I love my husband for the fact that he doesn't hate me on a daily basis. The epic depth of his reserve of Not Hating Me is extraordinary, because sometimes I just do stupid things, and I'm all "Wow, I would hate me if I knew me."
Case in Point:
My husband likes to eat. He loves to eat. His body is very specific about eating, and if 7:00 hits and he doesn't get dinner, his stomach starts to do weird things, like jumping out of his body and trying to digest the cat. His wife, on the other hand, doesn't hold well to time tables. And she doesn't read directions. Because if she did read directions, she would have seen that the Garlicky Red Beans and Pork that she was trying out from her barely used Weight Watchers cookbook takes 50-60 minutes to cook on top of the time it takes to cook the pork by itself and then the onions by themselves. So at 7:15, he wanders into the kitchen with that Hungry Tummy look in his eyes, and 7:15 was about the exact time that I got to that part in the recipe where it plainly states to let it all simmer for 50-60 minutes. I was already stressed: I had failed to notice the part in the recipe that said you should soak the red beans overnight, and I was frantically thinking in my head "What happens if the red beans didn't soak overnight? Will my red beans be inferior red beans and will this whole thing fall badly, badly apart?! WHAT HAPPENS NOW??" His tummy was visibly disappointed.
Thank God that dinner was good when it was finally ready, otherwise The Tummy may very well have filed divorce papers this morning. And, incidentally, my red beans were just fine.
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