A week before Tim and I got married, Tim looked at me and asked the fateful question, “Can you cook?”
I looked at him with a big grin and replied, “I can boil water, I can make a hot dog and, well, I can make potato soup!” (an odd combination, but that is another story).
About a month after we got married, Tim’s dad said to him, “You are losing weight.” I can only imagine what Tim’s response was. Let’s just say there had been a few cooking catastrophes. I made homemade tacos and Tim and I were both deathly ill.
There were the many attempts to fry an egg and the egg was crisper than the bacon. There were the times when the water boiled dry because I forgot about it. There may have even been a fire or two.
But the coup de grace was the time that I promised to fix a pheasant that Tim brought home from South Dakota (quite an attempt when you have only made hot dogs). I put a package of frozen pheasant in the refrigerator to thaw. When I got home from work, I enthusiastically retrieved the package from the refrigerator.
I got out the recipe that I had studied for hours. I started the preparation by taking the package to the sink and began to unwrap it. As I unrolled the package, something dangled out. I took a closer look which I immediately regretted. In horror, I pitched the package into the sink. There was the naked pheasant with its head still attached and its lifeless eyes were looking right at me. I quickly scooped up that lifeless head and rolled it back in the package, threw the package in the refrigerator and slammed the door shut as if the pheasant would try to get out. Someone else was going to fix this pheasant-not me!
For quite sometime, we had a steady diet of hot dogs and french fries and to this day, I have not fixed a pheasant.
Several months later Tim’s dad remarked, “You are gaining weight. Is her cooking getting better?”
He replied, “We eat out more.”
I wish I could say it wasn’t true.