married bliss

I’m overly sensitive to meat spoiling. I know this because every time my wife leaves meat in the refrigerator until it spoils, she informs me that I’m a wimp for thinking it might be spoiled, until she tries cooking with it and then agrees with me determines on her own judgment that the meat is spoiled.

I should clarify that when I say “my wife leaves meat in the refrigerator until it spoils,” it’s not because she has to do all the cooking or anything like that. I do most of the cooking, because she works a hell of a lot harder than I do and plus she’s usually the one who does the clean-up after I’ve made a mess in the kitchen. But she does cook sometimes, and when a package of ground beef shows up in the fridge, and I didn’t put it there, I assume she’s got some plans for it and just leave it alone.

Then when it’s still there a week later, I start studiously ignoring it, because I don’t want to be the one to deal with the package of spoiled meat, and I know that if I just throw it away I’ll get in trouble. I can get away with this because it’s one of those vacuum-packed deals so it doesn’t stink up the house.

Last night my wife says to me, “I’m going to make tacos tomorrow with that ground beef in the fridge.” So I say, “Um, sweetie, that beef has been sitting in the fridge defrosted for almost a week. I think it’s–”

“You always say that [ED. NOTE: I’m always right, also too]. You’re so pampered. You wouldn’t last a day in the Peace Corps.” This is one of her favorite things to say to me. My wife used to have an office job working for the Peace Corps in DC, which she likens to actually having been in the Peace Corps digging irrigation canals in Senegal or wherever.

She’s right about me, though. I’d be lucky to last through lunch.

“OK, knock yourself out. You and the child have a wonderful Taco Night.” Our daughter won’t touch tacos if I make them. But if Mommy makes them it’s like Rick effing Bayless showed up at the front door to make dinner for us.

Skip to tonight. I pick up the child from school and we get home. My wife says to me, “Did you guys pick up anything for dinner on the way home?”

“What happened to Taco Night?”

“That? Oh, I had to throw that ground beef out. It was totally spoiled.”

I’m now standing in front of the stove trying to whip something together for supper. Whatever it winds up being, I’m sure the child won’t eat it.


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