It was my turn to make supper. Howie and I had finished a feast of corn pudding, spinach soufflé, mashed potatoes, biscuits, and tapioca. After we’d cleared the table, I gazed at the counters covered with dirty pots, pans, dishes, and utensils.
“I think the cook shouldn’t be expected to wash the dishes,” I said. “We should take turns.”
Howie looked around at the counters, where there wasn’t room enough for another dirty glass. “You do use more dishes than I do,” he said quietly.
My idea of preparing food is to lay out ingredients all over the kitchen to create something that suddenly pops into my mind. I’ll open the fridge and cabinets and pull out what might work in anticipation of some one-of-a-kind feast.
Howie’s idea of dining is simplicity and efficiency. In his bachelor days he fine-tuned his meal-making into a one-quart glass measuring pitcher. He can concoct breakfast, lunch, and when it’s his turn to cook, an occasional dinner in that pitcher. He points out that, using his one pitcher, he can mix, microwave, eat, and clean up afterwards a great deal faster than I can.
Howie has a point. Considering the problems we have with our dishwasher — the latest being a mouse-bite in a critical water-bearing pipe during the pre-Christmas family visit (see my post on Inanimate Objects) — hand washing one pitcher beats cleaning up my spread.
In my favor, though, his quart pitcher could never have fed Duncan, our six-foot-five, 205-pound hockey playing grandson.
In the No Words Necessary category, here are two photos of the kitchen, post-Cynthia (top), and post Howie (bottom).
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