My Husband Is A Better Cook Than I Am

“You haven’t lived until you’ve tasted my mom’s (enter name of food here.)” This type of brag will never cross the lips of my two children, Luke, 20, and Meg, 17.

When Luke was born I went from full-time staff writer to stay-at-home mom/freelancer. I still brought home my share of the bacon, but tried to rarely fry it up in the pan. I never got the chef gene, and quite frankly was glad. I would rather clean the kitchen after my husband, Neil, cooks using every pot, dish and utensil in the drawer, than stand in front of a hot stove watching something boil, broil or bake.

The city of Chicago does not produce as much wind as the joint sighs of relief Luke and Meg let loose when Neil walks into the kitchen, and they realize they are actually going to eat a “good” home-cooked meal. This is how it’s always been.

When the kids were really little, my lack of culinary interest and skill went undetected. Monday through Thursday I got away with simple dishes like orzo with butter, microwavable chicken nuggets, as well as nukeable mashed potatoes and vegetables, hot dogs wrapped in Pillsbury crescent rolls (that I managed not to burn) and salad, or bacon and eggs, if we didn’t have that already for breakfast. I also had a stockpile of mac and cheese in individual containers in my freezer, which my mother made on a monthly basis as a go-to meal, just in case.

Things got trickier when the kids got older and got wise to my shortcoming. Their after school activity schedules allowed me to circumvent the whole kitchen thing so that I only cooked on Mondays. I kept it simple: steak or chops made on the stove in a cast-iron grill fry pan. (I tried broiling them in the oven and always managed to char one or both sides of the meat.) Uncle Ben and the Jolly Green Giant were my secret lovers, who got me through the drama of side dishes.

On Tuesdays, we’d pick up Subway sandwiches on the way home from gymnastics/sports club/swimming.

Wednesday I broke into my stash of macaroni and cheese after religious instruction. Full disclosure: When Luke was in fourth grade and Meg was in first, we’d pick up McDonald’s. This came to a screeching halt when in fifth grade Luke declared he would not be eating fast food in solidarity with his teacher who was a major hater.

Thursdays we ate at my mother’s house. There was enough delicous fare to feed several families, yet never anything left over. Imagine.

Fridays we ordered in pizza or Chinese food.

But Saturdays and Sundays? Let the feast begin. Neil prepared three meals a day. He sliced and diced and julien fried. Even his sandwiches were something of a masterpiece. He experimented with different spices and sometimes made a dish two different ways; one per the recipe and the other a la Neil. He still does.

I’ve always taken pride in being able to look at my handsome husband and say, “And he cooks, too,” even though many look questionably at me. My sister-in-law once stared in horror as I confessed that I often have to call Neil to ask a culinary question like, “When making hard boiled eggs, do I boil the water first, then drop the egg in or put the egg and water in the pot together then let the rolling boil begin?”

Other mothers have been known to stare a bit, then utter the word, “Seriously?”

But I’ve always figured, we all can’t be the best at everything. I love being a mother and am glad I had the opportunity to be home to take care of both my children. Their clothes and home were always clean; they always got to doctor and dentist appointments, as well as school, and social activities. I was lovingly known as The Homework Nazi. Plus, I always made sure they had food in their bellies, even if it came from a red Stouffer’s box. And as far as being a fun mom who liked to go bowling or biking or … well, let’s just say, I always had something cooking.

Lorraine Duffy Merkl is the author of the novel BACK TO WORK SHE GOES.