Hiding Under the Table

I had to believe there were things I could contribute to our relationship, strengths that made my star shine. I was good at massage, for example, and a great listener. Maybe I needed to take a course in car maintenance, just to balance things out? I was also terrified that he might expect the favor to be returned, and I cringed to think how his opinion of me might change if he knew my complete lack of culinary confidence. Did cooking make two people compatible? Was it as important, say, as whether they both wanted to have children or both voted Republican? I had tried to take him out to dinner on several occasions, only to notice with disdain that the dishes never held a candle to his recipes. Would he leave me if I didn’t measure up? Or if, in the kitchen, I didn’t know how to measure?

It came to a head late one innocuous Sunday afternoon, when we were lounging in my living room. Out of nowhere he took me by surprise, saying, “I’m feeling hungry. What’ve you got in your kitchen?” I tried to divert his attention in every way I could, but his stomach only growled louder. Finally, frustrated and defeated, I said, “Not much. Go. Look if you have to.” I sat on my couch, arms crossed, my mind already spinning stories about how I had found the potential man of my dreams, and lost him. Fifteen minutes later, without a word, he delivered two full plates of quesadillas, adorned with spinach and the coconut shrimp he’d found in the back of my freezer, and began eating. Before I could stop myself, I shouted, “How the hell did you do that? How can you make something out of nothing?”  

He smiled, took a bite of his creamed shrimp, and said, “Em, I love you just the way you are.” Wait—what? I looked at him as he started humming the Billy Joel song. “What are you talking about?” He dropped his fork and looked at me. “Sweetie, I know that cooking is not your forte.” I tried to look nonplussed. “Ooohh, yeah? Well, how did you know?” His voice stayed calm as he revealed, “Because two weeks ago you tried to put a piece of cheesecake in the microwave.”

So, this is how it is. I write while he cooks, and we both get to admire each other. I don’t feel like I have to pretend to be something I’m not, and he gets to revel in knowing that he wears the crown of Executive Chef in our relationship. Or chef’s hat. Or toque blanche? Whatever.

I am looking forward to meeting his mother, so I can thank her.