I whip up some yummy orecchiette and sugar snap peas and cook the roast exactly as directed on the package. I can’t cook meat, but I can read with the best of ‘em. The kids gobble it up so we can all go back to the fun, girlie crafts that have been planned for our estrogen extravaganza. Dishes are washed and we are up to our elbows with glue, wire, pipe cleaners and glitter. I get a text from my husband asking if we want him to pick up Thai. I laugh, because had we waited for him to eat, the girls would have ritualistically sacrificed me to the Lucky Charms Gods in their hunger depraved state. I let him know about the scrumptious dinner we enjoyed earlier in the evening and welcomed him to enjoy some of the leftovers.
He comes through the door with a feral look in his eyes. “I am freakin’ stahvin. Can you heat me up some of that steak and noodles? Don’t even bother with whatever yucky vegetable you ate. Because I hate it.” I pry the gluestick from my fingers and proudly reheat the remnants of tonight’s masterpiece. Serve it up on our finest plastic ware. He begins to eyeball it, rotating the plate around in his hand. “Tracy. What is this?” “Um. I don’t know. Some sort of steak thingy? I got it at Trader Joe’s. The girls loved it!” He begins to inspect it like he’s discovered vacuole from ancient protozoa. He slowly says “Just….how….did you cook this?” I blush. “I followed the directions exactly.” Still looking at the comestible he says “You didn’t grill this, did you?” “Nope.” “Did you fry it on the stove?” “Nope.” “Just how did you cook this?” “Um. In the microwave. Just like it says to on the directions.”He tosses aside the odious meal. He says “Lena. Emmeline. Your mom microwaved meat. That’s it. We’re taking her out back to ‘Old Yeller’ her.” The girls cheer for some unknown reason since they have neither read nor seen Old Yeller. And he wonders why I don't cook.