You know your partner has a long road to travel in the field of personal development when you hear, “What kind of wine goes best with marshmallows?”
I thought I heard wrong, but then watched my husband walk past carrying a glass of red and a bag of Jet-Puffed marshmallows.
I’m no more developed. “What kind are they, plain or flavored?”
He read from the package: “Six favorite flavors.”
“Then you can probably go with any kind. For plain, I’d recommend white wine.”
This is what I get for letting him shop without me. Instead of returning with bread, milk and toilet paper, he arrives smiling with ice cream bars, a box of Froot Loops and a bag of marshmallows.
“Didn’t you get the bread? Where’s the toilet paper? What about my list?” While plowing through bags, I realize that a ten-year-old would have made more prudent choices. Apparently treats packed with coloring agents and emulsifiers are now part of the Food Guide.
“What list?” he answered. “Here, have an ice cream bar.”
I’ve been with the same man long enough that we finish each other’s sentences. Sometimes I finish his songs. When he stood at the counter stirring a mug of coffee, I heard him sing, “Honey in my coffee, sugar in my tea….” He paused.
“Amalgam in your molars!” I called out. He doesn’t need voice lessons; he needs Splenda.
While still in the kitchen and before I stop picking on Paul, what’s the deal with him and my dish towels? Although dust can settle until I need a leaf blower to find the TV remote, I do need order when it comes to my kitchen towels.
I have towels for two purposes: the cute ones neatly folded on the oven door are for drying dishes while the faded ones under the sink are for wiping the floor.
I need to draw a better map because I consistently find my cute hand towels balled and abandoned in a corner of the kitchen after being used to wipe up wet slops and greasy spills. Or, I’ll find the pots he decides to scrub every Groundhog Day and crop circle sighting piled high on my cute hand towels. He could simply leave them to dry in the dishwasher.
My eyes invariably dart to the naked oven door. Dammit! I’m one Froot Loop away from attaching a short chain, like those pens at the bank.
I don’t get it. Was the man of my dreams born missing the Kitchen gene? If he ever had the elusive K-gene, it’s become defunct, much like the appendix.
Genes aside, I’ve a more pressing question: what does the Kraft Kitchen mean by “Jet-Puffed” when they market their marshmallows? Better pass me a green one and a glass of red. I need a hit of energy after all of this deep thinking.
And hands off my hand towels.
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