? Oh yeah, the stove. “Just do it in a pot on the stove,” I offered helpfully. I managed to finish an entire sentence in my book when he came into the office (so I didn’t have to be interrupted again?) and said, “It calls for four garlic cloves pressed.” Sometimes, I have fresh garlic on hand, sometimes I don’t. Depends on if vampires are in town. But, as I did not, I said, “Just use a tablespoon or two of the minced garlic in the refrigerator.” He sighed and walked away mumbling, “Well, don’t blame me if this doesn’t come out right. We don’t even have the right stuff.” Okay, minced garlic is not THAT big of a departure from pressed garlic. And to think that not using that Japanese knife to slice the bacon crosswise would alter the taste of our dinner was an even bigger stretch.

Not that I got much work done as he was preparing it, but dinner was great! I loved it, my husband liked it, and one kid ate it. So, we’ll probably never make it again. My son, who will not eat spaghetti in any form or variation, said, “We should have this instead of spaghetti from now on.” I was proud of him for trying something new, and even more pleased that he liked it, but I had to break it to him that, “Four of us like spaghetti and only three of us like this bacon and tomato linguine, so it makes more sense to have spaghetti.” Why? Because it’s the difference in making one supplementary grilled cheese and two. One being more time and cost effective than two. My daughter, who (coming off last weekend) is still stuck on the idea of Mother’s Day (God bless her), suggested that for Father’s Day, I make dinner. Yeah, what a great idea. I could make dinner for a change. What a treat that would be, as I only do it three hundred and sixty some days a year. But, maybe I’ll be doing it much less after my husband stocks up at the next neighborhood Pampered Chef show.