I am joking. But truly, don't skim. You must be forced to live a few minutes in my shoes:
I sort of slaved yesterday. I try to keep silent now when my food is not eaten. Well, Dear Sir is trying really hard to be good about eating things he does not want to. I made some chicken with citrus marinade on the grill, but it did not go over well. Everyone sort of picked at it. To keep with the citrus theme, I made a lemon meringue pie. I have not had that in some umpteen years, so I was excited about it. When I tasted it, it was perfection.
The kids: "Uh, I'm full."
"I can't finish it."
"Use less lime next time." Lime?
Dear Sir: There is no quote. I know that he knows I watch him in my sneaky way as I wash the dishes. He slowly ate it, like he was trying his hardest to enjoy it. Like that strawberry pie he was trying to politely eat at someone's house when we were first married. His mouth shook a little as he strained to get his lips around the seedy fruit. The look in his eyes as an offensive food is on his tongue is hard to misplace. You know what it looks like? A person holding their breath....
But then I was shocked when he brought the plate to me empty. What gives? Dear Sir, what gives? "Thank you, that was good."
I never know what that means. What does that mean?
I will most likely never know. Some things we can't be so open about, you know? Like weight. He refuses to tell me his weight. "You're obsessed, Rach. I am not telling you."
All this work: "light" lemon meringue pies, crappy citrus grilled chicken, fluffy biscuits in low calorie form, reduced calorie takes on brownies and cookies, marinated flank steaks, crispy chicken tacos---you name it, I have been making the light version of everything. Even blasted fried chicken for the benefit of this man who would like to lose a couple of pounds (even though I think he is perfect) and what do I get?
Well I guess I could certainly help the dude gain some pounds, now couldn't I? He wouldn't know anyway if I put extra amounts of fat in any given thing just for the heck of it. Oh, this recipe could use some more Crisco. I think I will put a whole stick of butter in his popcorn! Hey, how about two!? I could deep fry every meal and tell him it is the healthy version. Pretty soon his one chin would be eleven.
Yesterday I couldn't stand it anymore. "Please tell me your weight," I said, "I have been working so hard, getting up to make your lunch, making you breakfast so you won't eat the Butterfingers instead, cooking all these meals for dinner, going through recipes...."
You know what the gentleman said?
So I settled with: "Well, then. Is all my work working?"
He nodded his head in a nonchalant, comce-comca sort of way, shot me a few squinted eyes and said, "Sure."
"So how much further do you have to go?"
"Ah, you know..." He put his hand out wiggled it around like I knew what that meant.
"Do you have a lot to go?"
Blue blistering barnacles in a thundering typhoon, the man gets to me!!!! I turned around and made his pathetic lunch.