When I cook, I like to mix it up a bit. You know, one night it's teriyaki sauce on the pork chops. Two weeks later, it might be honey garlic. There's no one way to go. I like my chicken equally well dredged in bread crumbs, tossed in a stir fry or soaked in wine and tarragon.
Variety, I have always maintained, is not only the spice of life. It's also key to keeping the taste buds happy. Or at least, not terribly bored.
The husband, on the other hand, is not particularly high on variety. He is, however, high on anything blackened.
"What do you want for dinner tonight?" I asked last Thursday. I didn't really need to.
"Um, how about blackened trout?" he suggested. This is frequently his suggestion. And when it's not blackened trout, it's blackened salmon, blackened chicken, blackened steak or blackened lamb.
I don't know whether it's possible to blacken macaroni and cheese or shepherd's pie or potato salad, but if there is, I'm sure he'll be wanting those too.
I don't honestly know where this came from. The husband's mother, after all, was a cook fairly typical of her generation. She was big on making pineapple Jell-O salads and fried bologna sandwiches and casseroles that involved tins of Campbell's soups, but I'm pretty sure she didn't own a container of blackened seasoning. Heck, it probably had yet to be invented.
The husband, on the other hand, has never cooked with Jell-O or Campbell's soup, but does have the better part of a cupboard devoted to blackened seasoning. His method of using the stuff is pretty much variety-free, no matter what he's cooking. The item in question - chop, steak, filet of fish - will be coated with the seasoning, then fried in a pan in oil.
Voila: blackened whatever.
"So?" he asked, continuing our mealtime discussion. "Blackened trout is it? Or perhaps you'd like blackened halibut?" "Can we try something different for a change?" I asked. "You know, like trout sauteed in a little butter and wine and basil?" "Hmm," he said. "But you know how I like to blacken things."
Indeed, I do.
Some would say I shouldn't complain. There are, after all, many husbands out there who would never lift a finger in the kitchen, and leave all the mealtime prep to the woman in the household. And truly, it isn't as though I have an aversion to his blackened offerings.
Every once in a while, however, I wouldn't mind at all if the husband opted to go a different route.
Come Christmas, I think, I'll come up with a plan. I'll give him a spot in a French cooking school.
