I almost got killed last night. Well, not literally, but it could have been close.
As I’ve mentioned before, Jane is the cook in our household. I get home from work after 7pm, so she usually has dinner just about plated up as I’m walking thru the door. (Yes, I know I am spoiled — but hey, at least I appreciate it!) We accomplish this feat with the use of “modern technology. I usually email Jane to let her know when I’m leaving and will often call her when I’m at the 10 minute mark (on my hands-free cel phone — In our house, we do not condone driving with a phone pressed up to your ear!).
I used to ask Jane what was for dinner, but I’m not allowed to do that anymore. And if I ask, the response is “Dinner!” In case you are wondering, the reason I’m no longer allowed to ask is that once or twice, when I heard the reply to my query, I commented on the dinner which was being lovingly prepared for me. The comment was less than positive, and along the lines of “I would rather have pizza” or some equally distressing-to-the-chef statement. So now I’m no longer allowed to ask. It saves us both a little stress and anxiety, and usually I’m happy enough with what I’m being served.
So last night, when I walked into the kitchen and saw the beautiful grains Jane had on the side of the plate, I was looking forward to whatever the main course was, and then I saw it, a giant mushroom (Portobello). I couldn’t help myself, and blurted out “You’re feeding me a mushroom for dinner?” Really, you could just see Jane dreaming of bashing in my skull with the skillet she held in her hand.
But damn that mushroom was good! And now I have to figure out how to get out of the doghouse!