The Good Country Wife

If my husband had known moving out to the country would cause me to cook more, we would have moved out here the day after we were married. Cindalicuous says “Just because she moves out the country for five days she thinks she knows about cooking.”  

Well that’s what women who live in the country should know about right? So I am going to make myself and expert on it.

My knowledge of cooking is amateur at best. In the year and few months that I’ve been married my husband has continually ask me, “When are you going to learn how to cook?” I like and self respecting woman, responded the same every time. “I DO KNOW HOW TO COOK!” This was followed by a doubtful look on his part.

Part the issue of both of these comments is one; I do know how to cook. Two, I don’t know how to cook a lot of ‘black’ foods. Collard greens, grits, ham hocks? The first time I truly knew what those foods tasted like was under my husband’s tutelage. The flips side of this; I have caught the hubby measuring the ingredients for Kraft macaroni and cheese. Who does that? Someone who had never made boxed macaroni and cheese before he met me. EVER. Shocking.

Here is where our culinary worlds collide. Me, I have the basic skills. Give me any recipe; I can follow it pretty well. Everything created is edible. Him, if it doesn’t have to do with meat and potatoes, with a few added veggies, he’s not cooking. He’s probably not eating either. Snacks are the only meal where meat is not included.  What a carnivore.

But there are amazing creations that come out of our differences. Like Italian salad with steak and spinach. Delicious. What about double dipped Smokehouse Maple Chicken strips? Yummy. 

Tonight’s dinner menu was apple and sage pork chops, honey acorn squash and apple dumplings. Impressive huh!? Cue the clapping.

If you saw how I went about cooking you wouldn’t be so impressed. My rolling pin was a can of Pam, I almost seared my foot while switching the pans for the dumplings, and EVERY counter was covered in cooking apparatus. I did take a moment to show the hubby a proper cooking clean-up routine.

Me:“Hey baby come look at this.” 

Him: “What?”

Me, while wiping down counters and loading the dish washer: “This is how it’s done, cleaning the kitchen while your food is finishing.”

Him: ‘Yeah. You’re a toolbag.” (Or something along those lines. Football was on so he didn’t pause long enough to see the beauty of the kitchen.)

That’s what I get for being the good country wife. Supper was splendid. Desert was scrumptious. He’ll thank me later.

She Beats Me

“She beats me.”

My husband mentions this to the cashier in passing. I roll my eyes and respond by looking apologetic.

“He’s joking,” I resolve to hit him later as we walk out the store.

“See! I was telling the truth!” Not a tear in his eye, wielding the widest smile ever. He’ll be ok.

My husband’s humor is why I was drawn to him in the first place. Some days it’s the reason I refuse to talk to him. Tonight is the exception, he is on a roll and I am talking crazy right back.  

“I don’t think I’ve given you the right to speak.” I smack him in the belly and laugh as he yells “Why are you hitting me?!”

“She beats me.” I reply. He had conveniently told one of my co-workers this today. I’ve decided to do just that every time he says an off-the-wall comment. 

“You know spousal abuse is the number one reason marriages end in divorce.” Smack. He yells again.This has honestly been going on since he got home. Then we decide to make breakfast for supper at nine thirty at night.

“You better not let the eggs get brown; if you do I’ll have to beat you!” 

“Riiiigght,” Is my response. He rules me with an iron fist and teddy bear hugs; the latter is why I am not close to being frightened. 

To be honest, he never has me frightened. Mostly because he’s my rock, my teddy bear, the one person who lets me rant and nag and still loves me afterward more than he did before. I know he won’t admit it, but I know it’s true. Because he knows me that well, so well that he knows when I buy him something to eat for work there will be a huge bite taken out of it. So well that before I open my mouth to nag he says “before you start biting my head of…” Insert any defense, ridiculous or not, under the sun. I have learned to fire right back at him. 

“You should stop giving me quotes to fuel my blog with.” 

He snorts. “This is not going on your blog.”

“Yeah, that’s what you think.”

“Yeah you do just want to portray me as a fool.”

“No, you are seriously funny,” I am trying to make him feel good about it. He says I never listen to him; in this case he is right. I will still quote him. Funny means more reads, besides the girls love it.  I tell him this.

“Well, you shouldn’t do that then, if you want to keep me.”

What? This one is definitely come from his huge kettle of BS. 

“Why is this?”

“Well, they will all fall in love with me,” The explanation when further and in more detail about how this whole scenario would work, but I have vowed to keep the overly explicit quotes out. Personal preference, but I wouldn’t want to jinx my marriage.

“Yeah, but you love and are married to me.”

“Yeah, will see what happens after you post your blog.” Geez…what at SA, gotta love him anyway.