Tell a FriendLeigh AnneLeigh Anne Jasheway ~ Queen of Stress

My Husband Cooks Dinner - A Short Play

The Setting: My house, 5:30 Wednesday night. I am sick with a cold, as you can tell by the fact that Iím sitting on the couch huddled beneath a mass of blankets, tissues, and snoring dachshunds. My husband is darting from room to room, with a look of fear in his eyes, as he becomes increasingly convinced that he may not be fed.

Me: Honey, would you mind cooking something for dinner? I feel lousy. (Actually this comes out more like "Mmhonmy, wond you bind cookimbÖ")

Him: Okay, what should I cook?

Me: I donít know. Whatever you can find.

Having been given a mission, my man is off and running. I hear a door slam open and stuff being tossed about noisily.

Him: I canít find any food at all.

Me: Where are you looking?

Him: In the pantry, where else?

Me: What color is the door?

Him: Yellow.

Me: Honey, thatís the laundry room. Did you notice the washer and dryer were in there?

Him: Yeah. I thought that was weird, but I know how moody you get when I suggest you move things around in the kitchen.

Me: Why donít you try the cabinet next to the refrigerator?

Him: Okay, but I wish youíd have said that in the first place. (A pause) Oh, hereís something. Lima beans.

Me: [Gagging noises.] No, not that. Iím sick enough already. Besides, I was planning to give those to the Boy Scout canned food drive next week.

Him: But I like Lima beans.

Me: So do the Boy Scouts.

Him: Hey, how about macaroni and cheese?

Me: That sounds fabulous. (I breathe an audible sigh of relief, having narrowly averted the Lima beans.)

Him: Where are the pans? Wait, donít tell me, I can find them.

He sticks his head around the corner to smile at me reassuringly.

Me: Theyíre in theÖ

Him: No, I want to do this on my own!

It only takes two minutes for him to narrow down the hidden location of the pots and pans (right next to the stove).

Him: Victory is mine!

There is a long pause.

Me: Is everything okay in there?

Him: Yep! Just reading the instructions.

I am, of course, dumbfounded. This is the same man who ended up with a pocket-full of screws and washers after putting together the entertainment center because, as he said, "Instructions are for girls."

Him: [Reading] Bring six cups of water to a rolling boilÖ Whereís the measuring cup?

Me: You really donít have to measure the water. Just fill the pot about ¾ full.

Him: I want to measure it.

Me: Next to the blender on the second shelf over the dishwasher.

He runs water and then measures it cupful by cupful into the pot.

Him: [Reading again] Bring six cups of water to a rolling boilÖ Honey, whatís a rolling boil?

Me: Maybe I should just come in there andÖ

Him: No, I can do this. I just wanted to knowÖ

Me: Just boil the darned water until thereís little bubbles everywhere.

Him: Well, why didnít they say that instead?

This is the point where I, exhausted from the cold and from producing The Great Macaroni and Cheese Caper from the couch, fall asleep. Suddenly, I feel something pressing into my shoulder. Itís my husband, poking me with the handle of a spatula so he doesnít catch my cold.

Him: Itís all boiled now. It says to add butter and milk. We donít have any.

Me: [Wishing he hadnít interrupted the dream I was having in which I was eating at a fancy restaurant and no one asked me any questions about preparing my food]. I use olive oil instead of butter. Itís good for your heart.

Him: Okay. What about the milk?

Me: Donít we have soy milk in the fridge?

Him: Oh, I didnít know you could use soy milk. It should say that on the package. "May be prepared with olive oil and soy milk."

Me: At this point, I donít care if you make it with Nyquil and vodka, I just need something to eat.

Him: Okay, Miss Grumpy.

He goes back into the kitchen. I hear stirring.

Him: Are the dishes clean or dirty?

Me: I donít know. Look at them.

Him. They look clean to me.

Me: Then letís just call Ďem clean.

Then, voila, he comes out with a bowl-full of steaming hot macaroni and cheese. Itís green and gritty, but at this point, Iíd eat wallpaper paste. Which, in fact, is what it tastes like.

Him: So, how is it?

Me: Great, honey. Thanks, youíre an angel.

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