I spent the last few years, approximately3 1/2 years, learning to cook. Prior to that, the chef cooked and the boy and I ate. Nothing to it. Then the chef left. Suddenly, abruptly, in a way I can hardly believe I survived. I did, though, and learned to cook. Now, just as suddenly, the chef returned and I don't get to cook. I say this as though not cooking deteriorates the quality of my overall life. It doesn't.
The man takes over the kitchen with projects, with food I don't want to eat, with food he just wants to play with and make a big mess with; then he waits for the dishwasher to appear. Together, the chef and I banter over this change, this loss of cooking for me, and loss of job for him. Together, we try to make this work. Together, we work around. This feels new. This together.
The chef decided, today, that he is sick of food. Trying to explain it to me, he informed me that he felt sick of eating. I told him he's sick of cooking dinner. It's hard. Cooking dinner can be demeaning. It generally sucks, cooking dinner challenges a person to provide nutrition, taste, and pleasure. What I know about cooking dinner for my son is that, the boy, my son, is a picky eater. I knew this, from the last few years of trial and error, tears and chaos, fighting and compromising, of working around these issues, the kid-let and I together. The chef did not know this about his only child.
I knew and worked around it - which is what mother's do. We work around their habits, both with children and with partners, women work around. I will resume cooking dinner next week. I will work around what the boy will eat, what the chef will tolerate, what I will tolerate and then I will wait to see if the dishwasher appears.
Know what I'm sayin'?