Square Peg ● Round Hole







Sunday was Costco day. Armed with a list, my spouse ventured to the land of bulk buying. On that list, I had indicated the need for him to purchase something for dinner,as I was limited on what items I had in stock.

Early on in our marital bliss, I may have had a limited palate. Our dinners might have been repetitive. If you have ever heard my husband recount the horror of eating green beans or rotisserie chicken over and over again, you would think that I had beaten him. In fact, about a week ago, we were at lunch with some friends where he went into detail about his intense dislike for those food items. So ungrateful for my effort in feeding him. Whatever. He might want to let go of his food resentment.

As he pulled into the driveway, I implored my children to help unload as my current hostage situation, aka my boot, limits my assistance. I am terribly upset about that….not. Anyway, he comes in with a big smile on his face holding our dinner in his hands. Friends, it was a rotisserie chicken. What. The. Truck. (Insert the F-word that rhymes with truck, if you are so inclined.)

Me: What are you doing with that chicken?

Brian: I got it for dinner.

Me: I thought you hated rotisserie chicken? (Seriously, I feel like I have entered an alternate universe. I mean he won’t even eat the Costco chicken noodle soup because it has the rotisserie chicken in it. And that is seriously some yummy grub. Freak.)

Brian: (shrugs his shoulders) It sounded good tonight. (The side he purchased was their already prepared mashed potatoes that feeds at least 12 people.)

It was a moment of pure confusion layered with a bit of annoyance since he would literally tell anyone the story of how his wife abused him with certain foods. Okay, maybe my repertoire was limited. Back in the olden days, when we got married, there was no Pinterest and, frankly, those things called cookbooks seemed too complicated. The Joy of Cooking was basically false advertising. I didn’t find my “joy” in preparing food, so I went the easy route. Hence, why my spouse has “issues” with past food choices. Un-flipping-grateful.

I have decided not to psychoanalyze the situation. Maybe this is his form of shock therapy. Maybe this is how we are spicing up our marriage. Whatever. He bought it. He ate it. And, he seemed amused at my confusion, which I think is his endgame. Well played, Brian. Well, played.