Jackie Wells-Fauth
I have often told my husband that if I go before him, I already know what his last words to me will be. He will lean tenderly over my bed and whisper in my ear, “What did you have planned for supper?”
It was his misfortune to marry a woman who not only hates to cook, but hates the effort it takes to plan meals as well. I have never been one of those organized people who puts down a menu for the following week and then shops at the grocery store accordingly.
When it comes to imagination in meal planning and cooking, it’s even worse. Once, in the era when my children were still at home, my daughter said to me, “I will be home late after practice tonight, so don’t start the meatloaf too soon.”
I was so impressed, “How did you know I was planning meatloaf for supper?”
“It’s Tuesday,” came the jaded reply, “we always have meatloaf on Tuesday.”
I try—I really do. Not so long ago, instead of having our usual ‘mashed potatoes and chicken Friday’, I researched new ways to fix the potatoes. They had a recipe for potato pancakes, so I thought I’d try it.
It didn’t go well. One of the few things Roy looks forward to is good mashed potatoes and those pancakes looked like unstable marshmallows drowning in grease. He ate them without comment, because, as I’ve mentioned before, he doesn’t want the job of cooking, and I am one good complaint away from resigning the head chef job around here. The pay is lousy anyway.
When it comes to planning meals, he’s not very helpful either. “I have no idea what to fix for supper tonight,” I complained the other day. “Give me some thoughts.” Now, I should mention that when I ask for help with menu planning, I’m usually hoping for a suggestion that we eat out.
“Well, tonight is Monday,” he answered. “Don’t we usually have stir fry on Mondays?”
“But that’s a lot of work,” I hinted. “Can’t you think of anything else?”
“Then do what you always do when you don’t want to cook, open a can of something,” he suggested.
In the end, he got tuna and some bread that wasn’t too dry. My first choice had been a can of pumpkin mixed with some canned dog food, so really, he came out better in the long run.
But truly, the worst job in cooking is trying to figure out a meal. I read somewhere the approximate average number of meals planned and cooked in the American home over a span of 20 years. I don’t remember the exact number because when I read it, I blacked out and lost my memories for that moment, but I can honestly say that this is a figure I never want to learn or think about!
It makes me think of that commercial where a woman is walking down the street, going about her daily business and everything and everyone is asking her, “What’s for dinner?” In the end, she concludes by making some culinary delight with a can of mushroom soup and a half of a left-over pork chop (or something like that), so the talking garden gnome asking for her dinner plans is not the only fantasy in the commercial. I do have a bit of sympathy for the question, however.
When Roy and I meet at the end of the day, my question to him is usually, “How was your day?” His question for me is always, “What did you have in mind for supper?”
I can see that this rumination is not really solving my problem because I will never learn to like planning meals any better than I like to cook them. However, if, on my deathbed, Roy chooses to ask me what I was planning for supper, I may leave this world with words on my lips that will not get me into heaven!
dropsinthewell 