Self Sufficient Steward

In Over My Head

So I’ve been retired for ninety days. More time off than I can remember since I was fourteen. But it’s zoomed by, filled with two week-long road trips (one on the other side of the continent), preparation for three mega parties on the property (a retirement party for 100+ and two showers), six trips to Raleigh, culminating in getting arrested, a fortieth high school reunion, and a LOT of mowing and weeding to keep up with an amazingly rainy summer. Still, I’ve been making progress on some projects and am just barely beginning to get a handle on what retirement will hold for us. As part of the long view, I’m determined to acquire a few life skills, among them…cooking. Let me explain. We grow a lot of our own food. I help with that. A lot. We preserve a lot of our own food. I help with that. Very little. But most importantly, the VAST majority of the meals we eat are cooked at home. I help with that. Not at all. Zero. Zilch. Nada. Although, in my defense, honoring the prominently displayed plaque over our kitchen sink (“No man was ever shot while washing dishes”) I do wash a lot of dishes (take out the garbage and compost, etc.) But I do NOT cook. Ever.

Until tonight. And it wasn’t part of the plan. I had mentioned my ‘continuing education’ plan to my siblings. Error. As a retirement gift, I received kitchen towels, two books on cooking, and a kitchen knife worth more than my car. Crap. Bet called. So my wife and I agreed that I would start next week. No problem. Plenty of time to study up and achieve a sufficient level of Prozac beforehand. An over-reaction? Let me explain. My wife is a phenomenal cook. A freaking prodigy. I have dined like a king for thirty-five years. Practically every night. So my agreeing to cook dinner one night a week is roughly equivalent to saying: “Shit, I been playing b-ball since 1967. Meet Koby in the Staples Center? Hell yeah! And he better bring it!”

Yes. Self-induced pressure. But I had another six days to get ready, until early this morning. I have my list of chores at home. A full day. looking forward to it. Sent my wife off to work and started into the list. The phone rings. It’s my wife. She has that voice I’ve only heard a handful of times in thirty-five years, and hope to never hear again, though I certainly will. Something seriously bad has happened. Someone has died, and it has shaken her to her core. But she has a job to do; a staff of youngsters that need a leader. Her, their mama doc. So she plunges into her day, amidst the tears of her entire staff. Meanwhile, I hang up the phone. Sad at the loss of a young man I also knew, and unspeakably sad for his family, but also amazed at my wife’s resilience. My wife of thirty-four years, who will work a long, long day. And then come home to cook dinner as usual, after a most unusual day. So I jumped the gun. I called in the ‘pros from Dover‘ (my brother and his wonderful significant other) for assistance. Despite teaching college classes in Virginia, she helps me to do the only little thing I could do. Attempt to pick up the load and cook, so that my wife arrives to the smell of a homemade quiche, a unique summery salad featuring watermelon and cucumber, and ice cream with a truly killer blackberry sauce (from berries I picked here this morning).

My efforts (and hopefully the food) made her smile.

And that meant the world to me.

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