I’m sure this has happened to you before, but let me set the scene. It’s 9:15 in the morning and now, all of a sudden, Big El is asking me to put her suitcase, toolbox and nail belt into Streak, her zippy little Nissan Z.
“Well, where are you off to,” I ask? “Bill, I told you two weeks ago that I was going to Atlanta for three days to help our daughter, Reed, put up some closet shelves and hang new drapes in the living room and master bedroom.”
“Well,” I bluster, unable to remember any such conversation. “You might have reminded me prior to the morning of your escape.” “I reminded you yesterday. I told you I was making a quick run to Publix, and did you need anything while I was in Atlanta.”
Gobsmacked, I parry with, “I thought you were joking! Why would you go to Atlanta, when we’ve got a Publix at the end of this street?”
I finish loading her arsenal and exclaim, “Hey, you’ll be gone a week, and I don’t think there’s anything to eat in the whole house.” I have no idea if this is true or not, but guilt can be an effective going-away gift.
“Bill, we have two refrigerators and two pantries in this house. You won’t starve in the next three days.” Hmm, I doubt we have two refrigerators… but who knows? I let her exaggeration slide.
Then with a look of horror she adds, “And please, please don’t embarrass me, yet again, by inviting yourself to the neighbors’ for dinner. I’m surprised they don’t all take their phones off the hook and kill the lights whenever I leave town.”
Next thing I know, Streak is approaching the speed of sound as Big El accelerates up the driveway, power drifts around our mailbox on two wheels, and shouts out the window, “Don’t forget to water my plaaaaants!”
For the rest of the day, everything goes fine: Lake Club for a swim, left over egg rolls for lunch while I listen to Audible. com, followed by more Audible.com and nine holes at Plantation—I was 6 under par (if you don’t count the putts). Now, if the Dodgers game is on the tube tonight, the ice-maker is working, and dinner is…served, we’re talking a perfect day… Ambrosia!
Except, it’s that “dinner is…served” part that might spoil the trifecta. To misquote Hamlet, “Ay, there’s the rub; what’s for dinner?” Had Big El not issued her edict against begging for food, this would not be a problem, or a rub. I’d call the Halls—I’m pretty sure it’s their turn anyway—and Helen would answer “Good Afternoon, Bill, how are you?”
“I’m great, et tu, ma cherie?” Being an English Francophile, Helen loves it when I talk like Pepe Le Pew. “Marveilleuse.” Niceties out of the way, I press on: “White or red Bordeaux, et quelle heure?”
But Noooooo, it is orbidddenfay. Besides Helen and Reg will probably want to watch cricket. So, I guess it’s up to me, Chef Boyardudley.
Okay, first step, “manage your expectations.”
Now, I realize that all wives, including Big El, are delighted to spend hours in the kitchen peeling, paring, par boiling and poaching— and that’s just the “P” words—while listening to Dr. Phil, but that’s not moi. My culinary repertoire never exceeds the boundary of, “Microwave on high 4 minutes. Remove foil and continue cooking on 50% power 4 minutes.”
Unfortunately, I don’t always read both sentences.
Lasagna al dente…now that’s Italian!
Tonight, it won’t be that simple. An inspection of Big El’s refrigerator reveals that the Quartermaster has failed to resupply the freezer with my favorite food source: Stouffer’s Anything. Gooood Gawd! Easy, easy, don’t panic… Hey! The Erlandsons are probably just pre-heating the oven. Plenty of time to drop in and…“Stop!” I scold myself. “No begging!” Besides, they’ll make me watch the Braves game. Come on, let’s see what’s in the pantry.
Hmm…pantry… pantry…I think it’s? Yeah, right here next to her office. Okay, let’s take inventory: Wow, a motherlode of flour, corn meal, chicken broth, pitted black olives (only good for 10-finger puppet shows), cranberry sauce… Cowabunga, we do have a second fridge…a quart of teriyaki sauce, whole bay leaves, salsa, and soups galore. Hello?! Where’s the left-over Mexican casserole, the remains of a pot roast, the last two tuna rollups from boccie night, the Christmas fruit cake? Ya’ know, the stuff you can actually eat?
I’ll settle for an old potato I can stab with a stick and roast over the gas fireplace.
Warning notice to all husbands: A pantry is not the place where your wife keeps food, it’s where she keeps ingredients. You can NOT eat ingredients all by themselves. Don’t believe me? Try eating that bag of flour. Ingredients are only edible after they have been smooshed together with other…well, other ingredients, into a mixture that is cooked in fire, and finally becomes a kind of food which can then be eaten in front of Netflix.
Hey, how ya’ doin’ on that flour? And don’t even think about trying this smooshing and cooking stuff yourselves, you could easily melt the house. Only wives can perform this kind of magic. It’s the second reason we can’t live without them.
And if you treasure the first reason…water the dumb plants!