Well, besides the visual, is it’s a fricking health hazard. Here’s the deal. While I’ve been busy trying to meet my writing commitments on all fronts, Honey has offered to pitch in and help. How you may ask? He’s cooking.
I know, I’m stunned too. Here’s a culinary smattering of what’s been going on.
This is me an hour past the time when we usually sit down to eat. “What time’s dinner?”
Honey. “When the rice is done.”
My stomach’s grumbling. “Great, we’re having rice? What else are we having?”
“Baked potatoes and pork chops.”
I walk away, biting my tongue and hide the scales. Hell-low starch overload. Welcome to my thighs.
Two nights later:
Honey calls from the kitchen, “There’s something wrong with the chicken.”
This is me. *sniff, sniff* “Chicken? It smells like burning plastic.”
He sounds aggravated. “I know that, and I also know roast chicken’s not supposed to smell like that. At least yours doesn’t.”
You know I have to get up to investigate. “Well, something’s burning. Did you take off all the wrapping?”
He glares. “I’m not two. Of course I took it off.”
*Insert me thinking here* before I ask, “What about the bag inside the bird. Did you take that out?”
“F*&ing h*&ll there’s a bag in the stupid thing? Do you have these secrets written down somewhere or something?”
I smile blandly. “If I wrote them down they wouldn’t be secrets, now would they? So, um, big fat no on that I’m afraid.”
There’s me staring down at my white plate, my white fish, my white rice and my white potato. “Do you have something against vegetables, or what?”
He examines his plate. “What do you mean? A potato is a vegetable and there’s red and green peppers in the rice.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “You know what I mean. I always make a balanced dinner. Rice and potato? It’s like the same thing. Starch and starch. And, I hardly think a few bits of mushy red and green pepper in the rice counts as a serving, either. I’m not even going to go into why you chose to make Spanish rice with the grilled cod.”
He shrugged. “I had my reasons.”
And I knew what they were – at least one of them. “One of those being because it came in a box with Uncle Ben’s sure fire instructions attached to it?”
He smiled. “Yeah, that guy has no secrets.”
He ponders for a moment and then says, “Actually, no it’s not. It doesn’t have to be. Sure, my dinners aren’t perfectly balanced like yours, but to use one of your writer-type analogies. If art were a straight line we’d have no Picasso.”
Me *Blink. Blink* Damn.
Am I the only one who thinks this makes all kinds of sense?