After years of living the low carb, low fat, don’t-eat-after-6pm tortuous lifestyle, I have FINALLY found the ultimate diet. It’s guaranteed weight loss through smaller portions, consuming less calories and less of an appetite. It’s called the “Let Your Husband Cook Dinner” diet.
I’m very grateful that I am not some 1950’s housewife waiting by the door for my husband to get home from work with a martini in hand, an apron tied around my waist and a fake smile plastered on my face. There are some days where I like to play Suzy Homemaker and prepare an elaborate dinner, complete with wine and candles. Those days are called Thanksgiving and Christmas. Ok, I might be exaggerating just a bit, but I lean more towards Peg Bundy than June Cleaver.
In our house placemats are unheard of, paper towels are often our napkins and there are more than a few days out of the month when our utensils are plastic. Let’s call a spade a spade, a perfect housewife, I am not. I am SO grateful that my husband is the type of guy that is willing to help out and make dinner. In theory that is the perfect scenario. In reality it is me sneaking a bowl of cereal at midnight because I’m starving and I don’t have the heart to let my husband know that I didn’t eat the “dinner” he made. You have to love him for trying, but his culinary art would be classified as abstract. Last week’s spinach was so saturated in butter that Popeye wouldn’t even have choked it down. His side dishes often have a higher sodium count than a salt lick. And somehow he manages to cook fish at 500 degrees in the oven and it still comes out undercooked. My favorite part of my husband’s culinary attempts is the fact that, like a typical man, he will never admit how bad the meal is. I have watched my husband eat things that even the contestants of Fear Factor wouldn’t consider putting in their mouths. Yes, his cooking may be inedible at times, but it’s the thought that counts, right? My thought is that next time he offers to cook, I’ll suggest take out.