This weekend I made lamb tandoori. After I pulled the chops from the marinade, I asked Jerry how to heat up the grill. His voice rose a couple of octaves. "Oh, you need the grill?"
"Yes," I told him. "I was going to use my George Foreman but I thought why not use the real thing."
I did not know that my husband was so possessive about the grill until I tried to place the chops over the grids.
"I'll do that," he said, attempting to grab the pan from me.
I pulled the pan from his reach. "I'll do it," I said. I'd gone through a lot of trouble. First I was going to make the sauce from scratch. After checking a cookbook out of the library and trying to find an uncomplicated recipe, I soon realized the reason for Indian restaurants. Then lucky me, I found a tandoori seasoning mix in my local grocery store. After that it was easy, but I'd paid a price to get to this cooking step. Like it or not, I was going to barbecue.
Jerry hovered, watching me as if I'd cut off his oxygen. I sighed, turned the heat up to high and handed him the tongs. "Let them cook two minutes on each side to seal in the juices. Then turn it down to the lowest setting."
"Okay," he said cheerfully. Then the barbecue maniac took over.
Clearly twenty-four years had slipped by without my knowing the barbecue grill was his territory.
I guess I can't blame him. I have my own places acquired by squatter rights.
There is the daybed on the screen porch where I take an occasional nap, and the apple green chair in the family room where I watch television. The third bedroom was converted into my office almost fifteen years ago. And I admit I have an uneasy feeling when I discover Jerry sitting in the bedroom chair where I write. When I do see him plopped there with his feet on my ottoman, I feel a bit like lazy Mazie in Horton Hatches the Egg who claims, "But it's mine!"
Now that I think about it, giving Jerry sole rights to the barbecue grill is a small trade-off for the places I claim--the places that help me create stories or, at the very least, nurture my writer's soul.
Do you have something or some place in your home that belongs only to you?
The kitchen belongs to me. I get really nervous when Ryan does anything more than opening a can. I am pretty territorial of my kitchen. I guess I like it when he does dishes in the kitchen but that's about it:)!
ReplyDeleteI like my side of the bed!!!
ReplyDeleteShaunna--Even though I do most of the cooking, our kitchen has become a second living room. And in our home the peson who cooks gets excused from clean-up duty so I don't stress about him being in the kitchen. Although I wish he'd learn where the kitchen shears belong. :)
ReplyDeleteGwen-I forgot about the side of the bed. Jerry claims that I'm a roaming sleeper so he would probably agree with you.
The laundry room and laundry is all mine. I do not allow the husband to touch anything that has to do with detergent, bleach and my delicates. If he offers to put a load of laundry on, I chase after him and tell him that I'll do it. It scares me to think of him destroying my clothes.
ReplyDelete