Obviously, after forgetting to feed my husband I was determined to razzle dazzle him with my extraordinary culinary ability.
The problem was that I was embarking on what I considered a whole new world when it came to food…
White people food.
I had no clue what white people ate for dinner, and I had no clue what to feed the white man I had married!
Growing up there were three different meals. Rice and meat, spaghetti, and steak, corn, and potatoes. That was it. That was all I had in my recipe arsenal. That and brownies from the box.
Now I don’t know how white people do dinner. But I know what I imagined white people did for dinner. And I imagined that there were 5 course meals, evening attire and a dancing candelabra every. single. night.
How would I compete with a dancing candelabra?
Yeah. I didn’t know either.
After spending the entire day agonizing about what to cook I decided on some sort of baked chicken and pasta recipe. And garlic bread. From a box. And maybe I could dress Nala up in a blue sport coat, like the Beast.
It would be magical.
I begin cooking, thinking that I’d be finished and could head off to a date with a friend. Surely I’d have enough time to prepare a meal, savor the delicious food and enjoy a witty conversation. Right?
No. There wasn’t time. I was pacing around waiting for the chicken to finish cooking and anxiously watching the time. Oh dear. How do I make the chicken cook faster???
Let’s pause, shall we?
You probably think that I’m going to turn the oven up higher and eventually have a burnt mess on my hands, right? No, no, friend, I’m going to go ahead and take the chicken out even though I’m kind of iffy if on its doneness! That’s right. At this point in the story I’m about 5 minutes away from serving my white husband potentially fatal white meat. Theese ees not good.
I throw everything together, yell for Mark to eat his dinner, and dash out the door to meet my friend.
About an hour into hanging out with my friend The Thoughts begin to bombard my brain…
Was that chicken cooked enough?
Was my husband dying of food poisoning as I yukked it up all night?
Does he have a life insurance policy?
I hope not.
If he dies because of my accidentally undercooked chicken that I conveniently didn’t eat I am going to look so freaking guilty!
I am going to jail.
I got home and saw that he seemed to be fine. He was alive, anyways. And he didn’t seem hungry when we got to bed. I refused to eat the stuff because I didn’t want to risk the possibility that my concious self wanted Mark alive, but that my subconcious/dissociated personality may want him dead by way of uncooked chicken. Nope. Wasn’t gonna risk it.
My first home cooked meal was one paranoid mess after another, and I pretty much refused to cook for another month. Thus the gaining of 20 pounds and an exorbitant piece of the financial pie going to McDonald’s.