Dinner

This was, without question, the most romantic text I’ve received from my husband, the Carpenter, in the last year. Oh, who am I kidding, the last two years. Three. Seven. Whatever. It read, and I quote: “Hey, dinner is planned. No asking today.”

That’s my guy, my Carpenter. Straight to the point. Why tease and flirt when you can just bluntly take the air out of the romance, and yet, still score a goal and get bonus points from your spouse? His love language is succinct. 

Of course, he was referring to the dreaded daily text message exchange between us that happens around 3pm, where he asks what I’d like for dinner, and I reply with the most helpful of helpful responses: “I don’t know.” Thus begins a back and forth of meal suggestions, none of which spark any inspiration for either of us because we are creatures of habit with a menu of maybe eight items. 

A discussion of bank balances further drains any enthusiasm. Money is tight. Groceries are light. We keep it real. Steak is a luxury item. Cheap steak is a waste of resources. Toast counts as two meals. 

As you know, communication is vital to any relationship, but when it comes to text messages, it can go sideways fast. This is particularly true of partners with polar opposite communication styles. For instance, in the above text my spouse used two complete sentences. Seven words in total. Seven. That’s a bona fide love note, by my standards. My reply was approximately 65 words, five commas and two exclamation points. Precis is overrated.

Dinner was indeed set. Homemade burgers with salad in a bag, but with crispy tortilla chips and Asian dressing because we’re fancy like that. No complaints. Still romantic.

I know my unhelpful responses about meal planning only add to the Carpenter’s frustration. In my defence, I’m not inspired by food. I’m picky, not by choice but by body dynamics, and I loathe cooking. In a perfect world, I’d have a personal chef who makes sure my food isn’t touching, there’d be no dairy, and portion control would be agreed upon. Sigh. It’s not a perfect world, as you know. 

Also, the Carpenter texts me at the worst possible time in my work day when I’m unable to give the concept of dinner any focus. Since his semi-retirement, he has been the main grocery shopper (because his anti-social behaviour gets him through a grocery store in minutes, where I literally take hours). 

We’ve recently renegotiated this role as work schedules have changed. I’m not happy about this development (the shopping, not the work schedule). You’ll find me weekly in aisle four mumbling nonsensically to myself about dinner ingredients and the cost of everything. Look away. Just move along.

When I find my meal planning rhythm (and I will), I’m going to send the Carpenter romantic texts, listing our daily menus with descriptive adjectives. 

“Tonight’s dinner will be a seasoned mysterious meat compilation, barbecued to near-burnt perfection, creating a crusty, charred exterior with a flavourful centre, served in a Brioche bun, loaded with savoury, colourful toppings and a seasonal salad with locally grown vegetables tossed with an oil vinaigrette and a side of spicy potato crisps.” 

He’s going to love it. 

Bon appetit, mon cheri.