Why marrying a chef is stupid.

8 Jan

It’s really been nagging me that I mentioned in my very first blog post ever that I was stupid for marrying a chef with no supporting evidence. In fact, I’ve gotten feedback like “what do you mean? being married to a chef must be so fun! What sort of wonderland is inside your refrigerator?” or “I’m jealous of you. Your house must smell like muffins and bernaise sauce ALL THE TIME!”

This is not the case. My kitchen reeks of lack of use. The stovetop is a holding area for empty pizza boxes and various pieces of junk mail, although we have a salt pig (vocabulary of the day! an open salt holder thingy that you keep on your counter to season creations such as Cheesecake Factory takeout) that a friend bought as an engagement gift and looks extremely professional. Our refrigerator is a wonderland… of week old chinese food, leftover pancakes, (my area of expertise) partially expired condiments (I say partially because Harry pays attention to the dates and I don’t) and juice packs for my 9-year-old stepson to take to school. What about the baby? That’s what you’re probably thinking. She’s a modern girl, my friends. She eats takeout with her parents, like any well adjusted restaurant kid knows to do.

Chefs are notoriously cranky. I mean, think about it. Their job is to make sure that every other person in the restaurant is doing EXACTLY what they want, while standing over a hot fire and periodically burning themselves on scorching oil. If the chef wants a 1″ dice on the carrots, and the Norbert the New Guy 3/4″, that is like a really really big problem in the chef’s life. Or Wanda Waitress rings a steak in to be cooked to medium, and the Gus the Grill Guy cooks it a little closer to medium well, it goes out to the table, and the steak comes back because the server meant to write medium rare, and the customer could have accepted it if it were medium but really this is just totally overcooked, the chef (by way of Wanda and Gus) has destroyed the night of every person at the table, or maybe even their year. Talk about pressure! (Chefs are maybe a little bit dramatic. Thank you, Hell’s Kitchen and Top Chef.)

Harry and I work together, which is really most of the reason that I’m stupid. We literally have to bring our work home with us, because it’s dinner. So how do I not tell him that the wings are dry and stringy? It is my wifely obligation. Or maybe it’s my work obligation. It’s a foggy line… And try growing up flirting with every person that walks through the door, and now throw your significant other into the routine. Boring!

So no, marrying a chef is not all sunshine all the time. I mean, it does have its perks….

Ok, I just sat and spaced out for like 13 minutes trying to come up with the perks. This is what I came up with:

1. Harry and I have the perfect excuse not to participate in any of those lame-o dinners, weddings, movie nights and other social gatherings you regular people subject each other to. That’s right, the restaurant has a ridiculous amount of reservations tonight, sorry! Next time! Or if we’re feeling extra smart, we show up at the end when you are all drunken fools/summing up all the gossip of the night/eating yummy dessert and we feel quite satisfied. If we know you have a knack for party planning, or legitimately feel like we’ll be sad if we’re left out of photos, we might make an exception. Sometimes Harry is “too busy at work” and I go alone. Most of these occasions result in my acquiring a substitute husband for the evening, catching the bouquet and eloping to Reno. Sorry Harry.

2. We save A LOT of money on dry cleaning. Yes, all you teachers out there can continue your jealous streak. Harry’s uniform gets tossed in the laundry because it is comprised entirely of elastic waist pants and t-shirts. Basically, Harry gets to wear my after-work couch clothes all day long.

3. Harry makes really pretty fruit platters, so if by some act of the gods we are actually invited to somebody’s house for a brunch, (and that brunch is held on a Sunday, because as we’ve already discussed, we don’t do Saturday social engagements) we can provide an impressive showing of sliced seasonal melons.

To give Harry some credit, he is also stupid for marrying me.

Tomorrow I’m going to be discussing Taylor Swift but you should read the post anyway.

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2 Responses to “Why marrying a chef is stupid.”

Trackbacks/Pingbacks

  1. if you’ve got them, flaunt them. i’m talking about dimples. and breasts. « shelbytown - April 13, 2012

    […] reserved for: days off when I’m wearing layered tank tops, nights out with Charlie or Harry and, most importantly, weekend nights at work. It is imperative that my boobs be pushed up and […]

  2. too tired to write anything but thank you. « shelbytown - April 29, 2012

    […] Hashbrown Harry himself, who busted his ass just to make me happy. He’s the best. It might be stupid to marry a chef, but my chef is definitely the exception. Share this:TwitterFacebookLike this:LikeBe the first to […]

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