Culinary Cuisine Catastrophes by Calamity Jeanie

So, it began with my future mother-in-law asking me if I even knew how to cook. Maybe it began with my own mother’s training me how to cook. I mean, she instilled in me the concept that oatmeal raisin cookies were a hearty breakfast. As the oldest of four children, and the fact that Mom liked to sleep in, I was in charge of a “hearty breakfast.” And there’s oatmeal, eggs, butter, raisins, and sometimes nuts in oatmeal raisin cookies. It’s just so logical and right!

So, that’s the first thing I learned to “cook.”

Along came high school and I chose to skip Home Economics for an extra choir class and ended up taking Home Ec for summer school. The teacher assigned us to tables and each table had four students. Each table was further assigned to a course. My table was assigned to desserts.

So my recipe repertoire grew to include pies, cakes, cookies, and the finale was a Baked Alaska! I can throw together a Baked Alaska and have energy left over to go sit on the couch and watch reruns of Desperate Housewives.

When I got married, I was a Junior in college and one of my required classes was Home Economics 101. I got called in towards the end of the quarter because I was. . . . . FAILING!!!!! (And no cooking was involved). I had to convince the teacher that I was indeed domestic, and that I did things like iron my husband’s handkerchiefs and tried to iron his t-shirts but they kept melting into the iron, but I would persist.

Back to cooking. Being struggling and poverty-stricken college students, we went to a wholesale store and bought bulk food by the case. Cases of soup. Cases of fruit. Cases of vegetables. And the ultimate score was a case of Jello. In fact a case of strawberry Jello. A case of raspberry Jello. A case of lemon Jello. And I proceeded to invent about 101 ways you could have Jello. It was whipped, frothed, foamed, layered, fruited, molded, beaten, whisked, fluffed, shaped, diced – you get the idea.

I ventured into the main course cooking routine by following some of my mother’s advice (and I’m forewarning you that I don’t think my mother was a good cook – like you hear all sons around the world claiming that “There’s no home cooking like my mother’s home cooking!”). There’s her famous tuna noodle casserole (Boil noodles, add one can Cream of Mushroom soup (Campbell’s), one cup crushed potato chips, mix into bowl, cover with crushed potato chips, bake at 350 degrees for 30 minutes).

Hey, I like it!!! But Mechanic Man’s mother was REALLY a good cook and her idea of tuna casserole involved fresh tuna and nothing from Campbell’s and no potato chips. Eeeeeuuuuu.

So, to answer my future mother-in-law (who is now my ex-mother-in-law), I can do dessert! I am great at dessert!

And I have the main course thing figured out, too. Around time to start assembling all the ingredients for a good dinner, I start out to the kitchen and I mutter to myself out loud (so that Mechanic Man can hear me – this is a must), and I say something like, “I think I’ll do something with hamburger and Cream of Mushroom soup. . .” and Mechanic Man practically tosses his chair over trying to get out of it fast enough to beat me to the kitchen, slamming his hand over the cupboard door that holds anything Campbell’s and he’ll say “Um, I think I’ll start something-something.” And I return to the couch, my job done!

You don’t have to be a cook to have a successful relationship (and I’m not starving!)

~Formerly known as Calamity Jeanie, now Domestic Goddess~

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Never a Domestic Goddess Will I Be

I have decided that domestic talent eludes me. It is simply not a priority for me – it’s not in my genes. It passed me by on the conveyor belt of life’s attributes.

I should have a warning sign that goes with me wherever I wander:

WARNING: Failed home economics in college (a basic requirement course, Home Ec. 101); marry at your own risk.

I once was a wife. A good one. I know the qualifications and duties and job description. Now, I want one.

My husband often hinted that we should work it into our pitiful budget to have a housekeeper. Yeah, right, on an Airman’s salary. You betcha.

I have decided the only help for me is to get a wife. I am going to post my wish on eBay this very second: Wife Wanted. They should be lining up at the back door as I write!

Now that I am NOT married (and no we didn’t get divorced because of my cleaning skills), I still play the role of wife. I am in a relationship going on 22 years. He doesn't work. I do. He is an auto mechanic and a great cook. I am neither.

Housekeeping and cooking and decorating just weren’t up there on top of my list of amazing talents. Sweeping stuff under the rug had a unique meaning to me – like, really! I can do that? Okaaaaaaay.

Don’t get me started on my total lack of skill when it comes to cooking. O My!

Within five minutes of arriving home from a day of working (my significant other says I am just sitting on my tush doing nothing physically exerting), he asks the inevitable burning question, "What's for dinner." I silently groan. Ack! And then I run through my mind the three things I can cook – fried chicken, fried pork, or hamburgers. I suggest "chicken?" and he immediately says, no, that doesn't appeal to him. "What does?" I ask, knowing he won't have an answer other than "I dunno." I'll go to my next item on my short list and get the same answer. It's pointless.

Keeping the contents of the refrigerator on a constant rotating “freshness” scale was also beyond my skills. I have bowls and jars and baggies in my fridge that are camouflaging what used to be edible items. Sometimes, when I lift the lid to try and guess the contents, I think that it speaks to me. “Yo! How ya do’in?” said in a deep gravelly voice coming from leftover asparagus (maybe). The fridge is so big that things can be shuffled back and forth until the back row is two weeks to two months old. What is the shelf-life of leftover macaroni and cheese? They don’t teach that in Home Ec. Nor do they even talk about leftovers. The bane of my kitchen existence. Have you seen lettuce if it is stuck behind the cucumbers and onions and carrots and radishes for, oh, two months. I have to get a Hazmat kit out to remove it.

Then there is working with home grown vegetables – all good in their own right – except for cleaning them. Lettuce! Lettuce is filled with...... BUGS. I don’t like bugs. They are icky. I can wash them just fine but later when I put the salad bowl on the table, I can’t eat the salad because I know where each one of those lettuce leaves have been. With bugs. Eeeuuuuuu.

That’s just the kitchen. There’s the dusting, polishing, vacuuming, sweeping, and we haven’t even entered the bathroom yet – a gargantuan Petri dish if I ever saw one. Maybe my kids could use the bathroom for a science project – and get an “A”.

I want a wife! I want someone (other than me) to think of what to have for dinner, have all the ingredients at hand or magically appear at a snap of her (my wife's) fingertips, prepare the dinner, set the table, call me to dinner, and then poof!, go invisible while I eat. Then I want my wife to wash the dishes, dry them and put them away. I want a wife who will dust all the furniture as she walks by, multitasking as she goes – she is a miracle worker and can plan for dinner, dust the coffee table, and fix the tear in my significant other's jeans. Just.Like.That. The floor is spotless and shiny. The refrigerator is organized, clean, and everything is edible! The bed is fresh and made. My work clothes are clean, pressed, and laid out for me to just jump into.

My wife also does massages.

Yep, I want a wife! All applications welcome.
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