The Road to Perfection

 

What are the prerequisites for becoming a perfect husband?

Love?

Well, yeah, love’s all right.

How about understanding and consideration?

There’s nothing wrong with them either.

But, actually, I’d have to say that leading the list would be having a good appetite.  Especially in the beginning.

Consider a newly married couple where the wife decides to cook their first meal.  This is a potentially treacherous situation.  A marriage can be stopped dead in its tracks right here.

This is what can happen:  The newlywed husband sits down at the table, smiles tenderly at his new bride, and takes the first bite of the first meal of their first marriage.  After a few moments, he begins to chew less enthusiastically, and his smile takes on a frozen, grotesque quality.

“Great meatloaf,” he says, gulping audibly.

“That’s the Jell-O salad,” she says, in a voice as chilled as the special squash mousse waiting for him in the fridge.

He’s in serious trouble.  He glances helplessly around the table, and finally says, “Uhh … which one of these is the meatloaf?”

That’s the meatloaf,” she says, pointing.  “What did you think it was?”

Mistakenly thinking that honesty is the best policy, he answers, “The soup?”

Twelve months later, they are arguing, via their attorneys, over who gets the dog and the NordicTrack.

Coincidence?

Hardly.

#     #     #

 

I remember the lovely Mrs. Borengasser’s first meal: 

She is nervous.  “Beef stroganoff,” she announces, tentatively.  “I hope you like it.”

“Looks good,” I say.  “And, how romantic.  A candle-lit dinner.”

“It’s so you can’t see the food,”

“Don’t be silly.  It’ll be great,” I assure her.

I take a bite, and nod fervently.  “This rice is terrific!” I say.  “How’d you make it so crunchy?”

She tastes it, then lowers her head, saying in a voice I can barely hear, “I didn’t cook it long enough.”

“What a good idea,” I say.  “It’s not soft and mushy like most rice.”

She watches as I taste the meat.  “The meat’s a little burned,” she says, grimacing.

“It sure is,” I say, enthusiastically.  “It’s got that great charbroiled flavor.  It’s delicious.’

The lovely Mrs. Borengasser thinks I’m incredibly thoughtful and sensitive.

Actually, I’m just incredibly hungry

#     #     #

 

I owe it all to having a hearty appetite.  For me, everything tastes good.  Anytime.  So, no matter what culinary calamity may strike, I’m delighted simply to have something to eat.  And, all the while, the lovely Mrs. Borengasser thinks I’m being kind and considerate.

It is years before she catches on that my gastronomical graciousness is not quite what it seems.

Here’s how I am found out:  Coming home from work, I hear the lovely Mrs. Borengasser in the kitchen.  Entering, I sniff the air, and ask eagerly, “What smells so good?”

She stares at me in disbelief.  “I just opened a can of dogfood,” she says.

With a flash of insight, she realizes that what she thought was tact and thoughtfulness for all those years was nothing by a hearty appetite.

But it’s too late for her to do anything about it.  The marriage is already rock solid.