Last weekend, I made for dinner a recipe I’d found while trolling food blogs, one that sounded incredibly family friendly and sure to be enjoyed by all. And it looked ridiculously easy, so win win.
Well, it was a little more labor intensive than it first appeared, and it took a teeny bit longer to cook since I had to work in batches, and it needed just a smidgen more oil than prescribed. But it all came together, even if I did ultimately resemble that woman in the Rice Krispies treat commercial from back in the day, the one in which she throws flour on her face and adopts an exhausted look before serving the treats, only my exhaustion and flour spackle were real. So I dished it up.
I’m not sure if my Hub took a bite or just looked at the food, but he quickly stood up and went to the refrigerator, returned with a bottle of sweet dipping sauce. Mind you, this dish was made with copious amounts of honey glaze. I stared at him. He did not get the picture. I stared some more.
“Why do you need that sauce?”
“I don’t know. I just thought I needed it.”
“So you think it’s not good enough and needs to be covered up with sauce? My cooking sucks?”
I could tell at this point he knew he was caught, but he wasn’t willing to give in. I saw the wheels start to turn and the armor go up. He continued to defend his sauce staunchly, saying something about just needing a little more of something, hemming and hawing until this came out of his mouth:
“I’m not saying I don’t like it. It’s better than some of the other things you make.”
Oh, no, he didn’t.
Oh, yes, he did.
Now, I know I’m not the world’s greatest cook, and I don’t claim to be. I completely understand that everybody has their own tastes, and sometimes a little ketchup is called for. But that’s not the case here. Honey glaze, people. And the man has a sweet tooth, let me tell you.
Once upon a time, early in my parents’ marriage, my mom made fried chicken for my dad. He made an off-handed comment about how it was good but not as good as her mother’s. She didn’t make fried chicken for well over a decade.
He’s made several attempts to backpedal. But he’s still never getting that meal (or any of the other referenced ones if I ever find out what he was talking about) again by my hands. And I might just cut out some of his favorites for a good while as well.
Here’s a lesson to you husbands out there: don’t make nasty comments about your wife’s cooking, or you’ll get a one way ticket to Diet Town.