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The Husband - whom I love more than life itself - can't cook.

He's doing good to get milk on his cereal without help.

Now, His Mother swears he can cook, and is a very good cook, but now I have spoiled him and he's become helpless and lazy.

I like her.

So many time - so many times - I have heard, "What do we have to eat?" And I will say, "Well there's a few kinds of cheeses in there, we have great rolls, there's freshly shaved turkey breast in there..." And you would swear I am speaking to him in Swahili because his face contorts with confusion as he can't quite put together what I am trying to say.

I have often thought of inventing tags for the food, kind of like the Garanimals clothing of my youth. You remember those right? You could dress yourself by simply matching the animals. A shirt with a giraffe on the tag matched the pants with the giraffe on the tag. You would never, say, put something with a Lion tag with an elephant tag or it would send your mother into fits.

Anyway.

So today I get a phone call.

"Babe - I just called to tell you that I made myself a sandwich."

"Good for you, honey."

"No - I don't think you get it. I made a sandwich - with bread and meat and cheese and lettuce. I made a sandwich!"

"Mm Hm. That's great, sweetie."

"I don't think you're taking this serious enough."

"Would you like me to call The President? Or perhaps gather up the neighbors for a block party?"

"Sigh."

Ok, now. Here's the thing. The man once served as a United States Marine. A trained killer. A defender of freedom. He was fine and fierce. He used to belly crawl through the jungles and skip over land mines and ride on Zodiac boats in the Indian Ocean for the sheer thrill of it all. And all that time he made gourmet meals out of grey globs of food that came in brown plastic packets.

And now the man wants me to be excited because he finally got up the skills to make a damn sandwich.

Which, I do have to admit is huge. My pantry and refrigerator are full of morsels of goodness but he will stand for hours upon end opening and closing the refrigerator door, I think praying each time he opens the door a ready-made entree' will fall into his lap.

I said to him once, "There was a time when you saved a village from an evil dictator - why is it you can't make yourself a simple snack?"

He's an artist now and full of creativity and brilliance.

But I think I am going to have to booby trap the kitchen with barbed wire and hand grenades and dig his old flack jacket out of storage.

And then maybe his next phone call will be to inform me he's made quiche.

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Posted by Foodwhore at August 17, 2004 12:09 AM