My Man's Place Is In The Kitchen

As he runs his finger under the cold sink water, I think about the pasta on the table, homemade fresh Fettuccine that he’s spent all day making.

There's sauce too: chunky, spicy tomato sauce mixed with fresh, homegrown spices. We were just about to dig in when this accident occurred. He sliced his finger cutting pepperoni bread. He may need stitches. I throw the bread away, and after we wrap his finger, he lifts it in the air above his heart. I hold a pomegranate martini to his mouth. “Tilt your chin back,” I say, and he does. “Drink the alcohol.”

He’s surprised I’m so helpful. That night in bed he looks at me and says, “You were good. You really took care of me.” This needs to be said. This needs to be said because usually, mostly, he is the one that takes care of me. We are newlyweds, four months and going strong, and my husband waits on me hand and foot.

My mother calls my husband “the poor man.” My brother thinks I’m a princess. “The way he waits on you…” they say, shaking their heads.

My friend, Libby, is shocked that we’re encouraged to just sit with our legs crossed on the coffee table and sip Sauvignon Blanc while my husband whips up turkey lasagna with four cheeses. “It’s 7p.m. He’s making lasagna now?” I tell her how quick he is, that he is a lasagna-pro. We clink our glasses and she whispers to me, “You have it so good.”

It’s true. I do have it good. My husband commutes an hour home from work every night, stops at the grocery store, and then comes home and immediately begins to cook.