I Married an Italian Who Couldn’t Cook. / I Married an Italian Who Couldn’t Cook.

I Married an Italian Who Couldn’t Cook.

 

Chef

 

I Guess I should have been suspicious.

It was a first date. We went to a movie, and afterwards she invited me back to her folks house where she offered to cook me something to eat. I was enjoying her company and happily accepted.

She proceeded to fix me a Basic Burger. No Frills, Just Meat and the Bun.

No Big Thing Right? (buzzer sounds) Wrong!

When she put down the plate in front of me I started looking around the room for the hidden camera. This had to be “Candid Camera” and Allen Funt was going step out at any minute to let me in on the joke.

What was before me looked like a hunk of charcoal. She had Burnt The Burger, The Bun, I truly believe she’d have Burnt The Plate if it had been possible. but of course, you let that go…It was a First Date. and everyone deserves a second chance.

What I’ll never understand was her Mom was world class when it came to cooking…Aren’t Italians suppose to pass down those recipes through the generations to preserve them?

It’s a good thing she had three sisters who were all excellent cooks. everyone of them while maybe not as good as the Mother excelled in various Italian Pasta Dishes, Appetizers & Pastries. why one of her sisters was Legally Blind! But she was a really good cook.

My Gal? She tried Baking. But apparently she missed the part of the lesson that told you to grease the pan you were using.

She tried….don’t get me wrong. Lord knows she tried. She tried to bake brownies or cakes on occasion. Most of those lab experiments ended up Burnt and Stuck to the Pan. and the only way it was coming out was with a Jackhammer or possibly some Dynamite.

I remember she’d get so frustrated when trying to prepare something. And this was a Smart Woman. Book Smart that is, not Cooking Smart.

It was time to face the facts.

I had married Thag The Cavewoman. she knew how to make fire…just not what to do with it.

My own Mother would ask me from time to time what my wife made for dinner. I’d reply, “Reservations.” (rim shot) that’s an old joke I know, but for me it was true. we ate out a lot. Whenever she’d ask if I wanted to go over to her Mom and Dads for dinner. before she even said, “do you want to have dinner at my mom and…I’d interrupt with, “Yes, oh yes Please, can we?”

The only thing she ever cooked correctly was by Accident. It was on Thanksgiving in 1990.

She had insisted on preparing Thanksgiving Dinner for the whole family. I held my breath and my tongue. We bought a large Turkey.

You know those little red buttons that pop up in the Turkey to let you know the bird is done? Well…It seems that after stuffing the bird she placed it upside down in the pan in the oven, so the red button was underneath it.

I started to sense something was wrong when a short time before dinner was to be served. I walked into our kitchen where she and her older sister were trying to flip the bird over.

Word got out.

The entire family held their collective breath.

In my head alarms were going off. “Oh My God What Has She Done Now! We’re Screwed, No Turkey on Thanksgiving?!? You gotta be Kidding Me.” I slowly backed out of the room pretending not to know any of them.

Who are you people and what have you done to my Turkey!!!

Turns out once Birdzilla was flipped back to the proper position all those juices reversed direction thereby making it one succulent Bird.

Hey, even a Blind Squirrel can find an Acorn, I guess. but that would be the high water mark when it came to cooking for my wife.

She’s gone now, we divorced in 1994.

She went on to marry someone else. Maybe she learned how to cook? Maybe she didn’t?

Maybe somewhere out there in America tonight is a guy with a Major Belly Ache.

And this evening when I say my prayers before bedtime. I’ll Thank God it’s Not Me.

Written by rthogan


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