Playing with Fire

In effect, with her tomato soup and cheese sandwiches for Sunday dinner, my wife of thirty-some years had declared war not only on me, but on the entire male culture.  Nothing, and I mean absolutely nothing, had prepared me in this life for becoming “Yan Can Cook” or, even worse, the equivalent of Gloria Steinem’s perfect man.  


I had always followed the gender-rules passed down by my parents, my grandparents and countless generations of men and women who cherished “balance and harmony” in their marriages.  Although there was Uncle Jimmy who seemed happy in the performance of domestic duties, like Erica Jong said, in every family of normal people, you can always find one nut—or something to that effect. Most everybody regarded Jimmy as something of an anomaly. My father once said that he was adopted from someplace where it was still legal to marry farm animals.  


I called my mother who, thank the good Lord, held a firm stance in the balance and harmony camp.


“I need to know how to make pot roast, Mom” I pleaded. 


I could hear pots and pans rattling in the background and the voice of my father, “Do I have time for another toot before dinner?”  


My mother said, “Buy a package of Beef Stew Seasoning and follow the directions on the back.  That will keep you going for a couple of days.”  


In the background, I heard my father say,  “Huh?  Who are you talking to?  Is that Jimmy?”  


Before the line went dead, I heard Mom say, “Oh bullshit, Marvin.”   


Ah, I thought, that’s what Sunday Dinner is all about. Dad mixing drinks in between sessions at the table playing solitaire while Mom bustled around the kitchen putting the multi-component meal together.   Dad played a crucial role in the preparation of Sunday dinner: making sure Mom’s tumbler was never empty yet monitoring her intake to ensure her successful completion of the meal.  It was a delicate juggling act that usually left him exhausted by the end of the dinner and asleep on the sofa by 7 o’clock.


The next morning, I drove to the store and found a package of Lawry’s Beef Stew seasoning.  Following the directions on the back of the package, I headed to the meat counter where I found a pound of meat labeled ‘stew meat.’  Inside were chunks of meat that looked just like the chunks I remembered in Mom’s beef stew.  Some were a little big, but I knew how to use a knife to butcher.  My years when I used to be a man had taught me such essential life skills.  This was frigging simple. What was my wife’s problem? If she thought this was difficult, she needed hormone replacement therapy.  (I made a mental note to ask my obstetrician friend, divorced five times and working on number six.) 


Three carrots, one medium yellow onion, one bunch of celery and two large potatoes later, I was at the checkout counter.  Ten minutes in the grocery store, and I was covered for at least two days.  It was at that moment that I remembered my favorite part of Mom’s beef stew--- homemade biscuits.  I carefully backed my cart through the line of women who were stacked up behind me.  I heard one of them say, “Poor darling, I think his wife drinks.”  


Five minutes later, I was back in line again with Grand’s Home Style Biscuits.  Two of the women who had been behind me were still waiting in line. Each handed me recipes scribbled on scraps of paper.  One included her phone number.   


All the way home, I cranked up the audio in my four-wheel drive SUV, rolled down every window and sang along with mighty manly Mick and the Rolling Stones’ 

“…so don’t play with me ‘cause you’re playin’ with fire.”