BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

Well, to some extent they go hand in hand. Love, lust, and all points in between. You start out in lust and as you get to know one another the lust becomes love, and if you are lucky, they blend together to become this Love/Lust amalgam that carries on throughout your relationship and/or marriage.

But, before you get all excited or start calling me Doctor Phil, I should point out that I’m actually here to talk to you about dominos again. And, no, still not the pizza.

You see, I’ve been married to EK now for Twen-koff-koff yea-koff…Okay…for real, 21+ years, and we “co-habitated” for a year prior to that. So, we’ve been ’round the block in the ol’ Radio Flyer a couple of times – always with me pulling as she beats me with a buggy whip and screams “faster, faster…watch out for that crack in the sidewalk…slow down…careful around that turn…faster, faster!” But, as usual, that’s one of those “other” blogs (actually, they probably wouldn’t even let me post it here…but I digress…)

My point being, I’m no stranger to the relationship game, marriage game, whatever… Now, let’s be clear. I am in no way claiming to have all the answers. Hell, I don’t have ANY of the answers. I just pull the wagon and do what I’m told. I’m merely pointing out that I do have at least a passing familiarity with interpersonal relationships between two folks who make up a couple.

Since the EK and I have been together for better than two decades, just like any other couple we have settled into some behavioral patterns. This is not to say that love and lust are gone. The love is there stronger than it was in the beginning, and growing daily. Lust…well…can’t really get into that here (LOL)… But, like I said, as with any couple, patterns will emerge. Ways of interacting. It’s just all part of life. Therefore, a half hour or so ago when I nonchalantly and jokingly said to my wife, “what are you making for dinner tonight?” her response came as no surprise, and the dominos began to teeter…

I suppose you might need a bit of background first…You see, my wife almost never makes dinner. In fact, whenever I go on tour for a week or two at a time, I spend the week prior to my departure working in the kitchen – cooking, packaging, and freezing meals in reusable “freezer to microwave” containers so that I know she and my daughter will eat something other than crackers and yogurt. It’s not that she’s lazy. She’s about as far from lazy as you can get… Hell, I wish I had her energy… It is just that she really dislikes cooking. With a passion it seems. Me, on the other hand, having grown up in a family with diners and restaurants, I absolutely love to cook. So, this makes at least part of the division of labor in our home a no brainer. Put simply, the kitchen is my domain.

But, like I said at the outset, there are dominos involved here, and again, I’m not talking about pizza…even though we are on the subject of food.

To inspect this particular dot-covered game piece we have to turn back the clock to a time EARLY in our marriage. Back when, even though we had dated for some time, then cohabitated for an entire year, and then even been legally married in the eyes of the law for a couple more years, we were still in that state of semi-honeymoon. Not the face-sucking-sex-in-every-room-with-reckless-abandon phase, mind you. Just the hyperactive love-lust combination where you want to impress your partner because you love them so much – and again, I want to be clear on this impressing thing – I’m not talking about dressing up in a negligee and posing next to the bedroom door while batting eyelashes (come to think of it, that’s a pretty good domino too, but I probably wouldn’t fit in that negligee anymore…just kidding… I mean just kidding about the negilgee, not the fitting into it part… you know what I mean…dammit, I’ve never owned a negligee, so just stop it!)

Back to the story… sheesh…ya’ bunch of weirdos…

So, in this particular instance we are talking about dinner. You see, way back when, during the days of hyperlovelustwhatever, the evil redhead decided to make dinner. (They “make” dinner here in the north, as opposed to fixing dinner, like it’s supposed to be done) Now, not being a big fan of the kitchen she wasn’t about to get herself into a major project (I’d like to take a moment to point out that it isn’t that she can’t cook, because she can. It’s simply that she hates cooking.) But still, she intended to “make” dinner. And, so she did. Cheesy tuna and noodles Tuna Helper^TM. Now, before you think I am about to complain, guess again. I happen to like tuna casserole, and mac n’ cheese, and yes, cheesy tuna and noodles. It was all good.

So, my lovely bride served up a big, steaming dish of Tuna Helper^TM, happy with herself and confident in the fact that she had done something nice for me that I would appreciate. And, I did. Harboring the same hyperlovelustwhatever as she, I sat at the table and shoveled in the Tuna Helper^TM while smiling and telling her how wonderful it was, as well as how much I appreciated her fixing dinner. In fact, I was so overwhelmed with hyperlovelustwhatever that I didn’t even hint at the fact that there was something terribly, and fundamentally wrong with the meal. Not something that would make you ill, mind you, but something fundamentally wrong, nonetheless, given what it was supposed to be. The meal went on, the dishes were washed, and well, I can’t really remember what else happened that night, but I suspect that since we were working on remodeling the house at the time we were probably both exhaused and just went to bed then straight to sleep – none of the “not so blog safe” material to worry about this time.

So, everything was good. I had done my duty and nothing need ever be said about the problem with the meal. The EK was happy, I was happy, and even the cats were as happy as cats can be.

The next day, however, it became apparent that my plan to protect the evil redhead from personal embarrassment had gone terribly awry. At this point I cannot remember exactly what I was doing at the moment of realization. I do, however, have vivid recollection of EK walking into the room with an unopened can of tuna in her hand, which she had found sitting on the kitchen counter right where she had left it the night before. With a look of realization flooding her face, she stared at me and stated, as much as asked, complete with a matter-of-fact incredulity, “I forgot to put the tuna in the Tuna Helper last night, didn’t I?”

I could not tell a lie, but I also didn’t want to add insult to injury. I simply replied, “No worries. It was really good macaroni and cheese.”

The domino in this case? Well, it didn’t have to knock much over. You see, this afternoon when I jokingly asked my wife what she would be “making” for dinner, without missing a beat she replied, “Hamburger Helper without the hamburger.”

We’re older now, and while we still have that hyperlovelustwhatever thing going on, I’ve learned I don’t really have to suffer (unless I want to, that is, but again, different blog…)

I think I’ll just go ahead and “make” dinner tonight.

More to come…

Murv

It doesn’t take Rowan Gant’s clairvoyant abilities to know that a good parcel of you are now thinking, “Eeeewwwwwwwww!” And, a whole raft of you who are thinking such are also involuntarily saying it aloud as well. Just like you would be if the title had been Chitterlings (that’s properly pronounced Chit’lins, mind you), brain sandwiches, or a whole host of other organ meat based delicacies.

Not much I can do about that except to say, don’t knock it until you try it. If you’ve tried it (any of the above, PROPERLY prepared) and you still didn’t care for it, well, at least you tried so I respect your opinion. (Even though it’s wrong.)

You see, I’m sure my love of such foods has something to do with my farm upbringing. Where I come from you don’t cut the prime rib and tenderloins out of a bull/cow, and then leave the rest for the turkey vultures. We used everything. Meaning, everything… Whether it was Chitlin’s, Brains, or an entire head boiled down to make Head Cheese. Didn’t matter. We used it.

We even rendered out all the fat to cook with and also to make lye soap.

Now, on the note of Head Cheese, I’ll admit to not being a big fan. I’ve had it on several occasions. It’s not bad, but also not my favorite thing in the world– probably because I still have memories of my grandmother boiling a hog’s head to make it. Not a pretty- nor particularly wonderful smelling – process, trust me.

But, back to Liver and Onions… This happens to be one of my favorite all-time meals. I’ve always loved it. Even as a child. I suppose part of that could be the fact that until I was an adult and ordered it in a big city restaurant I had always been served PROPERLY prepared Liver and Onions. Since that horrible incident I’ve been careful not to order it in the big city. Diners in small southern towns, well that’s a different story. But mostly I make it at home, preparing it exactly the way I learned to do it from my mother, grandmother, and grandfather…

Speaking of my grandfather, his name was Elvis. Yes Elvis, although his last name was Babb, not Presley. He wasn’t much of a singer, but he could play the harmonica like nobody’s business. I actually have a recording of him that I made a few months before he died. At that point he had emphysema, but he could still make that harp talk. (On that note, I also have the harmonica and it is displayed in our curio cabinet, but that was a different blog I wrote a year or so back)… But, let’s move on… Elvis Babb owned a diner in the small Kentucky town where I was born. While the diner was gone before I was really old enough to know better I do have memories of toddling around in it. But, more importantly I still watched my grandfather cook at home. I may have only been in my high single digits and low double digits – he crossed over when I was 11 or so – but I still learned a whole raft of things from him about cooking, probably because where I come from food is love. Food is comfort.

And, we all want love and comfort.

Now, one of the interesting things about preparing something properly is that sometimes – not always, but sometimes – a person who had the dish and hated it will try it again, done correctly, and love it. Such is the case with my wife. She hated Liver and Onions. I can remember the first time I fixed it (I do all the cooking in our house) back when we were first married some twent-cough-cough years ago. She had this horribly crestfallen look on her face and I could see that she was gearing herself up for choking it down so as to not hurt my feelings. After the first bite, however, her expression changed. Now, it is one of her favorites as well.

At any rate, prior to my father crossing over in 2003, I used to try timing my Liver and Onion dinners with his trips through Saint Louis. (He had a house here, but more or less lived in Kentucky and since he was retired, traveled extensively). I would time it that way because Dad loved Liver and Onions too. Even if he couldn’t make it to the house for the actual dinner, I made sure there was a “take out” container for him.

I just made Liver and Onions for supper Monday. As is customary – nay, IMPERATIVE – it was served with a big ass bowl of mashed potatoes and buttered green peas. Life was good.

Since Dad is no longer around, there were some leftovers. I just killed those off a few minutes ago… (Yeah, Liver and Onions for breakfast. I’m sure Edain would be appalled LOL! – note: Ask Edain McCoy about her impression of my morning eating habits and that joke will make sense.)

Honestly, I’d just as soon have Dad back and give the leftovers to him, but since that isn’t going to happen, I figured I should at least enjoy them in his place.

And I did.

More to come…

Murv