After a teeny-tiny scare in which everything is completely okay, the doctor advised the wife to take it easy over the weekend. No lifting, no exercise, no vigorous activity. She took it literally. I took it to mean NO MOVEMENT WHATSOEVER FOR THE REST OF THE DURATION OF THIS PREGNANCY.
She wasn’t having it.
Okay, fine. COMPLETE BEDREST. I’d allow sitting up for meals and timed intervals for bathroom breaks.
She wasn’t having it.
So we compromised at what we called “couchrest.” Well, the wife was calling it “captivity.” But the idea was she’d hang out on the couch the entire weekend. I’d set up a little desk next to the couch for her laptop, gather books and magazines for reading, and neatly arrange all of the remotes on the coffee table in front of her. I’d take care of everything, all the house chores, and all of the three hundred glasses of water she requested throughout the day.
And this might just become a cooking blog for the next five months, because I’m cooking all of the meals from now on.
Reluctantly, she agreed.
So first thing Saturday morning, I began my project/missive/calling by making breakfast. She’d had a craving for fresh-baked biscuits and had intended to make them. I assured her I could make them just as well. You mix milk, flour, and butter in a bowl. Big deal.
Oh, and baking soda. Baking soda is a very important ingredient. Critically important.
Meanwhile, the wife was in the other room, blissfully unaware, making sure I remembered to bring in the jelly.
I waited. I waited and I learned. I learned that giving them five more minutes at a time does nothing to improve their state. It will only ensure they fully and completely bake onto the pan forever.
These were not biscuits. They were a new form of cement.
“I think you need to re-imagine your definition of a biscuit,” I announced, ominously. Like if you imagined only the top flaky layer, which had to be violently scraped off with a spatula, and it wasn’t really flaky, but instead the consistency of wet clumps of bread.
I moved onto the eggs. Eggs are another problem spot in my cooking repertoire. I can never tell when they’re supposed to be done. There seems to be a very thin line between “pool of salmonella” and “overcooked mass of rubber.” And because cooking is more like a state of anxiety for me than it is an activity, I just go ahead and make sure it’s an overcooked mass.
I served it to the wife, who ate all of it, even the cement biscuits, because she is a pregnant lady. Her hunger is ravenous, indiscriminating, and wolf-like, all of time. You don’t even know. She even complimented the eggs, saying I’ve always had a “flair” for making them.
We were only about twenty minutes into couchrest, but the kitchen had turned into a disaster zone.
Also, I dropped the roll of tin foil and it rolled across the floor, completely unraveling. I learned it can never, ever go back to the way it was, and that makes me really sad.
The kitchen was a goner. The kitchen was a fallen solider I had to leave behind. I refused to eat any of that crap I’d made, and the wife was still starving.
It was time for plan B.
They say fast food is addictive. It probably is. I don’t care. McDonald’s is like a warm, comforting hug.