In a previous blog entitled, ‘The Rest is History,’ I discuss son Mike’s domestic shortcomings — especially in the QVC kitchen. I was reminded of his exploits recently when I was incapacitated — and at the mercy of my husband…
Move Over, Martha
I was sitting up in bed with my broken foot (cast and all) elevated on two pillows. It was impossible to relax. My eyes were drawn to John’s underwear bulging from partially closed bureau drawers. I turned away only to come face to face with the laundry basket on my own bedside chest.
It’s not that I was ungrateful for my husband’s help while I was recuperating. He was doing his best, and I knew better than to expect Martha Stewart, but really…
I tried to enjoy the cheerful morning sun streaming through the windows, but one blind was raised a foot higher than the other and sagging on the end. I twitched my nose like Samantha — to no avail.
Suddenly I remembered yesterday’s breakfast and called into the kitchen. “Nothing complicated, Hon — just cold cereal and toast…” I thought back to the previous morning’s disaster.
On a return trip from the bathroom, I had hobbled to the hallway and peeked into the kitchen. John was standing in the middle of the floor looking as out of place as a cave man at a Tupperware party. On the counter was a glass mixing bowl containing batter, covered with an inch of oil. With the waffle iron beeping loudly and beginning to smoke, I had said in my most diplomatic voice, “Umm… Looks like a lot of oil, Hon.”
“That’s what I thought,” John said, picking up the box of mix. “But I followed this recipe…..” His eyes widened. “Uh-oh! Two tablespoons of oil. I could have sworn it said two cups!”
I left my cave man at the counter siphoning through a straw and spitting oil into the kitchen sink.
I had no sooner settled back on the bed when John called, “You didn’t tell me Mr. Coffee was broken. The plate gets hot, but the coffee doesn’t drip down into the pot.”
I reached for my crutches, resigned that my husband would never master anything in our kitchen.
“That could be the problem,” I said, pointing my crutch at the coffee pot perched on the hot plate of the coffee maker. It was still half-filled with clear water.
We laughed. “Get that foot up!” he ordered, as the cold water hit the sputtering, sizzling hot coffee maker. “I’ll be in with a tray in a few minutes.”
With the previous day’s calamity behind me, I closed my eyes and enjoyed the sweet sound of dry cereal falling into glass bowls.
“Five minutes! Get ready!” John called from the kitchen.
Suddenly, my eyes popped open, the odor of burning toast filled my nostrils, and I slapped my hands over my ears. Seconds later, taking my fingers from my ears, I realized that I had misjudged my husband. There was indeed one thing that he had mastered in the kitchen: disabling the smoke alarm in record time. Move over, Martha!
17 Comments
I love the apron !
What a chuckle I had reading this after having met you on the trip. How well you have captured the essence of John – I could see the visuals play clearly in my head! My only hope is that this is not a recent injury and that you are both well. Can’t wait to read your next installment – you have been added to my blog list so I can keep up with both your antics.
A wonderful story of reality at it’s finest. They try so hard, yet fumble so easy. Thanks for sharing. Great as always.
Maureen
Hahaha, your husband sounds like quite the homemaker!
Ha! It’s the thought that counts. Syphoning the extra oil from a straw…….priceless!
Hello Mrs. Rowe,
As always, I loved your story – you are an amazing story teller!
I’m hoping for a speedy recovery for you – not only for the broken bone, but for the impending gastronomic distress you may also suffer!
Best of luck to you and your sweet husband, who I give kudos to, for wanting (and attempting!) to wait on you.
God Bless!
Holly K.
Mrs. Rowe, It’s my first day exploring the website and I loved reading your blog posting regarding the difficulties that your dear hubby had in the kitchen. I Laughed over the oil and syphon description. I hope you will heal quickly and try to keep the foot up. Master chef or not, he’s a gem for trying.
God bless you both.
Hope you are back on your feet soon in spite of your husbands HELP. It is a shame that we spoil our men so much and then we reap the rewards. At least he is there with you to do what he can. GET WELL soon!
Sorry you broke your ankle Peggy, I’ve never had a broken bone and don’t want one. What a royal pain a cast must be.
I can deal with burned food but men don’t get the germs thing. I recently watched my daughter-in-law’s father take a bunch of raw chicken, cook it on the grill and put it back in the same bowl he took it out of, it still had plenty of raw chicken juice in it. Then he plopped it on the table. I looked at everyone and thought “We’re all going to die.” My husband would do the same type of thing if I didn’t watch him like a hawk in the kitchen.
I’ll say a prayer for your speedy recovery.
HA! So funny… Wishes for a quick recovery, and many more mornings of cold cereal… prepared specially for you by a sweet (and speedy) caveman in a lovely apron, of course.
You have a gem, there, Mrs. Rowe. What a sweet man to try so hard to keep up with things when you were down and unable to. There’s nothing like having help when you really need it. I hope the break healed well and that you are back to life as normal now.
Oh Mrs. Rowe, so sorry to learn about your broken foot. Hope it heals quickly and you’re back on your feet soon. It’s very sweet of Mr. Rowe to at least make an attempt in the kitchen for his precious patient. Love the picture of him in the apron.
But don’t worry, he’s not the only man who falls short in the kitchen. My own father, who is of the same generation, seems quite lost when left alone in the kitchen. It’s very sweet to see them try though. 
Too funny and I also recall quite a few times having similar incidents when my ex husband would try to help me out in the kitchen. One time I twisted my ankle and tore some ligaments. He tried to take over, but would keep coming back into the room asking where this was and that was and how do you make this… etc. I finally told him not to worry anymore, hobbled for my little office chair on wheels and took over while scooting around with one leg behind me resting on the chair.
As always… another great story, Mrs Rowe.
Mr. Rowe gets an A+ for effort! Hope you’re feeling better, Mrs. Rowe.
How wonderful that Mr. Rowe TRIED. Broken bones are no picnic…especially when you have no one to help during the recovery period. So sweet of him to give it his best shot. May your recovery be swift, Mrs. Rowe.
Hilarious. Why is it that men are at a loss in the kitchen? My brother-in-law happens to be a good cook, but he leaves the kitchen is such disastrous shape that none of us want to clean up after him. My brother is an excellent cook, as long as it involves game and a Weber.
I imagine you had nightmares about giant lopsided blinds talking to you, and walking laundry coming up and pointing to the large, colorless bleach spots all over it. I hope your foot is mended.
Darling Blog Mrs. Rowe!
The memory of my own broken ankle and my husband taking care of me comes to mind. Bless the little dears and thank heavens they did not burn down the house!
Thanks so much for the fun read!