More of a Man

In preparation for our meals this week, I decided to get strategic about what to do on Sunday to save time in the weekday mornings. I plan and execute all three meals, every day of the week and have done so with a whole lotta and not nearly enough time. Cliff's moving to flex time this week which means our schedules will be more in sync, but that we'll be getting up a whole hour earlier than usual.

So saving time is of the essence. And strategically speaking, I needed to come up with ways that could Cliff help me - since he always offers to do so and I shrug him off like the regular kitchen Nazi I am. It's not that he doesn't want to help with meals; it's that I don't let him.

Tonight, we made a first step: as I made my famous Happy Tummy Hummy, Cliff chopped strawberries.

But that wasn't the most preposterous part of the evening.

It was this...

While rinsing the cutting board he'd just used, he asked the following question:

"Do you think I'm less of a man because I help you out in the kitchen, like doing all the dishes and stuff?"

And I just looked at him. Stared blankly. Blinked once, maybe, twice.

You'd think he'd just spoken Russian or some unintelligible gibberish the way I took in that simple question of his.

When I finally came to, I affirmed him, of course. Praising him for boldly going where most men never dare to go. That's so not a fair stereotype as we know many kitchen-men, it's just that it's not the norm I don't think.

It's just mind-boggling to me that he wouldn't know that in my eyes, he's more of a man because of his desire to help me in a space I love/crave/hate and am genetically pre-disposed to occupy. Our arrangement has been, at times, maddening for the both of us. It's usually those days I feel least like stepping into the kitchen that he's had it up to his eyeballs with the dishes, so I guess that works out well for us chore-wise, but not so much for our eating-out budget.

So no, you crazy man. Unless you start walking around in a frilly pink apron, swinging around your wrists like a limp noodle, and mimicking Julia Child, don't ever doubt my admiration, respect, and appreciation of your manliness in my kitchen.