My Husband the Pot Head
A huge, heavy box arrived today, containing yet more evidence of my husband's mid-life crisis.
From the box came the four biggest pieces of cookware Calphalon makes, to add to David's already impressive collection. I suspect it took two UPS guys to get it to the front door. I can't lift half the skillets. (I think that's what you call them.)
In a dishrack on the counter, Dave has lovingly arranged eight tempered glass pot/pan lids vertically in descending size order, like some kind of gleaming musical instrument.
"This one was free," my born-again foodie hubby purred, straining to lift a silver saucepan large enough to easily accommodate a cocker spaniel.
"That's great, honey," I responded, guesstimating that the massive utensil might allow us to prepare two boxes of Hamburger Helper at the same time.
I don't dare ask how much he had to spend to get that freebie, but I suspect we are now Even Steven on the Broadway show tickets I purchased online, when I unflinchingly clicked the "best seats available" button.
Having little interest in cooking myself, I maintain that David was sent to me from Heaven above. I've made a mental note to clean out the side of the kitchen cupboard that I have stuffed with craft supplies since the kids were in diapers. The least I can do would be to help make room for these massive tools of culinary artistry. Maybe even some groceries.
My mom was right: the way to a man's heart really is by way of his stomach. Even if he's the one doing all the cooking.