When Your Husband Cooks Dinner

I am going to start my new blog life with a bang by revealing a dirty little secret. I’m really a man. No. That’s not true. It’s even more embarrassing – my husband cooks. In fact, yesterday, as I started on this blog adventure, the aroma of peppered duck wafted into the living room from the kitchen. Even Alex, my 13 year old, was helping with dinner by making a huge Greek salad. You would think that this would make me ecstatically count my blessings, but it doesn’t. It just pisses me off.

First of all, what the hell am I supposed to complain about with my friends? “Adam’s duck was juicy, but the crispy skin was a bit overcooked”? “Alex was somewhat heavy handed with the french feta?” I’ll be stoned to death. (Or at the very least have to put up with some vigorous eye rolling.)

One time my friends came over the house to pick me up for a walk in the park, and Adam was busily braising some lamb chops, while he make apple fennel salad. They watched him cook for a while, and then we left for the walk. I started to say something, and they both looked at me simultaneously and said, “Shut up.”"But you don’t know what I was going to say,” I protested. “It might not have had anything to do with husband complaints.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Diane replied. “You can’t talk until we stop hating you. It should take about ten minutes.” For the rest of the walk I looked with trepidation at the creek bubbling along to our left, wondering if my friends might lose control and try to drown me. When I thought enough time had gone by, I tried to explain the downsides of your husband cooking dinner.

#1 – the man is a diet sabatour. He encourages me to lose weight, while he cooks the fattiest meat dishes he can find. Lamb with buttery pilaf on the side is a huge favorite. Fried anything – fish, chicken, veal – flavored with anchovies or almonds. Lard balls fried in lard. (OK. I made that one up.) When I was single, I’d eat a yogurt for dinner.

#2 – Adam cooking takes away the majority of my self righteous indignation over all the annoying dumb things he does at home. How can I complain that he put his underwear in the wrong laundry bin, while my stomach is filled with veal cordon blu? How can I complain about lugging the kids everywhere for their myriads of appointments, when Adam works all day, stops off at the Farmer’s Market, and makes gourmet meals. It just whips that moral superiority carpet right out from under me.

#3 – It puts a cramp in my bonding with friends and peers. I want to be able to join in on the husband bashing with everyone else. I don’t want to be perceived as some sort of pampered freak.

#4 – I have to put up with a truckload of self congratulatory gobbledy gook, and even add to it. When women cook dinner, it’s just expected. When men cook dinner, it’s a benign act of kindness which must be reinforced by worshipful cooing. Nobody congratulates me for going food shopping or doing the laundry.

#5 – Adam is a much better cook than me, and on the rare occasions when I try to make dinner, he hovers over me, correcting little things whenever I’m not looking. Turning over the chicken in the frying pan. Checking on the meat in the oven every 5 minutes to make sure it’s not overcooked. Then, critiquing the meal at the end. “Next time you might consider some fresh herbs to give it a bit more flavor.” Hamburger Helper doesn’t come with fresh herbs, Dude.

Those are my niggling complaints. I work, he works. I hate cooking, he loves it. And I do appreciate Adam’s cooking. I really do. But it’s not all fun and games in juicy Veal Chop land. Remember that.

-Robin