You'd think that after more than five years of marriage my wife Katherine would accept that I just don't want to do it. Anything but THAT.
"But you said you would," she said the other day.
"No, I didn't! When did I say I would?" I said.
"Before we were married," Katherine said.
This rather heated exchange took place in the kitchen.
I say 'heated' because I was in front of a very hot oven at the time, and I was decked out in a lead-lined apron, a welding mask and asbestos gloves up to my elbows.
"I never promised anything of the sort before we were married," I stormed.
"The only thing I ever promised was to lick the mixing bowl until death do us part.
"I NEVER said I would actually cook."
This is my recollection and I am sticking to it.
I also never promised to be:
When Katherine first met me, I suspect she thought I had real potential as a culinary genius.
After all, I was in my mid-30s and had been caring for myself for more than 18 or so years.
And yes, I could cook.
My baked bean and ham sandwiches, which I prepared for myself every day for work, were the envy of my workmates.
I knew good food.
Katherine obviously sensed this because I had an extensive knowledge of what was on the menu of nearly every fine restaurant we went to.
Then we were married and the truth came out.
I did not so much come out of the closet, as go out of the kitchen.
Fortunately, Katherine CAN cook.
No recipe is too difficult or exotic for her.
No main course is uncookable; no cake is unbakeable.
(Perhaps that's the reason why I refuse to acknowledge promise No#2).
Every now and then, I offer to HELP Katherine in the kitchen.
More often than not, I am given the task of dicing the onions.
And just as often, she tells me: "This recipe is soooo simple. I think you could do this."
"Look, I told you: I can't cook," I say.
"I'm happy to help sometimes but please, please, please, don't make me do it myself."
"But you promised," Katherine says.
"No, I didn't! When did I say I would?"
"Before we were married."
This always leads back to the mixing bowl she uses for making chocolate muffins, and the hotly disputed questions about who has licking rights. I love chocolate muffins. You could say I'm a student of chocolate muffins (you can call me stud-muffin for short). I like them when they're cooked but I like to sample the uncooked mix too.
Alas, our son Jack, 4, gets the bowl more often than not now.
But I remember a time, before he was born and even up to about two years ago, when it was mine, ALL MINE.
"Why do you have to keep on about the mixing bowl?" Katherine asked again the other day.
"You should think yourself lucky that you got to have it until you were nearly 40 years old.
"Lots of men have their children in their early 20s and never, ever see a mixing bowl gain."
"Hey," I protested. "The difference is I deserve a reward because I sometimes help you in the kitchen."
Katherine eyed me up and down, a bit like the way she used to before we were married.
Perhaps she was impressed by my attire: the lead-lined apron, the welding mask and the asbestos gloves up to my elbows.
"Help me!" she said.
"Why are you dressed like that then? We have oven mitts, you know!
"I don't need you to weld the oven. All I asked you to do was get the muffins out."
©October 3, 2000 John Martin. All Rights Reserved
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