I’m having a hard time staying focused on work so I decided to write a guest-post for my wife’s blog instead. I’m doing this by choice – I wasn’t delegated.
Between the piles of recipes and scribbled ideas occupying every nook and cranny of our home, the overflowing containers of treats, and the incessant inquiries as to whether I’ll slice through a gargantuan squash or taste the latest culinary masterpiece, it is a wonder I get anything done around here.
I’ve crunched the numbers. Based on the stacks of torn out magazine recipes, collection of “need to have” cookbooks, and plethora of website bookmarks, to date there are about 100,000 recipes that comprise the “to make” list, and I can only imagine that number will grow. If I am blessed with another 50 years of life, that amounts to a rough 18,000 days. At this rate, I must consume 5.6 meals per day if we are ever to eat our way through the current mound of recipes (I’ll just round up to 6, for easier math and to account for repeats of the most successful recipes).
It seems I can anticipate a life of elevensies and luppers.
People we know often realize this predicament of mine, so I’m often asked, “How come you aren’t fatter?!” Well, people-we-know, thank you for using the word ‘fatTER’. It makes me suck in my stomach a bit more each time.
It is no real secret: it takes a lot of hard work and well positioned mirrors (and a little wax) to maintain this appearance.
With this recent foray into blogging I have discovered there are even more things in life I’m just not meant to understand; for example, why my dinner plate loaded with today’s yummy creation must be swept out from beneath my poised fork, taken outdoors and photographed. “Just a sec” morphs into 8 minutes before my plate is returned holding a fraction of its warmth, and she is left wondering how K-fer managed to pound back his smashed peasandcarrots in those seconds, while I unknowingly broadcast my guilt by sporting a telltale green smear in my chin cleft.
Honestly though, tonight’s dinner was fabulous.
It’s too bad I’ll never get to eat it again.
1 down, 99,999 to go…and it’s already almost time for second breakfast.
Written by Carl, Anna’s not-at-all-fat 6’6″ husband who has always claimed he “never gets full”. As usual, Anna is committed to proving him wrong.