Getting the knives out while forking over some ideas for what to eat for a meal.
|"Okay", he said. "We have to start dinner preparations for tonight." Thus said, after hearing a terrible joke on the radio about mushroom soup. Alvin Turnberry wasn’t good at cooking anything up but bad puns that mushroomed all out of proportion to the moment.
He was in the soup now, with his wife Marge, and he knew it. His offer to help was so unique and unexpected that her jaw dropped along with the coffee she was drinking. “Look what you made me do. Try cleaning up your act instead of making a mess of things.” She began dabbing futilely at her evening dress.
“You are all wet, dear. Let me help.”
“That would be a very limited menu of half baked options, Alvin. Eat your heart out, instead.” Marge fled the room with one last comment, “Be as mealy mouthed in the kitchen as you want, alone. I’m out of here.”
Any other ordinary night together, Alvin would have considered ordering a pizza delivery. His TV and couch called to him. Now he felt like he had to fork over something of better taste to repair Marge’s disposition.
“Has she canned me?” he mumbled, “I haven’t gone to pot that much, have I?” Being in hot water was a little too stirring a place to be with Marge.
The kitchen was foreign country. Sure, he knew how to open the fridge. His light turned on when he did. “Leftovers, right over here.”
When Marge came in a half hour later to investigate the smell of smoke, she blinked at the romantic setting. “I couldn’t hold a candle to what you’ve done here, Alvin. You’ve already got one lit.”
“Please be seated, dear heart, your chairman awaits your pleasure. I wasn’t going to turn your lights out but wanted a change of mood. We could table it if you want to be self-serving.” With a flourish Alvin bowed over dimly lit plates.
“What’s this? I don’t recognize it.” Marge sniffed and wished she hadn’t. Her tummy growled.
“I broke the mold, sweetness, over whatever it was. If it was good enough last week, it must be better now. The milk is well curdled into cottage cheese. I added a little relish while I mustard my forces hamming things up. Voila, we are no longer in a pickle but the juice was still there to make our event more spicy. I didn't have to drive myself to drink. It may taste a bit watered down, but one can’t keep a good thing bottled up when it can be put to good use.”
Alvin sat down and began digging in. Marge watched with growing interest as his face turned a vivid green. “Something wrong, dear?”
“I’m all choked up,” he gasped, wide eyes tearing.
“As am I, Alvin. I hoped we might spoon together for dessert.”
“Excuse me, it seems my plate is too full for that. I can’t stomach the thought right now.” Alvin left the room abruptly. The food going down was coming back up. He had to make a hasty deposit. His sinking feeling was that Marge’s idea of misplaced romance would leave him too drained.
Marge sat ensconced, in Alvin’s favorite chair, feet crossed, idly flipping TV channels when he returned much later. It was time to butter him up. “Set yourself down, Alvin. Have some pizza. I found a romantic comedy that looks familiar to feed our fancy. What do you think?”