Technically, I am not allowed in my own kitchen—or “my wife’s kitchen,” I should say. I am occasionally granted permission to enter the air space around “her” kitchen, but only to do menial tasks like take out the stinking trash or kill a life-threatening evil spider. Any other kitchen access (like getting some cheese and crackers) does not meet the criteria for me to lawfully enter her kitchen domain. As you could imagine, not being able to go into the kitchen for cheese does make my life quite complicated, not to mention lacking in dairy.
However, my wife, whom I love, says we are on equal ground: Since she doesn’t go into the garage, I don’t need to go into the kitchen. I don’t see how the two rooms are equal, since the stuff that keeps you alive—food (namely cheese)—is stored in the kitchen, while the garage is filled with cars that don’t run, bicycles with flat tires, and other projects that are currently being ignored by me.
Not only am I not allowed in the kitchen, but the area is monitored by an elaborate detection system so that even when my wife is away she is notified if I trespassed into the land of milk and honey. Her security system is quite state of the art. It detects my presence by use of microscopic fibers from cheese and cracker pieces that fall from my lips onto the tables, counters, and floor. She refers to it as something called crumbs (apparently women can see these things from a mile away). Personally, I’ve never noticed them.
Recently, my wife went out for the evening and left the kids and me to our own devices. The kids and I have an understanding: Don’t bother me, and I won’t bother you—which means, as long as I don’t hear any bickering, do whatever you want. Top Gear is on, and I need to concentrate. The kids know that when mom is gone they can get away with just about anything, and I won’t say squat as long as they don’t eat the last of the cheese.
On this particular evening, the kids asked, “Dad, can we bake a cake?”
My reply was, “I don’t know. Can you? If you can, great. Do it. If you need my help, then don’t.”
The kids knew the correct answer: “We can totally do it, Dad!”
If the kids were baking a cake, at least they wouldn’t be eating any of the cheese. I continued watching TV and sort of listened in on the kids (admittedly, less than I should have). During a commercial break, I decided to check in just to make sure that neither sibling was paying the other one a dollar to eat blended ketchup and cookies again. I’ve told them once, I’ve told them twice: Get at least $2 for something like that.
Unfortunately, I didn’t find the kids bartering over consuming gross food concoctions. Instead, I found a monumental disaster scene. The mess I found in “my wife’s” kitchen was indescribable. The kitchen looked like … well, it looked like two unsupervised kids baked a cake in it.
There were dirty dishes galore, and there was chocolate frosting on everything, including the ceiling (I didn’t ask). I realized right then if my wife came home and saw the mess, the kids’ burnt cake might just be my last supper.
My adrenaline kicked in, and I went into panic mode: “I don’t wanna die!” I shoved some crusty cake down my kids’ throats, said, “Go to bed!” and started to clean as fast as I could. I scrubbed the counters, the floor, and the ceiling. I even wiped up those controversial crumbs. Then it was time to tackle the immeasurable amount of dishes the kids used to bake a cake (somehow they managed to use every dish we own).
Dishes, which stem from the four-letter word “dish,” are one of my least favorite things to do (next to trips to the dentist and the DMV—all words that, coincidentally, begin with the letter D). If it was up to me (which it never will be), we would only eat on paper plates. That’s right, I said it: evil, tree-killing PAPER PLATES! To offset my carbon footprint, I’ll plant a tree in the yard once a year. After all of the dishes were finally done, the kitchen looked good. I was going to pull it off. She’d never find out I was in “her” kitchen.
Just seconds after I was done putting the last dish away, my wife walked through the front door. I ran over and greeted her with a kiss in the hall. In the middle of our kiss, she paused. She stepped back and looked at me curiously. She took a long whiff and asked, “You guys bake a cake?”
“Yes we did, Honey, right after I installed an oven in the garage.” m
Rob recently learned that just because you can somehow fit every single dish you own into a dishwasher doesn’t mean you should.
This article appears in Oct 29 – Nov 4, 2009.