“How did you get him to do that?” she asked over coffee. Our conversation had turned to what we were planning for dinner that evening and I casually mentioned that Friday night dinner was my hubby’s responsibility. “Seriously, how do you get him to do that every week?”
“Isn’t he just the best?” I replied, hinting there was much more to the story than I was telling. “Ok, spill” she said, “I’m dying to hear.”
Over a second cup, I relayed the tale. “It all started one Friday night after a particularly long week. I had come home pretty pooped and just didn’t feel like cooking. So, instead, I poured a glass of wine, sat down, and staged a little rebellion.
A few minutes later the usual question “What’s for dinner?” announced my hubby’s arrival home. “Where are you? There aren’t any good smells coming from the kitchen!” He found me in the family room, feet up and feeling a little less pain than when I had arrived an hour earlier.
“I’m not making dinner tonight!” I declared. There, I’d said it out loud and, to his credit, my wonderful man didn’t even blink. His immediate response ensured my lifelong affection: “Of course not, you’ve had a long week. Let me make dinner for you.”
Soon after, wearing my “Kiss the Cook” apron, he popped his head into the family room. “Can you point me in the direction of the frying pans and do we have a dutch oven?” “What are you making?” I tentatively asked. “Oh, you’ll see …” was all the response I got.
Seven o’clock came and went, with no sign of a meal. What could he possibly be making? Amid banging of pots and clanging of pans and the use of assorted four letter words, I couldn’t resist a peek. Every inch of kitchen countertop was covered with “stuff” and at least three different cookbooks were laid open. The room was fragrant with garlic and steam could be seen rising from a pot on the stove. Something scrumptious was obviously on its way.
Another hour went by and still no dinner. It was nearing 8 PM and not only was I hungry but I was also beginning to worry. What could be taking so long? A stealthy glance through a cloud of flour revealed even more chaos. The Kitchen-Aid mixer had been employed to make who knows what, the sink was overflowing with more pots and pans than I thought I owned and, oh my, was that pasta I saw sticking to the ceiling?
“Do you need any help?” I asked hesitantly. “Nope, everything is under control” came the reply. “You can set the table if you’d like though.”
As the clock struck 9 PM, I was given the “heads up” - only another hour and dinner would be ready. At a very “stylishly late” 10 PM, we sat down for a candle-lit meal. Julia Child’s beef bourguignon was presented, with freshly baked biscuits and a bright green salad and a bowl of what looked like noodles.
“I couldn’t find gluten-free egg noodles, so I had to use some angel hair pasta I found in the pantry. They got a little mushy and I hope that’s ok.” My adorable hubby looked a bit stressed but proud of what he accomplished. “I had no idea how much work making dinner actually is” he admitted as he poured himself a well-deserved glass of Cabernet. “Julia makes it look so easy on the show we watched. I don’t know how you do this every single night."
The next morning, I surveyed the kitchen and the damage that had been done. It was obvious that every single pot, pan and kitchen tool had been put to use. It would take some time to clean up the mess that was left.
My honey’s newly found skills as a chef had become evident and I lightly asked if we could create a new Friday night tradition. Would he be willing to take on a “Friday Night Plates” responsibility every week?
With a twinkle in his eye, he responded positively, with one caveat -my choices would be limited to Chinese takeout, delivery pizza or something else he excelled in making: reservations for dinner out.
And thus, Friday Night Plates was born. Gotta love that man. He sure knows the way to win a woman’s heart - a night off from cooking.
© 2024 Annie Sokoloff