Monday, November 15, 2010

The Saga of Sunday Night Supper, The Battle of the Pot Roast

Dear Friends,

Sometimes being sick on the weekend has its rewards like not having to cook and cater to your significant other and I mean this in the nicest sort of way (sort of).  After all, how can I complain, I'm old school and it's my fault my paramour (I know paramour sounds too dramatic but it reads sexier than the old ball and chain) is a dud in the kitchen.  So, when he offered to cook me dinner last night I nodded weakly and waved my hand lightly from the couch (I always wanted to be an actor) and feigned sleep.  I'm going to play it smart this time and stifle my inner control freak and brace myself for the barrage of endless stupid questions about how many carrots to peel and what kind of potatoes should he buy and what pot should he use and on and on and on.  I know this war tactic only too well over the years; torment me with enough questions to awaken the control freak within so I'll throw off the veil of sickness and rush into the kitchen where I belong and save the day and cook Sunday night dinner.

WRONG!

The spoils of victory, a puny over-cooked pot roast 

It turns out that being sick and feverish with deliriums has enlightened my inner control freak.  I realized it's either a gift or a curse and I must choose my power wisely if I wished to stay out of the kitchen.  So, this time I gritted my teeth and kept my yap shut and let the endless questions roll off my back and left him to do the cooking, mistakes and all. War is never easy, I thought, as I listened to the wailing, and cursing and the slamming of pots and pans coming from the battlefield, the kitchen.  I love the smell of burnt pot roast in the morning, I told myself as I hunkered down on the couch under my blanket and waited for the siege to begin.

Never Show Weakness,

Rebecca

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