Feb 15, 2010
My husband likes to cook and is very good at it. This works out well as I hate to cook and am very bad at it. But I love to eat. We have an agreement: He cooks. I clean. I don’t mind doing it even though I don’t particularly enjoy cleaning. I made the decision some time ago that I would live with the lesser of two evils (much like the rest of the nation does every four years – I just do it more often).
I’m the sous chef, and when his brother (who also likes to cook) joins him in the kitchen I get to double my fun. I also have a theory. The theory is that because he knows he doesn’t have to clean up he is a very messy cook. (We’ve even had the “how come when you cook I clean up but when I cook I still clean up” discussion on numerous occasions). It’s always been a silent theory because I know what he’d say if I ever told him which is what happened as I watched him make lasagna recently.
I think that Italian and Mexican foods are the messiest foods to make which is why I’d rather go out for them. Okay, the one time I made Kung Pao Chicken was pretty messy, too. I guess a hamburger on the grill is probably more my style.
ME: You’re so messy. I think you’re messy because you know you won’t have to clean up.
HUSBAND: That’s not true.
ME (as I watched him drop half a scoop of meat sauce on the kitchen counter): *sigh*
HUSBAND: I’ll clean it!
(Later) HUSBAND: I’m taking a break. Then I’ll clean up. (OMG, I hate it when he does this. I know exactly what psychology is at work here.)
He can read me like a book with very large print. The piece of my brain that is part OCD/part anal retentive/part mush kicks in, and I start running the dishwater. I can hear him behind me, rummaging through the cabinets, saying “I already cleaned up two things.” “How is that?” I ask. “I didn’t use them.”
Game, Set, Match. This is one I always lose because of unforced errors.