In the book Cold Sassy Tree by Olive Ann Burns, there is a discussion of how pious a character is. It goes something like this:
“She’s so religious she asks God what to cook for supper.”
“Honey, every woman on earth asks God what to cook for supper now and then.”
I remember this exchange every time I stand in the produce section of the grocery store, wondering what to fix for dinner. I would probably ask for divine inspiration if I thought it would do any good because although I do really like to cook, I just flat get tired of trying to think of what to cook. I'm so desperate for ideas that I ask my husband what he'd like for dinner at least once or twice a week.
I say desperate because every time I ask the man what he'd like to eat, he says one of two things. Either white bean chili or clam spaghetti.
It’s like those are the only two dishes he can ever remember that I cook. Either that, or those are the only two things I cook that he likes, which I find hard to believe.
I’m a decent cook. I can cook full-on Southern and I can do crunchy-granola hippie. (I actually used to make my own granola, but that was another lifetime ago.) I can do low fat, vegan, vegetarian, carnivorous, and child-friendly. I’m versant with what I call Florida cracker cooking, which involves a lot of fish and game as well as your breads made of corn, and I can do a few passable ethnic things as well.
So I can and do cook a lot more than white bean chili and clam spaghetti.
So why can’t the Man come up with more than two suggestions for a night’s menu?
I’m not sure. If pressed, he will offer to grill something. This always cracks me up because he presents the offer as if it would take the entire responsibility of the meal off of me. As if grilling some sort of protein over a fire means we don’t need a salad, some vegetables and some sort of grain or bread to go with it. Since we don’t eat much meat these days, there’s not a whole lot he can grill anyway and don’t tell me that grilled eggplant is something he could do- I’m sure he could, but for some reason, my fellow just doesn’t get excited about grilling vegetables. He’ll do some on the side, but it’s encoded in his DNA that the real reason for cranking up the coals is to sear a piece of meat, and he does a good job of that, whether it’s the occasional chicken breast, pork chop or a tuna steak. I always enjoy what he grills, especially since I’ve usually marinated it beforehand.
I’m into marinade, which I even use for tofu. And no, he does not grill tofu. He’ll eat it and if I begged, he’d grill it, but he’d never in his whole life suggest it.
I have observed that when men grill there are rituals involved. Of course building the fire or starting the coals or gas is important. Having plenty of condiments and seasoning at hand is necessary, too. In my husband’s case, these are garlic salt and pepper, which is why I marinate, I suppose.
But I believe that after the actual piece of protein to be grilled, the most important factor in successful male outdoor cookery is the beer. Or manly cocktail.
This is what I have observed, anyway.
I discovered about a dozen years ago that I, too, could grill food. Not only could I grill food, but I could cook the rest of the kitchen-prepared meal at the same time. I could grill, make a salad, steam some broccoli, make some bread and set the table too. I could not only do all of this, I could drink beer at the same time! If necessary, I could watch the children and run a load of laundry too, but I'm not here to brag.
This discovery so disconcerted my husband that I had to quit doing it. It was if I had cracked some male code and had become a freak of nature, not unlike a poodle who was suddenly able to speak in perfect Latin.
So I leave the grilling to him these days.
And he leaves the menu planning to me.
“Honey, whatchu want for supper?” I ask him. There’s always a long pause, as if he’s thinking about it and ever hopeful, I can almost believe he’s going through all the many meals in his head that I have presented him with over the years, trying to decide which one he might be in the mood for. A lovely bean and vegetable soup with home-made sourdough bread? Spicy mustard shrimp with brown rice and vegetables? A healthy, delicious, colorful stirfry? My amazing salmon with spinach and edamame beans? Black beans with rice? Veggie burgers and oven-baked French fries?
What? Just tell me what you want. I’ll cook it!
And then he speaks.
“Clam spaghetti?” he suggests. “White bean chili? I don’t know. You pick.”
I sigh and wish I had a personal relationship with Jesus so that I could ask him for a little inspiration.
But then again, Jesus was, by all accounts, a man, and one prone to fasting at that, so I doubt he’d be much help either.
“Thanks,” I say. “I’ll think of something.”
And I always do. It’s almost a miracle, how I come up with something healthy and tasty to cook every night of the week.
Tonight we’re having clam spaghetti, which, when you think about it, has a lot in common with loaves and fishes.
So thanks, fellows.
I appreciate your help.
