OpEd

Guess Who's Not Making Dinner

It's not that I don't enjoy cooking -- on the contrary, I love fiddling around in the kitchen. I watch Martha Stewart religiously, or whenever I remember it's on. However, I believe a dinner created by me is a gift and therefore should never be taken for granted. Because of this, my husband never knows if there will be a meal in the works when he comes home. He wisely keeps a supply of frozen pizzas in the freezer just in case. If I do happen to be cooking, the meal may be ready within minutes of his arrival, or it may be a couple of hours off. And, there's a fifty-fifty chance I'm cooking something he will deem edible.

I read somewhere that keeping a man guessing maintains some smidgen of mystery in a relationship, which will keep him faithful. I think this was referring to sex, but I figure it must be applicable to food as well. If that's true, my husband ought to be right up there with Paul Newman (he has been faithful to Joanne, hasn't he?).

When I first met my husband, I promptly revealed all of my faults. I wanted to enable him to make an informed decision about whether to start a relationship with me. I let him know I am stubborn, cranky when tired, and not particularly neat. When my new man admitted his last girlfriend had prepared all of his meals (including packing him a lunch at the ridiculous hour of 4 a.m.), I informed him he would never be so lucky with me. In my opinion, that girl was psychotic and should be committed, purely on the basis of irrational meal preparation.

After the birth of our first child, my husband's chances of receiving home-cooked meals did not improve. I did have every intention of cooking dinner. I was, after all, at home for two months of maternity leave. Here was my chance to be the happy homemaker. But, something always came up -- the baby needed to be fed, or I needed a nap, or some great movie was on cable. And he just had the knack for coming home at awkward times. Who's idea was it to send our husbands home at 5 p.m. anyway? I personally think 7 p.m. would be much more reasonable. That way, I could squeeze in a trip to the Super Mall, and he wouldn't have as much time to mess up the house.

Becoming a freelance writer gave me a valid excuse for not cooking dinner. I may be home all day, but I'm working. As I am a notoriously poor time manager, dinner is completely out of the question when I have a deadline. And I like to have lots of deadlines. Sure, the girls and I have to eat, but we see nothing wrong with cold cereal for dinner. The dog will eat anything: slugs, plastic, cat poop, you name it. My husband, on the other hand, thinks every meal should include meat, preferably fried in an inch of grease, and at least one potato dish. Vegetables are optional, and salad is a garnish.

My man, bless his heart, doesn't complain much about the lack of hot meals. He's proud of me and of my accomplishments. However, that hasn't prevented him from the occasional attempt to convert me into June Cleaver. He thought he was on to something when he realized that whenever we have company, I turn out a gourmet spread. He started calling me from work to say he'd invited so and so for dinner. I fell for it once. The second time I said, "Great! What are you making?"

By Jillene Magill-Lewis.
Jillene is a pharmacist, freelance writer, mother, wife, vizsla owner, minivan driver, and closet cookie-dough eater.