July 15, 2002

• †µ†µ†µ†µ†µ†µ†µ Qu'il mangent de la brioche †µ†µ†µ†µ†µ†µ†µ
  
  
  Many moons ago, when I was going through what people like to call The Formative Years, there was a tv show called 'Butterflies' on in England, which, incidentally, is where I was busy being Formed.
  
  The programme was about a middled aged married mother with two grown up sons (who lived at home) and who also had a secret lover.
  
  Except that towards the end of the series he wasn't really secret; her husband had a pretty good idea something was afoot. And he wasn't really her lover either. Not in the way that you're imagining, anyway.
  
  The thing was, she was bored and facing a mid life crisis; she needed SOMETHING to bring life back into her humdrum dutiful existence. But throughout the series she never became quite convinced that Leonard (nice guy who rather spoiled it by being too keen to get her into bed) was what that SOMETHING was.
  
  Her slightly depressing but otherwise nice guy too husband eventually senses that undercurrents are a-swirling and tries to win her back.
  
  Her two sons leave large piles of washing for her to do but are rarely in the house. And when they ARE in the house the older one, who's about 20, with tousled hair and cheeky grin and always has girl troubles, just takes her for granted even though he's a nice guy too. And the younger one who's a bit skinny and doesn't have tousled hair or a cheeky smile OR a girl, which troubles him as well, he's doing pretty much the same thing while all the while being a nice guy too.
  
  Did I tell you that she was nice too? She was, you know. Everyone in the show was nice. Troubled but nice.
  
  Well apart from Leonard. He wasn't exactly troubled. He was rich and just wanted to get his end away.
  
  But Rhia (that was her name), apart from being awfully nice and long suffering and all that, had another quality which became a recurrent theme.
  
  
  She was a terrible cook.
  
  Just about everything she tried her hand at came a cropper. Every episode. However hard she tried to follow the recipe, the end result bore little resemblance to what was promised in the book.
  At first apologetic, she gradually became more defiant; daring them to say anything...
  
  But the point was, her family never complained. Oh yes, looks were exchanged, there were close ups of faces trying to disguise incredulity, but they never said a word. They all loved her.
  
  And I loved them for loving her. For being nice.
  
  Which allows me to segue somewhat lopsidedly into tonight's topic.
  
  
  
  
  My Wife's Cooking
  
  
  Now before you say a word about me having a word, I have two words for you :
  
  Don't.
  
  It's me that's alone out here in the trenches, not you. It's all right for you lot and I'll tell you why it's all right for you lot; it's because you lot don't have to eat it.
  
  It goes like this.
  
  Because of my job I don't get home until between 9:30 and 10:00pm most nights. By which time my wife has gone to bed with the kids. Having left what's left of the family supper on the table for me to return to 3 and a half hours later.
  
  Now I don't know how many among you are familiar with the concept of congealed spaghetti carbonara. Let me just assure you that it's not a very pretty sight. Or coagulated vegetable stir fry? That's my personal fave. How many of you have to come home from a hard day's work to that, I wonder? And have you ever noticed how deep fried fish sort of loses its gastronomic appeal after being left on the table for a few hours? And regains absolutely none of it by being reheated in a microwave?
  
  If I'm extraordinarily lucky, my wife might come downstairs and carry the plate over to the microwave for me (Look! I'm cooking your supper!); otherwise it's left to me to do the honours.
  
  But the issue at play in my mind is this. Why can't I be more like Rhia's family?
  
  I complain an awful lot to myself. Many's the night you'll catch me muttering grumpily under my breath, but I rarely actually complain. Because I know exactly what will happen.
  
  †µ?@Another typical conversation where Bob's Left Nut resides.... †µ
  
  She : You didn't eat much. Didn't you like it?
  
  He : Well,...
  
  She : Oh. So you're complaining about my cooking are you?
  
  He : All I want to say is, some food is meant to be eaten right when it's cooked. It doesn't stay tasty long and you know that I prefer not to have food like that for my one proper meal of the day. (Notice how I didn't add '...although I know how hard you work preparing my supper'?)
  
  She : So I have to cook something different just for you? I'm too busy.
  
  He : Well then I guess I won't be eating too much at night then.
  
  At which point she goes off in a huff to watch her variety show on tv and I come in here to write to you.
  
  Is it like this in your homes too?

  • 11:52 am
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