Saturday, December 02, 2006

Danny Cooks

On a typical Saturday morning, Danny’s job is to get the paper, which he does, and then stands (all cute with his bed head) in the middle of the kitchen and reads the front page until I sit him down and hand him the baby’s spoon.

My job is to change the baby, prepare his food, make coffee, set the table, make juice, cook bacon and eggs and toast, and then we sit down and enjoy a nice family breakfast. This works well for us. There’s a peace about the morning and we’re usually eating a relaxed breakfast within 10 minutes.

Once in a while Danny will get the idea in his head that it would be a nice gesture to cook and as I’m changing the baby he’ll ask:

“What do you want for breakfast, my Love?”

At this point, as ungrateful as it sounds, I am not very enthused about having breakfast cooked for me because I know what it entails:

1. I know I’ll have to clean up. Cleaning up after I cook is no big deal because when I cook, I clean as I go, and after the meal there are just a few plates to rinse and the counter to wipe down. How Danny manages to mess the kitchen from stem to stern before 8 AM is beyond me.

2. I’m hungry. I always wake up ravenous and although I wish I had the patience for Danny’s laid back style, I don’t. (Note to self: work on this)

3. I want peace and harmony to fill our sunny kitchen as we slowly wake up and enjoy our Saturday morning. I know there will be lots of questions and extraneous talking for the duration of his cooking; not in a pot-slamming, crude language kind of way like an average professional kitchen, but in a steady, long-winded narration to himself of what he is doing. That’s just his way.

However, I agree to having breakfast cooked for me because I know that it’s not for Danny’s love of cooking that he asks me, but because he loves to serve and take care of me. And because that is so sweet, I shut up (and tell my rumbling stomach to shut up), fix Noah’s food and sit down with the paper to wait for my coffee.

I eventually get my coveted cup of Joe, but not before the kettle’s been sounding it’s shrill whistle for a good 30 seconds before it's grabbed it and poured into the Bodum. Noah loves the whistle, Danny doesn’t seem to hear it, and I am the only one annoyed. Have I mentioned that I’m a tad grumpy before my morning coffee?

My coffee arrives just the way I like it. I can’t complain, it actually tastes better than when I make it. Noah is happily playing and all I want is a few minutes of peace and quite to drink my coffee and do the daily Sodoku, but now, along with the food preparation comes the running commentary to no one in particular.

“Why is the bacon sticking to the pan? I though this was non-stick. Isn’t this like a $200 pan? Aimee??? Where’s the butter? ARE WE OUT OF EGGS? Oh, there they are. How many do you want? Do I use butter or oil in the pan? How come there’s no OJ defrosted? I have to think of EVERYTHING. Man, that bacon smells good, do I ever know how to cook breakfast. Do we have any clean glasses? Do you want poached eggs?”

“NO!! That’s ok, they’re too much work.”

“I can DO poached eggs. It’s not a problem. I put vinegar in the water, right? Where’s the vinegar? What’s a good pot to use? Does it matter if I stir it clockwise or counter clockwise? Can I do two at a time? Do I crack them right into the water?”

It’s so much easier to do it myself, but I know half of the banter is tongue-in-cheek to get my goat, and don’t give him the satisfaction of a jump-up-grab-the-spatula reaction.

If I am grumpy before I get my coffee, I’m grumpier still when I am hungry. I answer the important questions, bite back the rest, and focus on my Sudoku.

A while later, my plate arrives. It’s beautiful. Bacon and two poached eggs on toast. OJ, too, but no knife and fork. I grab them myself.

The eggs are still soft in the centre, just the way I like them. As I cut through the yolk with my fork, my mouth waters and I start to think to myself that this is pretty sweet and aren’t I lucky to have a sweet hubby to cook me brekky.

But then…Ugh! Oh!

Vinegar. Lots of it. It sends a violent shockwave over my morning palate. The egg tastes like it’s straight out of a pickle jar-only warm. It’s pretty bad.

“Danny” I gasp. “HOW much vinegar did you put in the poaching water?”

He notices my face spells out disaster and immediately his expression reflects mine.

“About a quarter of a cup. Why? Is it bad?” He guesses the answer.

I sigh. Then laugh.

Then reach for a pan and head to the fridge for eggs.


Anonymous said...

You must have written this right after your breakfast! Poor Danny.....poor you! You guys are funny!

Anonymous said...

Aimee, I came across your blog a while back and just wanted to let you know that I enjoy reading it! :) This post in particular brought back memories of Danny. :) You painted a perfect picture of his personality!

Amber said...

Pure hilarity:) Good thing opposites attract or imagine how dull life would be!

Zaak said...

So... does it matter which way you stir the water? Clockwise or Counterclockwise? What a cliffhanger!!!

Anonymous said...

This smacks of sexism... I think danny and I will cook saturday breakfast when we visit !- Josh

Aimée said...

Hi Mel- Glad you found it funny. we laugh at ourselves, too.

Hi Mandy- Welcome to UtHC! Thanks for reading.

Hi Amber- Can you relate to this at all?

Hi Zaak- hope you don't lose any sleep over it.

Hi Josh- Be my guest!

Tiffany Rieder said...

OMG I was just perusing your blog as I just discovered it and I have to laugh...this is my life. Once my husband decided he was going to make and elaborate breakfast casserole. First he cleaned the kitchen because he needed it to be orderly to start and then he went to the store to get what he was missing and then he made it. It needed about and hour in the oven. 3 hours later I was starving! My husband also talks constantly when he cooks and asks me a million questions and has no idea where everything is. I try to be zen but its so hard.


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