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It was a dark and stormy night. It was a typical fall evening: sunny with temperatures in the mid-60s. This evening, my husband and I were celebrating something very special: dinner time. Why? Why not? For this particular occasion, I decided to make grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup. The only problem with this is that my husband insists that we use his griddle to make the sandwiches. I don’t like using the griddle.
It’s different. Different is intimidating. I came from a simple household where the two fanciest kitchen gadgets we had were a crockpot and a coffee maker. We didn’t use griddles; we used a frying pan. Fast forward thirty years: I now live in a house with my husband’s very expensive cookware – none of which is nonstick. So when it comes to making grilled cheese sandwiches, my husband prefers we use the griddle. I procrastinated as much as I could and then decided it was time to get up and make dinner.
Me: Where’s the griddle?
Husband: In the pantry.
I remove the griddle, place it on the counter and plug it in. The plug has a dial that allows you set the temperature.
Me: What temperature do you set the griddle at for grilled cheese?
Me: Okay. Ooh! Do you usually butter the bread?
I go to the fridge and look for the butter. I can’t find it.
Me: Does it have to be butter ’cause I think we’re out.
Husband: Um…yes…..do I need to go to the store?
Me: No it’s fine. I’ll figure it out.
I search through the cupboards. I don’t know why I bothered because I already knew what I was going to say next.
Me: Ooh! I got it!
Husband: Did you find the butter?
Me: No. But I found something better.
I can here him fumbling around upstairs, frantically trying to finish getting changed out of his work clothes.
Husband: No! No, no!
Me: It’s fine. Really. I got this. Jeeze. It’s just grilled cheese.
I pull the bread out of the refrigerator. My husband stomps down the stairs. He darts into the kitchen. He sees me with the bread and his mouth drops to the floor.
Husband: What is that?
Me: The bread.
Husband: That’s banana bread!
He puts his arm around me and ushers me into the living room.
Husband: You cannot make a grilled cheese sandwich using either WD-40 or banana bread!
Me: Why not?
He reaches for the remote and turns the television on. He surfs through a bunch of channels before stopping on a show he knows I watch.
Husband: Here. Watch this and please! Stay out of the kitchen. I’ll make dinner.
I sit down in the chair. Scandal is on television.
And this, dear readers, is how you get your husband to make dinner!