Stefan cooks for me when I’m feeling down.
Don’t tell him I told you this, but he’s not a very good cook (yet!). He puts bullion cubes in EVERYTHING, he boils cabbage and stinks up the place, he always manages to set off the smoke alarm (he has a magnet on his fridge from Amish country, one of those kitch things that little old ladies have with lace on the edges, it says “where there’s smoke you’ll find me cooking dinner!”), and no matter what, something will invariably go wrong.
But then, he’ll put out place mats, his little clay salt and pepper shakers from the France, sometimes a little vase with flowers, and dishware, and he’ll trot out each course, proud as a peacock, no matter what went wrong while he was making it.
The whole affair has me laughing my socks off. I try to rush to the kitchen to try to help and he pushes me out. I always have to turn on the plastic fan and lie it down on the floor pointing up at the smoke alarm so it doesn’t keep going off. By the time we’re ready to eat, I’ve forgotten whatever is bothering me and dinner always tastes good…even when it doesn’t.
Oh, and he almost always has the same thing for dessert: Ben and Jerry’s Americone Dream. lol…so perfect for my immigrant fiance.