The One Time I Made Dinner 

My once-a-year-in-Myrtle Beach golf buddies were chatting (by email) about those of us that can (and/or do) cook at home. There was a range, as you might expect, from guys that seldom do to guys that love to cook and cook frequently.

I don’t cook at all, I confessed. Not because I refuse to. I think I might enjoy cooking dinners once or twice a week. But K won’t have it.

Here’s why…

I’ve cooked only one meal in my life for others. And it was a barbecue… a dinner for K and the kids. I had it presented in platters… salad, grilled veggies, beans, potato salad, and crispy golden chicken. K looked impressed.

She tasted the veggies and looked up at me.

“How did you season these?”

“They’re pretty good,” I said proudly. “It’s a secret.”

She took another small bite and asked me again. “Seriously, answer the question.”

“Well, I wanted everything to be natural and for the tastes to sort of blend, so I marinated the vegetables in the juices from the chicken.”

Her eyes widened. “You marinated the veggies in the raw chicken juices?”

My heart stopped. My lungs froze. My brain was sending me a single-word message: salmonella!

“The juices from the uncooked chicken?!” she was shouting now.

I glanced out through the screened door to the porch and the sidewalk beyond that, within audio range of unwitting passersby.

“You don’t have to shout,” I said meekly.

But she wasn’t listening to me. She was staring at our boys, who had begun to eat.

“Spit out your food!” she screamed at them. Upon which they immediately, whether out of fear or playfulness, spit out their half-masticated food balls directly onto the table.

What seemed like a full minute of silence followed, as K stared at me incredulously and the boys stared at each of us in search of an explanation.

They got one. But since then, my only role in assisting with family dinners has been in setting the table beforehand and cleaning the dishes afterwards. Anything comprised of biological materials, including wine and beer, is now the responsibility of the boys. And they are not complaining.