Each evening it happens. We go through this anticipated, indispensable, domestic ritual that leads us to something that we have titled–dinner.
One comes home from work, methodically goes to the refrigerator and retrieves multiple items (that make no sense together), sets them atop the counter, and starts this flurry of chopping and opening and closing of doors and cabinets, complete with sound effects of sizzles and pops and smells that trigger memories from childhood. It’s this symphony of food prep that unfolds into this glorious meal from products that one purchased and stuck in their fridge.
I don’t get it.
It’s sooooooo ridiculously time-consuming. It takes what seems like an eternity to fix this masterpiece, twenty minutes to round everybody up, at least another ten to set the table, another five to shout threats throughout the house to those that have chosen to push the limits of the chef and his utter need for seating promptness, and 6 and a half minutes flat to ask everyone how their day was (because that’s proper) while frantically shoveling down the food.
Sometimes, I have to wonder if family members have uncovered this magical secret on their plate saying (If you eat the fastest while acting interested in everyone’s day, and then get your plate in the dishwasher first I will give you one miiiiiiillllllllion dollars)
Finally, upon completion comes–the best part–you get to spend four times the amount of time it took for the preparer to prepare the food to get your kitchen back the way it was (like nothing ever happened). Thank you very much you über chef Obie Wan Kenobi.
I just don’t understand the freaking point. I would be just as happy eating a half-frozen tube of cookie dough while hovered over the kitchen sink. The way I see it, you are eating eggs (healthy) and saving the environment at the same time (no dishes to wash or dispose of). And certainly less time-consuming. Hello!!
My kids certainly know better than to ask me what’s for dinner. They know that question comes with a default answer of “Ask your father.” BUT, if they asked me what shelf the marshmallows are on, the odds are very good that they will get the answer they are looking for.
What’s even more frustrating is that my husband is the Yoda of cooking.
I can take a box of macaroni, painstakingly read the directions fifteen times, make sure my measurements on the half stick of butter and third cup of milk are exact and still end up with something that makes my kids say, “Dad makes this better.” Really?
Is cooking well something that is simply in your genes? If so–I am one chromosome short.
Sorry kiddos, Dad’s out-of-town. Pizza????????