I can count on one hand the number of times the Husband has cooked for me in the whole of our relationship. The first time was seven years ago, soon after we had moved in together. I came down with a terrible cold, sure I was dying, and he made homemade chicken soup. It wasn’t very good, but the effort and thought behind it made it the best soup I’d ever had. Even now, just thinking about it… I’m in love. That was the first time I realized this is a really good man.
And once he made scrambled eggs. Now those were good. He cracks eggs right into the pan and scrambles them that way while I crack them into a bowl and whisk, etc. Then he adds a little salt and pepper, some cheese… Simple, sure, but really good. (Why does everything taste better when someone else cooks?)
He also baked a cake from scratch for my birthday two years ago. It was a yellow cake with chocolate frosting and he used pink icing to write “Happy Birthday.” It was touching. He could have picked up a cake from any local grocery store, but decided instead to make it himself. There’s a chance I actually
threatened requested him to do so, but since I can’t remember, I’m not admitting anything.
Now, I don’t cook much either. In fact, it’s become a bit of a sore spot for me. See, I actually enjoy cooking (for people who appreciate it) and I think the Husband does. Appreciate it, that is. However, sometimes he appreciates a little too quietly and I start to become this quivering mass of resentment and the cooking habit begins to die a slow, painful death.
These last few days I’ve been happy to cook for him. (I’ve been happy with just about everything to tell you the truth, and when everything feels like sunshine and rainbows, it tends to show through my oven.) I’ve even started preparing his lunch for work. Apparently, while I wasn’t paying attention, that become the cool wife thing to do.) But no sooner did I start cooking again did those same old thoughts start to creep in, reminding me that he won’t even scoop the fucking ice cream.