I Love My Place in the Kitchen

cooking, marriage and appreciating the penis

I hated that Hubby Jeffrey didn’t know where the peeler was until I loved it.

I was happily annoyed at Jeffrey. I’d roll my eyes when he didn’t know how to change the setting on the oven or I’d groan when he put the cheddar back in the fridge without first sealing the package ensuring that I would have to toss out the cardboard, moldy, processed cheese. I was blissfully irritated.

Then he left his job

At first when he offered to cook a Chinese stir fry using Carissa-friendly ingredients I knew I was the luckiest wifey alive. But then he started cooking every night, elbowing me away, telling me that I should string the carrots not slice them.

I realized I had 1 job in this house that I cherished, and it was being taken away from me. I loved cooking a healthy dish every night and serving Jeffrey after a stressful day at work. I adored the cooking, cleaning up along the way, and setting the couch for dinner, with forks and napkins laid out on the ottoman. (“Comfort food” for us was not macaroni and cheese but eating while propped up with fluffed pillows. A table and chair were old school.)

Homemade gluten free, dairy free, sugar free Babka. It was about 10 lbs and tasted terrible but at least I tried.

The Argument

5pm
Me— I’ll start cooking.
Jeff— I already planned the menu.
Me— I don’t want another Wok meal.
Jeff— You don’t like my cooking?
Me— You’re kicking me out of the kitchen.
Jeff— No I’m not.
Me— Not literally.
Jeff— I thought I was being helpful.
Me— You have your miter saw. I have my Henckels.
Jeff— Is that what this is about? My wood working? I can make room for you in the garage.
Me— I get cold in the garage.
Jeff—I’ll set up the space heater.
Me— It’s not about the garage.
Finally—
Me— I love my place in the kitchen!

Realizing this could have been an ad for a 1952 O’keefe & Merritt oven, we laughed uproariously. The only thing missing was a crinoline skirt.

Jeff— Ah. You get a lot of enjoyment from cooking.
Me— You charged in and took charge.
Jeff— It’s what I’ve been doing for 30 years at work. I guess I need time to recalibrate.
Me— We can compromise.
Jeff— How about I rustle them pots and pans 3 times a week?
Me— How about I let you know when you can cook?

We agreed.

My kitchen Myself

• The kitchen was my sanctuary. I knew when I was running low on tin foil because I had X-ray vision and could see through the box.

• I knew which Tupperware bowl was missing a lid and I refused to throw out the bowl with the bath water because it was a perfect size and I could mix a small salad in it. (I know, mixing “bathwater” with salad seems gross, but it’s a mixing bowl metaphor?)

• I memorized the placement of each bottle in my vitamin/supplement drawer. When Jeffrey couldn’t find the vitamin C I let him in on the big secret. “It’s the bottle that says, Vitamin C.”

Instead of a bone I threw him a knife

I allowed Jeffrey’s knife sharpener on the counter. Whetting knives was the one task I avoided so I appreciated Jeffrey’s deftness with the blade and electric device.

I gave in to the cutting board having a permanent home on the counter with crumbs that meandered under the juicer and mixer. He loved his bread, ate toast 14x per day, so, it was just easier. I had to pick and choose my clean up battles.

(An aside. We have a bread box but never use it because a dark container encourages mold, so the bread resides outside the box. Whoever thought that a dark box would keep bread fresh? The dog’s cookies are preserved in there but they don’t mold.)

The Penis

I had an old friend in NYC, a hilarious stand up who once told me that when a light bulb burned out, she’d yell across the apartment to her hubby, “I need a penis!” I knew exactly what she meant, and her clairvoyant hubby immediately retrieved the step stool and a new bulb.

Changing a light bulb, hanging a heavy picture, killing a spider the size of a Buick, moving boxes to the garage (my life currently) is when one might take advantage of that non-toxic masculinity. Of course, when Jeffrey is away on business, I’ll kill the spider (or if possible, usher it outside) and I’ll happily sit in the dark. The penis is good for many things—the obvious ones obviously. But when I think about the many years Jeffrey and I have been together, taking care of a house and raising kids, the testosterone came in handy. When Samantha was 4 and our private nick name for her during a tantrum was the Tasmanian Devil, it was Jeffrey who held her tight in his arms, Samantha kicking, spitting, growling and biting, until she calmed down. The memes of dad arms are for real.

Okay, this one is extreme. Over the railing catch and I’m guessing divorce papers awaited when he got home.

And not once was I able to put my kids on my shoulders, especially as adults.

Son Dylan, age 24ish, helping dad pick black berries.

We’ve found our way around MY kitchen. Jeffrey happily and expertly prepares a Wok stir fry about once a week and I’m his sous chef, cleaning sauce bowls the moment he dumps the contents into the Wok. He’s also in charge of “stringing” the carrots.

The silent arguments linger as we allow the garbage can to fill until we can’t close the garbage drawer.

Unspoken: “You swap out the bag.” “No, you.”

I guess replacing the garbage bag is the last job hold out of our marriage. Although the penis does carry the heavy garbage and recycle bags to our cans near the street.

I’m back to cooking delicious, healthy meals for myself and my hubby. To some, I am the annoying dutiful wife but I will gleefully shout from our shingled roof top, I love my place in the kitchen!

And when Jeffrey left a used plate in the sink I cheered, “We’re back, baby!”

P.S. I applaud successful couples but give a standing ovation to single parents.

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Let’s chat

1. Dine in or Take out?

2. Do you have a favorite room in your home?