***
Last night, my darling wife prepared what can only be described as a disaster of a dinner. As best I could tell, it was some kind of GOULASH infused with an overly generous portion of MYSTERY MEAT.
Although I appreciated her hard work and good intentions in the preparation of our supper, that did not change the fact that the caustic concoction was so disgusting, so wretched, and so repulsive (I love adjectives) that it guaranteed there would be a ton of LEFTOVERS.
Obviously, it goes without saying that instead of prolonging the misery over several days, I prefer to confine all of my suffering to ONE MEAL.
So, to spare my bride’s feelings (and to prevent me from suffering additional abdominal abuse), later that evening, I snuck into the kitchen to dispose of the loathsome leftovers directly into the trash. I admit I hesitated for a moment as I considered whether or not it would be too toxic for the local landfill. But even though the so-called “FOOD” was most likely non-biodegradable and could release methane gas as it took centuries to decompose, I finally decided, what the heck. It was worth the risk.
Not wanting to attract attention, I worked quickly in the dark. (I pride myself on my innate ability to be sneaky, which is the direct result of decades of practice.) Unfortunately, the slimy sludge had congealed into some kind of blobulous (I created a new word just for this story!) form that you might see in a sci-fi/ horror film, and it was resisting my efforts to coax it out of the large container. Although it seemed to be alive, it, apparently, had no desire to escape from its plastic prison, and it fought me every step of the way.
But I persisted. I knew that, as unappetizing as it was right now, the gut-wrenching goulash would be even more nauseating after a couple of days in cold storage.
Sadly, however, a few moments later, I heard footsteps coming, and I knew I was about to endure an onslaught of temperamental theatrics.
As you can imagine, my spouse was less than pleased when she turned on the kitchen light and saw me grimly grappling with the gruesome, ghastly gristle over the garbage can.
Allow me to pause and offer a few words in my defense. I admit that, at first glance, my actions might seem a little harsh, but during our marriage, my wife’s culinary challenges have sent me racing to the ER on multiple occasions. Consequently, I, for one, do not take food poisoning lightly.
With a dramatic flourish, the love of my life snatched the container from my hands (even though there were still several globs of glutinous glop left to go in the garbage). She then made it abundantly clear with a deafening diatribe employing colorful language – most commonly uttered in locker rooms by men with beer guts who need to shave their backs – that I would be fixing my own meals for the foreseeable future.
Not a problem.
I was unmoved by her thundering threat because, although I always try to resist bragging, when it comes to cooking, I am AMAZINGLY ADEPT at opening cartons of fudgy crunch pistachio ice cream and pushing the popcorn button on the microwave.
I’ve got this covered.
Marital Madness 