From a domestic goddess to the meal coordinator

From a domestic goddess to the meal coordinator
                        

I did not start out in our marriage like I should have. Even though Facebook was a long way off, I was following a favorite author who was a stay-at-home mother. She published three books on cooking and homemaking and even had a monthly newsletter in the late 1970s and early 1980s. I still have all of them.

Anyway, she made homemaking sound really good. She was organized, her pantry was always well stocked, she made delicious homemade meals every single day and, of course, her house was always clean because she was on a weekly cleaning schedule for her home.

I could be Little Mrs. Homemaker. It all sounded so good. There was just one small problem. I had a full-time job at the time. Guess what? Those just suck the life out of any grandiose and delusional plans you have of domestic goddess greatness.

Although I have a sparkly tiara to prove my domestic goddess status — bought it myself at the mall — this homemaker thing just has not worked out, and it seems to get worse as the marriage goes on.

About 18 years into the 45-year marriage, I discovered some food allergies and intolerances that were affecting my health. It was me feeling good or them, so those problem foods had to go. Therein lies the problem because these foods are the ones that make food taste better and make cooking a little easier, and I sure miss casseroles.

My husband Joe does not like my cooking anymore. Of course, he doesn’t hate it so much that he is actually going to start cooking for himself. He just wants to retain his right to complain that I am no longer cooking stuff he likes.

That is right. If I can’t eat it, I’m not going to waste my time making it. And as good as my willpower is, it’s not perfect. A few years ago, I wanted to make Joe some of his favorite butterscotch cutout cookies for the holidays. I did good; I did not taste any of the dough. I cut out the cookies and baked them — so far, so good.

Then it was time to frost them. I mixed up some delicious frosting with real creamy butter, milk, real vanilla and fluffy powdered sugar. I really shouldn’t even have one molecule of that; sugar is my kryptonite.

I am frosting the cookies, and some of the frosting is getting on my hands. I wiped them off a couple of times. I’m not going to eat any sugar, not me. Well, maybe I’ll just taste it. It smells really good, and I can’t remember the last time I had any frosting.

Oh wait, it was that restaurant dessert, a fudge overboard, that was responsible for putting me overboard and finally led me to seek the help of a specialist.

But one little taste isn’t going to hurt. Mmmmm, that frosting is just heavenly, so probably one more little taste isn’t going to hurt, and one more and one more. By the time cookie frosting was done, all those little tastes added up to at least a tablespoon or more of frosting. I sure paid for that a short time later and was sick for days. Now I just purchase cutouts for Joe at the bakery.

So in that same vein, I’m always on the lookout for precooked food Joe likes to eat but I won’t touch. Grocery stores, food trucks, restaurant takeout, family get-together leftovers, church and charity dinners — I’m there.

Here’s how I put together a recent day of meals. I had an out-of-town interview in the morning at a village that has a grocery store I like but don’t get to often. After the interview I went to the store and bought a few things for Joe — coleslaw, pickled eggs and beets, and a small ham loaf. At my next stop closer to home, I stopped at a barbecue food truck and bought Joe his favorite mac and cheese bowl with pulled pork, and I bought a pound of pulled pork.

For lunch Joe had the mac and cheese bowl, and I had some pulled pork (no sauce) and grapes. Then for supper the extent of my cooking was to put some drained canned potatoes into a pan with butter and dried parsley flakes until they were heated through. Joe had some ham loaf slices, potatoes, coleslaw, and a piece of bread and butter. I had some more pulled pork and grapes and the potatoes. I don’t care if I’m eating the same thing back to back for days in a row. I’m eating, and that is what is important.

At mealtime it’s getting much rarer that we are both eating the same thing or even something I’ve cooked. Keeping up the ruse I’m actually a domestic goddess or even a cook is not realistic. I do my best, but from here on out, I’m changing my household title to meal coordinator.


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