My husband Ken has never thought of himself as a cook. Although his oatmeal is exceptional, although he does a superb job when frying eggs, and although he occasionally grills tasty cheese sandwiches.
It’s his mindset, even though for a brief season (one school year, to be exact) he prepared an entire meal for our family on a regular basis. I worked full-time that year while all four of our children were still home—three as high schoolers and one as a pre-schooler. Everyone had to help. Our oldest daughter—whom we paid to babysit our little girl after school—prepared two evening meals, our two sons each had one night, and Ken covered Friday. We ate Dad’s hot dogs, boiled potatoes, and heated vegetables every week through an entire school year and no one dared complain.
After that I convinced him to occasionally grill, and he’s become fairly adept. So upon retirement, when we decided he should assume more of the household responsibilities, meals seemed a reasonable option. Even to him. Hence, the day he decided to make pancakes for lunch.
He was mixing batter from scratch when I ambled into the kitchen to find the man who was, after all, my source for all things computer-related—and asked a computer-related question.
Silence.
Thinking he didn’t hear, I asked again.
More silence.
Then this mild-mannered, loving husband scolded me. Not loudly or vehemently. It was the controlled, steady voice that grabbed my attention. My question had broken his concentration and he had poured a tablespoon of baking powder into the flour canister rather than into the mixing bowl.
Shame on me—I had to suppress a giggle. When, in a spirit of well-meaning helpfulness, I offered a suggestion, he said—and I quote, “I don’t need your advice.”
More shame on me. Because after making a swift retreat back to my computer, I convulsed with more suppressed, silent laughter.
And Ken? He salvaged his batter—I’ll never know how—added fried eggs and fruit to the menu, served lunch with a flourish, and was so proud of his accomplishments that he forgot to scold me again.
The pancakes were better than my absent-minded, thrown-together versions. He drowned his in syrup, I slathered mine with plain yogurt and sprinkled sugar on top. Umm, good.
Our meal over, we laughed together. He even laughed when he read this. Best of all, he’s been our chief pancake-maker ever since.
I wrote this some time ago when I was experimenting—trying to decide if I could maintain a blog. When I recently asked if I could use it—and if he would help me stage pictures, he agreed. We did it today, and had some of those funny and fun moments all over again. Oh, well.
But he was willing, and that’s special. Truly, retirement has its funny moments—and it can even be fun.
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