Be Glad You're Not My Husband

Here's what I served my husband for dinner last night:



Okay, Everyone, say it with me: "Poor guy!"

While perusing my cookbooks the other night I came across a recipe for a dish called "Hot Browns". I've never had a Hot Brown before but I had to serve this dish! I envisioned myself stirring something at the stove, all sexy in my heels and belted house dress calling out gaily, "Honey, your Hot Browns are ready!"

My husband, of course, would be off in another room, perhaps the laundry room, wrench in hand fixing some broken appliance. He'd be wearing a fitted white t-shirt that showed off his rippled biceps, sweat glistening on his brow, a look of determination on his face. I'd take one look at him and we'd forget all about Hot Browns...

Just kidding, Dad!

Anyway, that was just my Hot Browns fantasy; the reality was quite different. In reality I was standing at the stove wearing jeans and coated in flour. I'm not one for heavy, flour-based sauce dishes so I'm not sure what I was thinking when I chose this one--it was virtually tasteless. In fact, it just occurred to me that the sauce had the taste and consistency of paste. Wait--doesn't flour go in paper mache paste? Did I serve paper mache paste sandwiches last night? I completely forgot about fixing any side dishes since the recipe I had for Hot Browns was so confusing and complicated (Hot Browns are open-faced turkey sandwiches with bacon crumbles and brown gravy--don't ask me why this was so confounding to me). I finally remembered and warmed up some Tots (I love Tots and will even serve bowls of them at parties). For good measure I set some snow peas up to steam and forgot about them until they were wilted and mushy.

We sit down for dinner and it's the moment of truth. Since I love Tots so much, I happily eat those first and am thus oblivious to what's going on next to me. I finally turn to ask my husband how he likes his Hot Brown only to realize that the turkey and paste have conglomerated and stuck in his throat. I can literally hear him talking around the sandwich as he chokes out, "It's good! Good!"

Encouraged, I take a bite of my Hot Brown. Four minutes later, after I manage to swallow it, I declare, "Honey, this is disgusting!"

"No, it's...(cough cough)...goo--(choke)--ood!" My husband wouldn't hurt my feelings for the world. I start to wonder if I should slap him on the back to help him choke it down. Just in time, he clears his throat and declares, "Really, it's very good."

"Honey, I could literally see that ball of scourge make its way down your windpipe! Look at the greasy Tots and the limp snow peas! Ketchup doesn't even go with turkey! In no way could this meal be considered "good".

Finally, he relented. "Well...it's not your best..."

"Done!" I jumped up and dramaticallly tore up the recipe.

We still cleaned our plates. We'll eat anything (forget that little tidbit the next time you have me over for dinner and I tell you that you're cooking is awesome, ha ha!)

Today I had to go to the doctor and my husband stayed home to wait for the garbage disposal repair guy (which had nothing to do with the Hot Browns, by the way). When I got back, I busied myself with wall-mounting the ironing board and iron holder (I can find one million projects that, at the time, are more important than studying for the GMAT) (I mean, whatever would I do if my ironing board weren't mounted to the wall right this minute!?)

Anyway, my husband kept saying that he was going to pack up and go to work but then continued sitting on our porch, researching his next laptop. Hours go by and, just as he gets up to leave (I'm on a ladder somewhere at this point) I hear him say, "Oh, we have some packages" and open the front door.

Meanwhile, I'm thinking, "GO TO WORK, HUSBAND! YOU'RE NOT SUPPOSED TO SEE THAT I AM SPENDING YOUR HARD-EARNED MONEY ON FRIVOLOUS THINGS!"

Anyway, I tear down the ladder and affect a casual stroll into the kitchen where he's examining two boxes. I take one. "Oh! This must be my new cookbook!" I declare since, after last night, it can be considered a legitimate purchase. Then I hear him say, "Custom Fortune Cookie Company...what's this?"

Oh crap! I spin around and tear the box away from him. "Nothing--it's nothing!" I say as I fling open the pantry door and toss the box inside. Shutting the door behind me, I lean up against it and conjure up a lie, "It's part of your Valentine's Day surprise and you just ruined it, Nosey!" (no, it's not).

"Well don't worry, I have no idea what's in the box!" he assures me and he means it.

"Really!" I challenge him, "You have no idea what's inside a package from the 'Custom Fortune Cookie Company'?"

A slow smile creeps across his face. "Ahhh..." is all he says. He's beaming.

"Double crap!" I think to myself, "Now I have to find some way to give him a freaking fortune cookie on Valentine's Day."

Okay, so some background here: Like I said, the fortune cookie isn't for Valentine's Day. I can't tell you all what it's for (in case Husband reads this blog) but it's definitely for him, just not on Valentine's Day. Now, to throw him off the trail, I'm going to have to serve fortune cookies on Valentine's Day. I HATE fortune cookies! Also, where am I going to get another custom fortune cookie without ordering one!? With my luck, he'd probably be home when that box arrived as well.

I decided that I am going to get takeout Chinese one night and hijack the fortune cookies before he gets to them. Then I am going to present them at Valentine's Day and act all offended when the message "isn't what I specified when I ordered them."

Yeesh--the lengths I must go to deceive my husband. I'm beginning to feel like I Love Lucy!