***
There is nothing better than a good home-cooked meal, and when we were newlyweds, I thought the food was even better if I wasn’t the one who had to cook it.
Of course, as you can imagine, that opinion did not sit well with YOU KNOW WHO. And although it is an undeniable fact that I am hopelessly inept in the kitchen, my wife still stubbornly clung to the crazy notion that I should assist with the preparation of meals.
So, early in our marriage, to keep the peace, I changed my attitude. And when I say I changed my attitude, I mean I threw my heart and soul into the daily debacle. I became committed to doing everything I possibly could to HELP.
A brief definition of the word HELP is in order:
* To render assistance in accomplishing a task.
* To aid and support someone’s efforts.
* To cooperate effectively with others.
Okay. I admit, I’m 0 for 3. But that doesn’t slow down my eager exuberance! What I lack in skill, ability, and know-how, I more than make up for with supreme overconfidence that has no basis in reality.
Therefore, because I am a world-class, clueless, clumsy klutz (you thought this would be easy to read), the kitchen is the perfect place for messes, mishaps, and mayhem.
During the course of our long marriage, I have started multiple fires. (Curtains seem to be particularly flammable.) I have blown fuses and shorted out appliances. (Once I actually managed to cause a neighborhood blackout.) I have sliced and diced my way to the ER with countless cuts and lacerations. (The nurses know me by my first name.) I have given my bride food poisoning on multiple occasions. (There is something about retching that makes her surprisingly cranky.) I have even – oh, what’s the point. There’s no sense in rehashing old news.
Let’s move on.
As you can see, my bride is well aware that I am a dining disaster just waiting to happen. Consequently, no matter how good my intentions are, to this day, my spouse still gets aggravated every time I bleed on the countertop. (Needless to say, wielding a sharp carving knife with reckless abandon when you can’t walk and chew gum at the same time is a little risky.)
With that being said, allow me one moment to brag. I am beyond proud to say that even after years of culinary catastrophes, I still have all TEN fingers. (Well, for the sake of accuracy, make that nine and a half.)
Even after years of putting up with my near-death experiences, my wife continues to become unduly frustrated when she has to stop chopping up chicken so she can apply life-saving pressure to my hemorrhaging wound. Nevertheless, I have nothing but admiration for the ambidextrous dexterity she has developed through the decades.
Out of sheer necessity, she has learned how to tie a tourniquet with her right hand while flipping burgers with her left hand. Of course, when I eventually become lightheaded and pass out, she has to gingerly step around me – but, luckily, my bride is very light on her feet. Such a small annoyance never interferes with her ability to whip up a tasty dinner, I always enjoy after regaining consciousness.
Sadly, my long-suffering spouse has slowly become resigned to the fact that, for some inexplicable reason, there’s just something about me using sharp objects that always unleashes significant bodily harm. Over the years, everything from scissors to hedge trimmers to nail guns has caused me untold misery. And don’t even get me started on the unfortunate “incident” I had with a chainsaw. Yikes!!!
However, it is THE KITCHEN that remains my nemesis. Sadly, I suspect that the love of my life is starting to have grave doubts about whether or not my enthusiastic efforts to assist her are worth the bother or the blood stains.
But when it’s all said and done – surely, I’m better than no help at all, right?
Marital Madness 