There is nothing, I repeat, nothing, quite like having someone else cook for you. Especially when it’s your husband.
He was inspired this week by taking part in a â€˜guest chefâ€™ event at the university where he works. In an effort to get the administrators out from behind their desks and in front of the students, various members of the faculty and staff have agreed to help cook, making omelets and hot sandwiches to order in full view of the students coming through the line. In return, the cafeteria staff gave him a chef’s jacket. Now he thinks he’s hot stuff.
To be completely clear, my husband has always cooked. When we were dating, he made delicious filet mignon at his apartment, and I was only a little put off by the side dish of hash browns with an egg on top. When the kids were small and I had evening meetings, he perfected his macaroni and cheese, his chicken parmesan, and grilled cheese sandwiches.
He even manages to think about bringing me breakfast in bed once in a while. When he gets past thinking about it to real action, it’s a treat to behold. Scrambled eggs with a dusting of cracked pepper. Toast with a dollop of my favorite blackberry jam. Coffee already prepared with a bit of cream. And, in the summer, a bud vase with a single rose from the bushes he and the kids planted once-upon-a-mother’s-day.
Tonight he reprised his chicken parmesan while I sat at the table pouring over a report. It was, of course, delicious, made special by the fact that I didn’t have to buy it, cook it, think about it or serve it. I just got to eat it. Oh, and, of course, I also got to clean up after dinner. This is, after all, real life.
That’s what’s been cooking in my kitchen. What’s been cooking in yours?