I don’t think there’s any pre-marriage counseling seminar available on the market that could have identified one of the professor’s particularly annoying habits: saving the wishbone from a chicken carcass. Once sufficiently ‘cured’, he begs someone (usually a reluctant and rather uninterested moi) to join him in yanking it apart, to see who is ‘lucky’ enough to make a wish.
My wish is usually something like: ‘please let Jason stop collecting wishbones.’ Maybe it’s because I didn’t grow up in a house where we saved pieces of chicken carcass (or if I did, I have completely repressed it from my memory) but I find the practice a little odd; a little disturbing.
Maybe others who partake in this particular practice don’t leave the bone next to the kitchen sink for days on end. Maybe they have a designated ‘chicken-wishbone-drying-spot’, in which case I might be more on board with the ritual.
But the professor deposits it by the kitchen faucet. And leaves the little chunk o’ skeleton there, for as long as a week sometimes. And every time I walk by, I get grossed out looking at the greyish-brown V-shaped bone. (Also, I get an uneasy feeling that ‘somebody’ is trying put a curse on me.)
So this last time, a couple of weeks ago, I decided to try a different approach. I took the wishbone away from the sink and plopped it on the professor’s desk. Figuring maybe it would gross him out and then he’d abandon the practice.
Except he never noticed the greyish ‘V’. I had to point it out to him. And instead of vowing never to do it again, he enlisted the help of our oldest in pulling it apart. And told him to make a wish when he ended up with the ‘lucky’ part.
If you asked the professor what annoys him most about being married to me, I’m pretty sure one of the things he’d mention would be that I buy salad or broccoli and never use it.
I have good intentions. Whenever I’m at the grocery store, I think to myself: ‘we should eat more salad (or broccoli)’ and I grab a bag (or bunch). And then, two weeks later, as I rummage through the fridge looking for ideas for dinner, I unearth a bag of dark salad greens with slimy edges. Or a bunch of broccoli with yellow dotted florets and brown spots on the stems.
And then it goes in the trash, and the professor raises his eyebrows and makes some comments about wasting money, and starving children in Africa. Followed by: ‘how about next time, when you decide you want to eat salad, you drive to the grocery – that day – instead of buying it ahead of time.’
This from the guy who has never taken three kids to the grocery store.
In light of this ongoing argument, I decided to make a quiche last week. Because I had broccoli in the fridge that was due to expire at any minute. So Friday arrived, and the clock struck 4.30pm.
I vaguely recalled thinking I’d planned to make something specific for dinner, but couldn’t remember exactly what.
Then it hit me: quiche.
So, a whopping hour before the kids usually eat, I began to make a from-scratch-quiche. Which, really, sounds more complicated than it actually is. I found a bit of leftover cream, some slices of bacon, the still-unblemished-broccoli and a chunk of Edam cheese.
Marital crisis averted.
Also, it was rather tasty. And both of the blondies consumed their portions.
Makes me feel luckier than, say, ending up with a chunk of chicken bone.