Wednesday, May 19

Husbands Just Don't Understand

And, yes, for the record, there is nothing innately wrong with the word "husband," as there is with "wife."

After plying me with a bottle of wine, Adam said tonight, "There's nothing in the house for dessert." I remind him that we have individually sealed bars of biscotti, but he takes a quick look at them and tells me, "Uh, no we don't." I still can't figure out how those bugs got through the plastic wrap, but there you go. These are things I'm better off just not thinking about.

"Make cookie dough!" I suggest. Adam, surprisingly, agrees. Adam does probably about 50 to 70 percent of the dinner cooking in this household, but generally, I do all of the baking. I learned why when Adam had difficulty stirring the chips into the dough. But that's not my point here.

The dough is made and Adam begins to put it in nice neat rounds on the cookie sheets. I of course dive in with my spoon. "What are you doing?" asked Adam. "What do you think?" I responded, licking the creamy goodness from my spoon. I will say, stirring ability aside, Adam makes a mean cookie dough.

I'd retreat to my computer and then return for more dough. "Stop doing that!" yelled Adam. "It's not good for you! You're a mother now! You have to eat well." (Correction: Adam just said, "It's not that you have to eat well. It's just that you can't eat things that will poison you.") I just don't understand his problem. It's not like I said to him, "Hey, Adam, make cookies!" I was very explicit. "Make cookie dough." It's not like I care what happens to the dough once I'm done with it.

(Note after the fact: I am, actually, eating one of the cookies. And it is good. Not as good as the dough was, but as good as a baked cookie can be.)

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