Here we go again.
It was bad enough last time that I had to cook for almost two weeks.
And now my husband, the chef, has had his other hand operated on, making two hand surgeries in quick succession.
And we all know what that means.
It means that cooking is up to me again.
Last time, I am proud to say I cooked a roast for the first time, managed to figure out how to use the air fryer and found some par cooked sausages in the freezer. These had clearly been left there because cooking them would have just been too simple for he of the gourmet cuisine.
I also served mignons, believing them to be lamb chops (who said I too couldn’t be gourmet?) and cut up copious amounts of salad vegetables. It was exhausting, especially on top of a working day.
I am used to coming home, sitting on the couch and asking what we are having for dinner. Isn’t that what we all do?
Honestly, having round two of carpel tunnel surgery is a pretty drastic way of getting out of cooking and using your hand in general. If he is sick of cooking, he could have just said.
He says he likes to cook and what sort of wife would I be to deprive him of this great pleasure? If he wants to watch cooking shows and learn new stuff, try out new sauces and recipes, it would be poor form for me to stop him and not to sample his innovation along the way.
And now he has ceased yet again in just a few months. I hope this doesn’t mean the writing is on the wall (written in sauce of course).
It has only been 43 years that I have been allowing him this daily pleasure. Surely he recognises this generosity on my part.
If he hasn’t, then I suppose the knowledge that the alternative is endless meals out, multiple takeaways and baked beans on toast has kept his mouth shut.
This cooking is for the birds (unless it’s the chook in the oven).
Two weeks of it last time nearly killed me. I turned to my friends for sympathy, telling them about the relentlessness of thinking of something to cook, night after night. I told them they would have no idea.
They laughed. Apparently there are lots of people whose husbands are this inconsiderate and some don’t cook at all. Who knew? Perhaps these are the ones adept at working a vacume cleaner, something so intricate that my husband can’t fathom at all.
All I can say is thank heavens he only has two hands.