There are certain things that come easily to me. Writing. Numbers. Cooking. I don’t get them right all the time but I don’t give them much thought. They just happen. So I kind of expect them to just happen for those around me too.
Last night when my husband offered to make supper while I had the glorious occasion to go out for an hour with only the baby, I threw instructions at him for how to make chicken cutlets and some pretty basic rice. Fry the onions and mushrooms, add water, rice, some spices. Lower flame, ignore for 40 minutes, turn off. It didn’t seem complicated.
I came home and peeked in the kitchen. First thing I noticed was that the flame was off.
You know the flames not on I asked him. Yeah it was 40ish minutes he said. Taste it, I think it’s good.
I opened the pot cover and saw brown. Deep dark chocolatey brown.
It’s brown, I said.
Yeah that’s from the onions.
I took the spoon he proffered and gingerly entered it into my oral cavity.
Um. I said, pausing as I hoped for an epiphany that would assuage his ego while also being truthful. It’s burnt. And also raw.
Really? He asked with genuine surprise. But I worked so hard on it.
I guess that’s where he went wrong. Working hard is usually a mistake.
Postscript: In his defense, he does make a wicked steak and potatoes.