When the oldest one left home for the second time about six years ago, my wife made an announcement.
“That’s it,” she said. “I’m never cooking again.”
“Um, OK,” I said. And she never did. Never again, not once.
At first, I accepted this gauntlet with equanimity. I didn’t mind cooking, and my wife almost always did the washing up. When all our sons returned home during the pandemic I found cooking for five every night a bit of a chore, but actually it’s more difficult cooking for two these days. My wife has become increasingly fussy about food, and I have not expanded my repertoire to keep pace.
It is 6pm on a Tuesday, and the fridge is full. I find my wife in the living room watching a documentary about women who murder their husbands – her favourite genre.
“What are we having?” I say.
“Why are you asking me?” she says.
“You know why,” I say. “Which of the things you bought this morning will you be refusing tonight?”
“I got lamb,” she says. “Please don’t make me eat lamb.”
“Next,” I say.
“We could have the pork medallions,” she says.
“Don’t use that word,” I say.
“Fine,” she says. “Pork circles, egg fried rice … ”
“I need 24 hours’ notice for egg fried rice,” I say. “And eggs.”
“I’m watching this,” she says. “You decide.”
I put two potatoes in the oven and examine the pork: two round steaks – cross sections, I imagine, from a large tenderloin. I don’t object to the word “medallion” in non-food contexts, but I shudder a little as I type it into my phone alongside the word “pork”. After looking over several recipes, one thing becomes clear: pork circles are easy to overcook.
I set about preparing a stir-fried broccoli dish over which my wife has lodged no previous objections, while performing a few calculations in my head to ensure everything is ready at the same time.
When the moment arrives, I heat some oil in a cast-iron pan and sear the pork on both sides. Then, as I have seen TV chefs do, I put the whole pan in the oven with the potatoes. Nine minutes, I think, and no more.
“We’re about ready,” I say to my wife. She follows me back into the kitchen, and watches as I lift the sizzling pan from the oven.
“It’s like a restaurant,” she says.
“An expensive restaurant,” I say, chucking the oven gloves aside. I have further plans for the pork – a quick reduction with some butter, white wine and a crushed garlic clove – but they are abandoned when, in my hurry, I reach out and grab the pan firmly by its handle.
“Shitting hell!” I scream, my seared palm sticking a little as I try to ungrab the handle.
“What?” my wife shouts. The dog barks. The cat runs from the room. I wheel around and hold my hand under the running tap until it throbs numbly.
“So,” I say, “help yourself.”
“What about you?” my wife says.
“I think I might have to be here for a while,” I say.
I leave my hand under the tap for five minutes, but when I remove it the pain returns after a few seconds. It’s not quite long enough to assemble a plate of food.
Eventually, I end up watching TV with my wife and eating with my left hand, while my right hand rests in a salad bowl full of iced water. On the screen, a woman in an orange prison uniform sits expressionless in a courtroom.
“Who’s she?” I say.
“My role model,” my wife says. “How’s your hand?”
I lift my hand from the water. The pain returns.
“Fine,” I say.
Two nights later, I remind my wife that I have plans to go out.
“I forgot about that,” she says.
“I’m afraid I won’t be here to cook your supper,” I say.
“That’s OK,” she says “I’ll have a disgusting ready meal instead.”
“Really?” I say.
“I can’t wait,” she says. “I’ll go and buy it now.”
I return home at 11, my burnt hand lightly stinging from the cold. Inside the fridge I see an untouched ready meal – a chicken kiev of the worst sort. I find my wife in bed reading.
“You didn’t have your thing,” I say.
“I couldn’t be bothered,” she says.
“So now if I don’t cook you don’t even eat?” I say. My wife shrugs.
I go downstairs thinking, she really meant it: never again, not once, not even a little bit. I look in the fridge again, wondering how badly it would go down if I ate the ready meal myself.
