[Originally posted December 14, 2010]

She’ll ask about my food before I’ve tried it. No one appreciates how good a cook my wife is more than me.  Certainly not my two ingrate offspring who’d sooner shun a carefully prepared spatchcocked chicken for repeated servings of reconstituted pretty-sure-it’s-not-real-chicken nuggets.  So when we sit down to something nice she’s prepared, she will never fail to wait for the precise moment at which I take the first cut of my food and raise to my mouth, so that she can launch an overly eager inquisition on whether or not it’s any good.  Note, I have not tasted anything at this point.  I have made no physical contact with this food.  The morsel in question is still holding firmly to the cutlery – air stands between me and this forkful of this food at this point. It is merely in the vicinity of my being when the line of questioning is unleashed.

“How is it?  Is it any good?  What do you like about it?”  Are you shittin’ me?  Are you doing this on purpose, you crazy broad? What’s with the three dozen questions?  Are you late for a food review deadline or something?  Seriously, don’t ask me if it’s any good until I’ve had at least three bites of it (how would I know if I can trust my first two bites – it’s unscientific to offer up a conclusion after a highly-limited trial).  Three bites.  Minimum.  I don’t think that’s too much to ask.


The repetition of disbelief. I go insane with this one.  As much as she’d like to believe that she knows everything, they’ll be occasions when she’s actually stumped by something I tell her.  Don’t get me wrong, it doesn’t mean that she doesn’t already know everything.  She does.  She knows *everything*.  It’s just that sometimes, something comes up that “runs against an expectation of hers”.  Doesn’t mean she didn’t know it.  She does.  Never forget that she knows everything.  Everything.

But every now and then, I’ll happen to mention something that’s news to her.  And then I’ll get about 10 minutes’ worth of “Really?!” as if I’ll change my answer should she ask the question repeatedly.

“Did you know that a platypus lactates through its skin?”  ”Really?”  ”Yeah, isn’t that cool?”  ”Really?!”  ”Yes, they really do.”  ”Really?!”  ”Yes.”  ”They really do?!”  ”Yes, I read that somewhere.”  ”Really…” (with disdain – at this point, I swear she thinks she’s auditioning for Saturday Night Live)  *sigh*  ”Yes, for God’s sake, yes.”  ”No way.  Really?!”  ”Oh my God, why did I even bring this up?!!  Why are we even talking about a platypus?!”

“Its skin?  Really?”


The walking paradox that she is. One day, we were driving across several states to visit family.  She’d brought this new book for the long drive, and was really sucked into its subject.  It was all about the origins of the food we eat every day.  I don’t mean long-term origins like who was the first person to eat decide to eat a lobster  (next person who brings that up in conversation as if they were the first person in the universe to think of that quandry gets a swift kick in the balls).  Or the origins of broccoli, which I’m told may have something to do with the people make James Bond movies (that may not necessarily be true).  No, this was about where and how your cheeseburger began its existence before it ended up between two greasy buns pinched between your fat sausage fingers before you shoved it down your gaping maw.  Yeah, it’s that kinda book.

As I drove, she delighted in conveying the evils of high-fructose corn syrup, how corn-fed cows are assholes, the bullshit of free-range poultry, and about a dozen other hippie-fueled stories of the horrible, horrible origins of the foods that we eat.  (Remember: the more she was reading, the more she knew everything).

And just as I’m about ready to drive off a cliff from this overdose of horseshit tree-hugging narrative, I look over and see she’s got the stupid book in one hand, a bag of M&Ms in the other, and a diet root beer in her cupholder.


Don’t ever change, you crazy broad.