Dinner is Served

Dinner is Served

My phone rang again for what seemed like the hundredth time this morning. Well, maybe it wasn’t exacty the hundredth time, but you get the idea. I picked it up in the midst of doing my monthly report to my boss, all the while juggling various deadlines for “Rush” requests for information from a variety clients in different departments in my company. A pretty typical day at work for me; such is the life of a corporate reference librarian.

The phone continued to ring. Frazzled, I picked up the phone, expecting to get yet another “Rush” request to work on before lunch. I was relieved to hear a familiar voice. Instead of “I need this information by 2:00 this afternoon”, I heard: "Don't worry about dinner, " my husband, Walter, said reassuringly. "I'll take care of everything. It will be ready when you get home."

Walter is no stranger in the kitchen. He knows how to get around in that room pretty well. He can cook, and does help out whenever he can, especially on those days when he takes a vacation day while I go out to toil. I don't mind so much-- the way I figure it, SOMEONE has to support this family! And, it's kind of nice to know that, when I get home, dinner will already be started, the table is set, and we can look forward to a pleasurable time together, breaking bread and catching up on the day's events together. And then I wake up from my reverie.

Once I orient myself to where I am, and where I'm heading, I realize that if
Walter is cooking dinner, three things are likely to occur:

1.) The entree will be hamburgers; rare on the inside, charred to perfection on
the outside

2.) No vegetables will be served

3.) The kitchen will be smoke-filled due to the fact that Walter likes to grill, and always abides by the same rule: Cook on high, no matter what.

So, it came as no surprise to me this one day in August, while I was at work, to receive such a phone call from Walter, who was at home with our son, Jeff.

Holding the above three truths to be self-evident, I knew what was in the cards for me later that day. I didn't need to ask any questions; I already knew the answers.

Arriving home after yet another stress-free day at work, I opened the door to the family room, only to find Jeffrey balancing his metal baseball bat on end, in the palm of his hand, running between the TV set and an almost-brand-new table lamp. That got the ol' blood a-pumpin' and prepared me for what I was about to face upstairs in the kitchen. To my credit, I didn't let this dissuade me. I continued on.

Climbing the six stairs to the kitchen, I was almost overcome by the smoke billowing through the kitchen door. I couldn't see anything except the vague outline of the kitchen table. The sizzling and spattering noises emanating from the corner of the kitchen where I knew the stove to be, almost drowned out the friendly voice, saying, "Hi, Donna. Dinner's almost ready."

I stared up at the smoky fog that had enveloped my kitchen, and there, miraculously finding his way to the top of the steps, stood Walter, smiling proudly, spatula in one hand, a plate with the charred remains of dinner, piled high, in the other.

"Come on up. Everything's ready."

I took one last breath of smokeless air before I ventured up the steps. I would need that reserve oxygen until I could get upstairs, and turn on the exhaust fan and open a window or two. Within minutes of having done that, the kitchen began to take on its familiar appearance.

I made a quick salad, and we all sat down to eat, with the ever-present catsup bottle taking on its customary role as centerpiece to our dinner table. Walter looked at me, expectantly. "Well? How is it? How does it taste?"

I bit through the crunchy exterior, and chewed on the soft-textured, bright-pink inside. "Delicious!" I exclaimed, knowing it had the added advantage: I didn’t have to cook it.