There are a lot of things I love about my husband – the gifts he’s brought to my life have been many. At first, some of them were subtle. For example, the first time he slept overnight at my house on a work night my house mate Jules and I awoke to a brand new experience in the form of an interesting new obstacle in our living room complete with its own accessory. I came across Jules clutching her robe around her and staring blearily at it in stunned disbelief.
“What is it?” she asked, miffed.
“Not a clue,” I responded.
“It obviously came with Charles. Does it live here now?”
“Apparently.”
“Maybe it could…not? I don’t need to see stuff like that.”
“Don’t worry - I’ll talk to him.”
Turns out the ironing board and iron were both mine. Our uni-lifestyle coupled with a love of wash and wear clothing meant we’d never actually pulled it out before.
Domestically he was reasonably well trained. He’d managed to keep his room tidy amidst the chaos of a group house that was so filthy I refused to sit on the couches or even break my stride lest the crud start creeping up my ankles. In this respect I wasn’t disappointed – he moved in and managed to tidy up reasonably well after himself. He even tidied up after Jules and I which was quite impressive.
There were other issues to contend with as we slowly integrated out lives. I thought moving in together would be a simple transference of his one bedroom out of the group house into my mobile home. I was confident that two trailer loads would do it. Turns out Charles’ accumulations amounted to far more than one bedroom.
“I’ve got my whole degree,” he announced brightly, yanking an enormous box out of the linen cupboard.
“Er…yes, I know. In information technology.”
“No I mean my whole degree,” he said flipping open the box, “Every lecture note, every assignment, everything.”
“But why?”
He looked at me then like I was mad. In vain I reasoned and pleaded but in the end it simply came down to practicalities. I lived in a mobile home with two bedrooms apart from the Master. Jules occupied one and I told him that he could have the other but I simply couldn’t make the place any bigger than it was. Somehow (and I suspect it involves having played a lot of tetras in the past) Charles made most of it fit. A lot got thrown out – including most of his degree. As soon as I related this story to his mother she looked at him keenly and asked whether he’d finally be taking his boxes out of their attic as well.
Apart from the sheer volume of stuff he comes with, the only other hiccup in Charles’ domestic training was cooking. Here he was clueless. He knew how to cook one thing (and I use the term “cook” loosely as each time it would take me an hour of boiling and scrubbing the saucepan to clear the charcoal from the bottom) – a tomato-based casserole boiled to within an inch of existence that he would parcel up and freeze individually – eating one portion a night. I was unimpressed and uninspired at the prospect of eating the same thing every single day and so cooking duties fell largely to me until I got a job working from 4pm to Midnight in a media company.
To his credit he tried. His first attempt was vegetable soup – which I’d asked him to make because it was quite simple, filling and tasty. I gave him some brief instructions over the phone – dice the veggies, boil in stock, blend if you want your soup to be smooth. I was thrilled when he showed up to share dinner in the form of a blended vegetable soup with me. Then I tasted it. And spat it out.
“Good Lord, what on earth did you do to it?”
“What do you mean?” he asked, hurt, “I made it like you said.”
“That is not how I told you to make it!”
“Well….I might have added some curry paste for flavour.”
“But it tastes like fish!”
The eyes darted a bit.
“I might have added a tin of tuna as well.”
“But it’s meant to be vegetable soup. And I don’t eat fish!”
“Well I thought it needed some protein!”
That night we wound up eating hot dogs from the servo. Charles’ next attempt at cooking was satay lamb. I okayed this one on the proviso that he follow whatever recipe he was using to the letter. I was pretty confident when he showed up with dinner that we were onto a winner. The rice was fluffy, the satay smelled great. Then I tasted it.
“DON’T tell me that there’s anything wrong with it!” Charles exclaimed, before I could say or do anything, “I followed the recipe and it’s very tasty, so just eat it!”
I sat staring at him, a mouth full of dinner, trying to will my mouth to form a protective barrier of saliva around the offending mouthful so I could tolerate it until he’d had a chance to taste it. The salt level of the food was aiding me in this quest and my saliva glands were powering up to pressure hose capacity in an attempt to defuse the critical situation in my mouth.
Charles, eyeing me carefully took a bite. Instantly his eyes went wide and he spat it straight back out.
“You don’t have to eat it,” he said quickly and I immediately spat mine straight back into the bowl.
“What did you do?” I asked, blinking back the tears.
“I don’t know. I did everything the recipe said!”
“But it’s so salty! How much peanut butter did you put in?”
“The whole jar…” he whispered.
That night we wound up eating hot dogs from the servo. I am still confident that I would have suffered kidney failure if I’d managed to down that mouthful. He called me later and admitted that closer reading of the recipe had called for two tablespoons of peanut butter and he’d used a 500g jar. He’d made a huge amount of the abominable stuff and it was decided that the dog would get it all. But even after we washed all the sauce away she just looked from the bowl to us and back again in a completely bemused way, looking more confused than usual, which is quite difficult for her to do given that she is quite a vapid animal to begin with thanks largely to a steady diet of marijuana smoke when she was a puppy (not from me, but from the home I rescued her from).
Unfortunately these little adventures into the epicurean world relegated Charles to the backseat in our kitchen for years afterwards. He couldn’t be persuaded to try again and even when I asked him for assistance with my own creations he’d get cagey. It didn’t help that I was raised on a farm cooking in a wood stove. I was quite comfortable cooking without time and temperature guides and knew how to check to see if something was done or not. Charles hates this method of cooking. To Charles cooking is scientific, formulaic and accurate. If a recipe says bake for 40 minutes at 180ºC, then that sucker is getting cooked for 40 minutes and at the end it comes out – regardless of whether it’s still sloshing around in the tin or it’s been baked to the same colour and consistency as a hockey puck. And if it’s a GOOD recipe then it should be properly cooked. To date the only recipe he’s found that he can do this with is, ironically, ANZAC biscuits.
So for years I have been the resident cook and, theoretically at least, Charles washes up. Over time he’s gradually increased his abilities and he quite often helps out in the kitchen but it’s rare for him to take the lead unless it involves his beloved Weber, which is a thoroughly scientific and wholly reliable exercise.
Now we come to the point of this week’s blog entry and the reason for the title above. I have already told you how Charles has been forced to take my place in the domestic duties of late, while I work at becoming a swim teacher. And it has been a rude shock for him. Impressively, rather than simply hold the fort and manage the kids, leaving the other duties for me when I come home, Charles has manned up and decided that he will achieve everything that I achieve on the domestic front. Including the making of dinner, often at the end of a day of looking after children.
And the results are incredible. We began with country potato and bacon soup. At first, it was looking dicey. The soup was far too watery, the bacon and onion were on their way to incineration and I had an attack of the giggles that wounded his pride horribly. Amazingly he managed to yank it all together and I found myself dining on the best potato and bacon soup that I’ve ever had the pleasure of consuming.
From there things have only gotten better. There has been lamb casserole and lamb steak in minted glazed. Plans are afoot for stuffed chicken breast with macadamia and honey glaze. He has followed the recipes religiously to their conclusions and every time has been a success. His confidence is growing and on one occasion he even realised that the dish had finished cooking and he pulled it out before the allotted time was up (for me this is the most incredible achievement of all because my man is a stickler for the rules). Charles is rightfully proud of his success but he was quick to indicate that he didn’t think he’d ever be able to be an intuitive cook who fiddles with recipes like I do. I was quick to reassure him that he’s selling himself short. He has an excellent sense of taste and with time, he will be able to adjust dishes to his liking. I have every faith that he will quickly surpass my own efforts.
After all, he’s only cooked a couple of meals so far and they’ve been a raging success. Even Charlotte tucked in to the lamb with mint glaze without complaint. And that’s really saying something.
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