This column was written many, MANY years ago, but could just as well be today (except we no longer have young children living at home). For a blast from the past, I thought I’d add it to my blog:
The roast beef was perfect, tender and juicy. Potatoes were appealed, diced, cooked, and mashed to a creamy consistency, unlike my usual lumpy spuds. Green and yellow vegetables decorated the table. Even fresh baked bread and butter were there.
Everything was at the table and ready for Sunday dinner, everything except the guest of honor, my spring-planting, farmer-husband. He was way across some field, far from the savory scents of my sumptuous banquet, in a dream world of his own.
I know I shouldn’t have gone to such culinary extremes during the spring planting race. Past lost dinners should have told me that. But I guess I’m a slow learner.
Many times before I had done the same thing, trying to give my hard-working husband the energy and strength to continue to the next piece, fixed the next breakdown, plant the next seed.
But what did I get for all my efforts in the kitchen? Heart aches, that’s what. That and a roast as dry as jerky, potatoes best used for mortar, and a Sunday meal fit for the slop bucket.
Hours later, guess who sauntered in, all smiles? Solid dirt from head to toe and proud of his afternoon’s accomplishments, he simply asked, “what’s for dinner?” He.
Here the fairytale version of the perfect woman, knowing what planting means to a farmer, should have said, “Honey, just sit yourself down at the table, and I’ll warm up dinner for you. You’re a little late, you know. But that’s okay. Hope everything tastes alright.”
That’s what the perfect woman should say. Now me, I’m not perfect, far from it. And instead of being sweet and understanding, I’m just plain mad by the time he shows up.
The food wasn’t set warm on the table with a smile by me. If it got there at all it went with a slam and a growl, and probably cold to boot.
The following Sunday, I give the kids the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches they prefer and forget the picture perfect meal. But my farmer double-crossed me again.
This time he showed up in the kitchen at five to twelve, spit and polish cleaned, with a bouquet of trilliums in his hand.
I can never count on him for anything.
I guess next Sunday will ruin another roast together.