We Do Not Own A Bar.

Yesterday afternoon Robbie texted me something called “23 Brunch Recipes To Knock Your Socks Off.” He asked me two different times if I’d had a chance to look at it, and I just shrugged him off.

This morning he mentioned it again and, fueled by my coffee, I proceeded to explain that NO, I had not looked at it, because why should I go to all the trouble of making Nutella and Bacon-Stuffed French Toast? The kids never eat anything I cook, and half of the time you don’t either because YOU ARE SO DAMN PICKY and I have never in my life experienced a grown man who wrinkles his nose at nuts in banana bread.

Once I got going, I couldn’t stop. I ranted on and on about how at the beginning of our marriage I was so gung-ho about cooking for my husband and while I tried to work around his absurd pickiness it seemed like I always fell short — the man much preferred McDonald’s over whatever I cooked at home. Sometimes I make things that aren’t fantastic, obviously, but most of the time everyone else eats it so it can’t be that bad. One Christmas I made, from scratch, a huge chocolate cake from a Southern Living recipe and brought it to our family gathering. Robbie was the only one who didn’t even want to taste it. I recall my grandpa being aghast. I just shrugged and said “He’s picky,” but really and truly, it hurt my feelings.

I don’t know why I chose this particular situation to air my frustrations over almost 9 years of trying to feed a man who won’t eat anything that doesn’t come from a box. But I did. And even as it was happening I thought, I need to shut up. But I didn’t.


A few hours later I chatted with one of my gym friends after our class. Her three children are grown now, and one is dating a boy she really likes. “I don’t want to get too attached to him,” she said. I nodded in understanding before telling her my mom tried hard not to get attached to my boyfriends after I had a really bad breakup. But then I went on to say that when she met Robbie, she really liked him even though my dad couldn’t STAND HIM for at least the first year.

She laughed and asked me why. Oh … let’s see. Probably because the first time he met my parents was when they popped in at my apartment at 7 a.m. to hang blinds and I was like, “Oh, hi, you were supposed to call first. Mama, Daddy, meet Robbie.” And once it became apparent that he was sticking around for awhile, they took us to dinner and my father asked him “What do you want to do with your life?” And he answered, “I’d like to own a bar.”

But here we are, 9 years and 3 kids later and still married. Robbie and my dad work together now. We do not own a bar. My friend cracked up before saying to me: “Love your husband. Love your kids. You’re doing something right — you just keep doing it. ”

So Robbie, I’ll keep trying to cook for you if you agree to keep trying to eat it. But I draw the line at Pancake Fried Sausage Patties.

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