What sound do you fear the most?
What sound causes you to freeze in your tracks, your muscles locking down as your neck votes for flight and the arches of your feet tense for fight?
When Husband and I met, we were independent, fully capable adults who managed to feed ourselves daily – sometimes more than once. In fact, he cooked two of his “never fail date meals” for me before we even dated, and I cured him of his turkey aversion simply by carving in front of him
ME: I made turkey – I mean, it’s one of those just-the-breast deals, but. You want some?
HIM: No thanks. I don’t actually like turkey.
ME: Okay. (starts carving up the remainder to put away)
HIM: What’s that?
ME: … Tur-key?
HIM: It’s wet. Why’s it all wet?*
ME: (sighs) Let me get you a plate.
So clearly, we’re perfectly capable of going to the grocery store, buying foodstuffs (ingredients, as opposed to food – and there is a difference; if you don’t believe me, ask a college student) and using the kitchen to produce a meal that is nutritious and edible.
Why, then, do we end up with so many takeout containers in the bin every week?
Well, there’s the classic “what’s for dinner” discussion, which goes something like this:
HIM: What’s the dinner plan?
ME: How about one of these perfectly easy and convenient options?
HIM: No, none of those.
ME: Then you suggest something.
(two hours later)
HIM: So, seriously, what’s the dinner plan?
ME: (incoherent screaming)
What’s that? You want specifics?
Where, oh where is the trust?
HIM: Taco Tuesday?
ME: We’re having duck tonight, but we could make duck tacos!
HIM: (pulls face)
HIM: I’m not a fan.
ME: Of duck tacos?
HIM: Of duck. You know I don’t like duck.
ME: There’s something wrong with you.
HIM: That’s why I made the duck face.
HIM: (laughing) I love you!
ME: Prove it.
HIM: (duck face)
Because he works so far from home, I do ask that Husband call or text me when he’s leaving work so that I can either start dinner or have him pick something up on the way home. This was a brilliant plan of mine, if I do say so myself, and it’s been working great.
When he follows the plan.
HIM: So what’s the dinner plan?
HIM: (flops into my favorite green chair wearing an expectant look)
ME: Right. At 5:00 I had a dinner plan and you were like “nope, I’m coming straight home!” and then you were here and it was “sorry, got to go change and then sit here and stare at the internet” and now it’s 6:34 and you want food in or on your face or maybe just rubbed directly on your belly – applied topically, what the hell – and you want that to happen without any involvement or effort on your part. Have I got that about right?
HIM: Yeah. Let me narrow it down for you, though.
HIM: The food should go in my belly. Through my mouth.
What’s the sound that sends your will to live running for the hills?
For me, it’s the voice of the man I love more than lilacs and chocolate innocently asking me,
“What’s the dinner plan?”
*I didn’t fully understand for a few years. Until I had his mother’s turkey. It was like watching someone cut plaster. Old plaster. In a dusty room. It was basically a sandcastle turkey.