Cooking has long since been a means by which to judge a woman and her ability to be a good wife and mother.  Too bad this method of rating does not seem to apply to men.  Although this is still the general consensus, it is also becoming a requirement placed on the secret list women make of the ideal man.

            Unfortunately for me I forgot this requirement when I made my list.  My ex-husband is prime example number one.  He was severely lacking in the cooking department –if you know what I mean.  I just can’t explain how devastated I was when his Italian Stallion Spaghetti turned out to be nothing more than limp noodles on a pretty plate.  This was just too much for me to handle, or rather it wasn’t much to work with.  He did however, make a decent sauce, but when it comes prepackaged, any man can make sauce.

            His ability to cook, or lack there of may have come from problems with his mother.  His mother, who incidentally cannot cook to save her soul, has always had a cookbook fetish, but rarely cooked.  I now understand why I became the dominant kitchen cook and ran the meal making with an iron spatula.  This was the only way to insure there would be something edible on the table at dinnertime.

            I tried everything I knew to help him with his problem but nothing seemed to work, until the day we purchased the “miracle”.  I admit it was expensive and rather large but it seemed to do the job.  He watched with fascination while I showed him how to touch all the right buttons and heat everything up.  Soon we were creating beautiful things in our kitchen.  It seemed we had found the answer to our prayers, but alas I was wrong and the “miracle” began to take over the kitchen and our lives.  It was then that I realized how this thing had become our dream crusher.  I saw it for what it was, a radiation emitting, counter cluttering nuisance.

            Soon after J.D. had mastered the nukemeister, he began to use it everyday until I became an all-consuming addiction.  I realized he was in its power and helpless against its evil ways the day he reheated fish for the second time.  I thought it was harmless but J.D.’s food poisoning told me otherwise.  I knew our lives were forever changed.  God knows sour cream was never meant to be placed on a non-biodegradable plate and heated until turned all colors of the rainbow.  The insanity had to stop.  It was time to pull the plug and get back to the basics, so I banned J.D. from the kitchen and began to make real meals again, day after day after day.

            I realized I could not go on like this; I needed a real man who could cook from scratch.  No longer could I stomach the frozen enchiladas and processed vegetables on those romantic candle-lit dinners.  I wanted to have homemade linguini with fresh marinara sauce and a side of steamed and buttered vegetables.  Was this so wrong?  Where was my warm breakfast in bed?  Was I destined to be the only good cook in this marriage?  I wanted more, more, more!  Give me a man who could cook with a blindfold on, a man who could make mushrooms sizzle in a hot buttered pan.  I needed to experience someone else’s cooking for a change.  I need to know that a microwave could not replace the human touch in a homemade tuna casserole, that it could not make tapioca pudding any more delicious than an experienced cook.  I needed someone to cook for me with his own two hands.

            Needless to say I am now divorced but very happy.  Now when I have a man cook for me it is always a dish to remember.  I very much enjoy the late night candle-lit dinners and no longer have nightmares about burnt fish sticks and shriveled microwave bacon strips.  It is nice to know my dinners can sometimes have a real cheesecake for desert instead of a burnt popcorn bag.