Call me a gastronomic neophyte, call me a picky eater, call me whatever you want to, but I really do hate curry. I lived for two years in an apartment complex filled with mostly Muslim people who ate nothing but curried chicken and the smell sickens me. I have nothing against Muslims, don’t get me wrong, but the stench of their cooking settled like a foul miasma over the whole block and I grew to hate it. M knows this. He knows that I associate the smell of curry with the end of my second marriage and that I can’t stomach it.
What is his favorite food? Yep. Curried anything. He has a curried cauliflower & chicken dish that he adores. I have learned to make it and have even learned to choke it down on occasion because that’s what people who care about each other do – they set aside their own preferences in favor of those of the other person every once in awhile just to be loving and kind.
Last night I came home from work to the smell of curry on the stove. Sigh. Okay, fine. I can eat a little bit of chicken & cauli in appreciation of the fact that he cooked for once. I can pretend that I enjoy this meal in order to keep the peace.
One bite in and I knew that the chicken was off. It tasted faintly spoiled. You know what I do with chicken that has “gone a little off?” I throw it out. I do not cook it up because it’s a waste of good food and money to toss it. I do not eat it for fear of getting sick – throwing up is the absolute worst! I do not feed it to others, and I certainly do not cook it up and not say that it may be a little “off” after the person eating it has tasted it. I would rather have toast and not have to worry that I’ll be heaving in the middle of the night.
Is it just me, or was this episode totally inconsiderate? M lectured me on how I should have washed the chicken and put it in a different plastic bag after using half of it for dinner the other night – it was totally my fault that the chicken had spoiled, but it’s not like we’d get sick or anything, the dish just didn’t taste as good as usual.
He ate two plates full of the stuff, including what I left on my plate. I went to bed hungry after his comments about me being a picky eater. Whatever. There’s only so much spoiled chicken I can swallow before I snap and I had reached my limit with the first bite.
I did my best, did not yell at him, thanked him for cooking, apologized that I was unable to eat any more and blamed it all on being tired after work.
Crisis averted. Mostly.
Today he called me over to his computer to take a look at a special stove he wants to buy for his boat. It’s a cute little stove. I asked how much it cost and he wavered on the price, finally admitting that it was, “about $300…” He is hoping to qualify for disability benefits and was nattering on about how he would spend the money. “Or maybe you could buy it for me!” he says with a hopeful smile, rubbing my shoulder in a pleading way. At my frown he asked, “is the card zeroed out yet? Should I just order it?”
“No. You should not order it. The card is not zeroed yet,” was my angry reply. I turned back to my computer, seething inside.
The nerve of that man! More talk of money, how we are going to run out of dry firewood very soon, how we’ll have to rely on electric heat, blah, blah, blah. I’m surprised he can contain his huge balls inside his pants!
I gotta get out of here! I feel like he’s circling around me, looking for any opening to pry his fingers into to pull out money. In the words of The Boss, “he’s milking you…” Yes, he is. Not for much longer…