My wife is an outstanding cook. She cranks out these amazing dinners day after day, year after year, and I have to remind myself never to take it for granted (yet, being human, I still do).
I've often said that having a spouse with this talent is a supremely mixed blessing. On one hand, good food, and the only thing I have to do to get it is the dishes. On the other hand, good food, which if you're not careful can mean high calorie intake, which in turn has you playing Santa Claus at the mall within a couple of years.
I do not blame Terry for the fact that my weight has yo-yo'ed somewhat over time. That's a product of my own habits and, frankly, laziness.
But sometimes I do think, if her food was consistently bad, I would probably be the size of an Olympic marathoner by now, which I realize is looking a gift horse square in the mouth.
She and I often laugh over the fact that she has made exactly one meal in our 29-year marriage that I didn't like. And as I'm always quick to point out, she didn't like it, either. It was an eggplant thing, and it probably wasn't that terrible, but it was such an anomaly that over time it has unjustly taken on the mantle of Worst Meal Ever.
When you're the one relatively bad apple in a huge orchard full of good apples, that's a bad rap you have to live with.
Don't worry, though. If God forbid something should happen to Terry, you'll be pleased to know that I make the meanest bowl of cereal you'll ever encounter. I distribute the cereal with extreme precision, I cover every bit of it through a refined milk-pouring technique, and I have an uncanny ability to hit the exact cereal-to-milk ratio every time.
So I'll be fine.
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