The hubby cooks a lot for someone who runs his own business and works something like 200 hours a week. He loves to concoct in the kitchen, whereas I’m fine with popping a pizza in the oven and pouring some bag salad into bowls. Last week when I had strep throat I
totally used it as an excuse to not do anything around the house didn’t cook for several days.
By the weekend I was feeling fine and I made a big grocery run on Friday and I cooked dinner Friday and Saturday. On Saturday I grilled hamburgers and I put the hubby in charge of the french fries. OK, so I guess technically I roped him into cooking a side item. See? It’s an illness. I just don’t have the cooking juju.
Me: “I smell something burning. I think it’s the french fries. Can you check them?”
Hubby: “No, they’re fine. Have you flipped the burgers yet?”
Me (thinking to myself as I ran out to the grill): “Oh sh*t.”
On Sunday morning I decided to surprise the hubby by taking charge of a big breakfast with scrambled eggs, biscuits, and sausage. I got everything ready, although I did solicit his help in opening the canned biscuits because I have a freakish phobia that a can of biscuits will explode in my face as I am opening it. Yes, I have hungryjackaphobia.
I managed to overcook the scrambled eggs and undercook the sausage, of which the hubby took two large bites before realizing I might have exposed him to Trichinosis.
He took back the cooking reins last night and grilled tuna and fresh corn and made a salad. Now why mess with that kind of perfection, much less expose our family to raw pork?