When I was a child, my grandparents lived around the corner from our house. We were lucky enough to spend a lot of time with them. I absolutely adored and loved them with all my heart. My grandmother was an amazing matriarch with a loving soul and a sharp tongue. She was brilliant and compassionate, witty and practical and if I can ever be half the woman she was, I will consider myself a phenomenal success. My grandfather was a devoted and hardworking husband and father, brother, uncle and grandfather. His generosity knew no bounds and his heart was always in the right place.
The two of them raised nine children, only five of them their own. They suffered terrible losses and celebrated every joy. My grandmother started raising her brothers at the tender age of 11 and did not send her last child out into the world until she had reached the age of 53. By then, she already had a small army of grandchildren.
My grandfather served during WWII, came home and joined the FBI. After finding out he would have to travel extensively and leave his young family home alone, he left and joined the NYPD. Twenty years later, he still had a houseful of kids so instead of actually retiring, he went and got a job as a bank teller. He retired from there after 20 more years, as the president of the north shore division.
And suddenly, they had the house to themselves. More than 40 years after saying, “I do,” they were finally, blessedly, alone.
My grandmother decided that my grandfather, with all of his new-found free time, should learn to help around the house. In particular, she suggested that he be responsible for putting together one meal per week.
As the story goes, my grandfather took the job very seriously. I don’t remember the particulars. Like, did he shop for the meal himself? Did he choose a recipe or just wing it? One thing I do know is that he must not have reviewed the menu with my grandmother because the night in question, he came to the table, proud as a new poppa, and put a lovely looking steak on the table. He looked at my grandmother expectedly.
“Looks good.”
He enjoyed that comment.
“Where’s the rest?”
He did not enjoy that comment.
“What do you mean, the rest?”
I’m sure you can imagine where the conversation went from there. There was no vegetable dish, nor a salad. There was not a potato to be found. I’m not even sure he supplied napkins or silverware. There was just a steak.
My grandmother retold this story with dismay and we all laughed and laughed. I, myself, have shared the same story on several occasions, marveling at my poor grandfather and his silliness. After half a century of eating dinner, who would make such a ridiculous faux pas when preparing it?
Fast forward about 30 years. It’s the first day of school. The sun is setting around 7 at night and I’m in my kitchen, staring at my husband. He’s showing me the tomato and cucumber salad that he’s prepared. I’m not sure why he has created this dish, as there is a nearly identical salad, sitting in the fridge.
“That one has onions. It’s a completely different beast.”
I think this is insane, but I’m willing to let it slide. Though, we probably could have appeased the onion-haters among us with the large vat of already-sliced sweet peppers, also in the fridge.
Next, we reviewed the dinner he was getting ready to pull from the oven, which was chicken cutlet parmesan. I know this because I had spent the time between when I got home from work and when I ran out to pick up a child from school and take her to two hours worth of dance class, making bread crumbs, breading and pan frying cutlets I had just beaten and placing them in two baking trays, which I then prepared with sauce and cheese, covered and refrigerated. All that was required, to complete the cooking process, was to put them in the oven.
Why the cutlets were not yet ready, I did not understand, as our return time had been discussed on at least three separate occasions. But things happen. Sometimes, we forget to pre-heat. And sometimes, a clan war is about to begin and time slips away as we stare at our cell phones and worry about a fake, cartoon battle that in no way effects our actual life.
It’s okay. There was plenty to do around the house while I waited. I suggested to my husband that perhaps I could put a touch of oil on the pasta, to prevent it from sticking. After I saw a look in his eye of pure terror, and he did much cursing, he assured me that he could start the water right now and the spaghetti would be ready in no time.
We all know this is a lie. Water boils amazingly slow on a good day. When you are waiting for it to boil, it’s like Chinese water torture. You’re just waiting, slowly and painfully, to die as the water mocks and torments you.
No problem. Really. There are two tomato and cucumber salads, some peppers and two trays of chicken. The timer finally beeps and he removes a tray from the oven. Then closes the oven door.
“Where is the second tray?”
Again, a flash of that terror, “What second tray?”
“The one that was right next to this one IN THE F’ING REFRIGERATOR!”
It’s possible that at this point, my patience had come to an end. It’s also possible that I began mumbling, not quite discreetly, as I went to get the other tray from the fridge, about my husband and his horrific dinner prepping skills.
After all, this is a man who has extensive intelligence. He is partially responsible for the structural integrity of hundreds of buildings throughout New York City. He can understand and compute complex mathematical equations with very little effort. He is a leader and a teacher. But ask him to put a pan in the oven and boil water at the same time and he freaking short circuits.
It’s not like I was unprepared for this. We’ve been down this road before. I am aware that he is not capable of remembering more than one chore at a time. To counter this problem, I text him. They serve as handy little reminders, as well as effective anti-divorce tools. Here is the series I sent that evening.
The first text included the recipe: My dinner plan for tonight. http://www.food.com/recipe/chicken-cutlet-parmesan-with-tomato-sauce-280563 I will try to have it ready to just pop in the oven. (Which I did)
Text two:
Can you make a pound of spaghetti with dinner?
And just in case our arrival time had escaped him, I sent this helpful text:
Leaving Mattituck now.
And yet…
Thankfully, a good wine pairing makes it all better. Try the chicken cutlet recipe. It’s really, really good. I haven’t made the sauce that she suggests so I think you could use any that you prefer and it would still be delicious. And don’t forget the wine. According to Food Network, this dish is perfect with a nice Sangiovese. Coincidentally, a nice Sangiovese is also perfect for keeping your husband alive. Delicious AND practical. I’m a big fan of multi-purpose items.
Laurie Nigro, a mother of two, is passionate about her family, her community, and natural living. Laurie resides in downtown Riverhead and is co-founder of the River and Roots Community Garden on West Main Street.
Write to Laurie:
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