Cute Little Bastards

So said the instructions on the yellow rice package. It’s sad but true. I knew what simmer was but I certainly didn’t know just how low the temperature setting on the stove was to induce it. Add to the list of little details that has amazingly escaped my attention for 37 years.

Me: Hi, it’s me.

The Misses: Hey, I’m just crossing over the train tracks (this means she’s almost home from her 45 minute, 80mph commute)

Me: So, I’ve got a stupid question for you…

The Misses: OK, shoot.

Me: I need to put the rice on to simmer. Just how low on the dial do I need to go to make it simmer?

The Misses: ……

Me: Shannon, you there?

The Misses: Ah, let me see. Probably between the lowest setting and 2. Turn it down and then see if it’s still simmering.

Me: OK, see you in a minute (hanging up the phone before she can say anything else).

One of the true joys of being a working person and having a ManPreneur is that they do things for you. Yes Ladies - those things. Dry cleaning, wash, housekeeping, post orifice runs (ouch), bill-paying, and myriad other tasks that regardless or sex, age, or beauty, do little to enrich one’s life. One of the biggies is cooking. Who wants to cook after beating your head in at a corporate [fill in your actual job here] job all day? No one. That’s why there’s take out. But there’s also college tuition, mortgages and bankruptcy to consider, and let me tell you, they’re all pretty strong motivators to *not* buy take-out food every night. Buy hey, if you’re a stay-at-home-ManPreneur then why not just cook?

Let me be stereotypical here. I’m a man. That’s spelled M-A ‘N No-one-taught-me-how-to-cook as a child - child. Not even my first-generation hippy parents with their socially conscious child rearing practices (I was born in 1969).

Do you feel me?

Like most kids of my age, and I suspect nearly as many today, cooking isn’t something that mum and dad spend a lot of their parenting energy on with Junior. Now, keeping the family car in one piece, or not knocking up the next door neighbor’s daughter, those are things we focus our parenting skills on with our boys. And hey, they should be. But enlightened mums and dads, which certainly rules me out, may begin to teach their kids to cook (regardless of the sex of their children).

You’d think this was a more likely scenario with a stay-at-home-mum, or MumPreneur, but I don’t know how many ManPreneurs are going to teach their kids to cook because there aren’t that many of us who know our way around the kitchen. Thought: why the hell are there so many male chefs? Answer: Because the few who can cook feel justifiably hot shit and feel they owe it to the male species to show that it is possible for us to do well??? Even so, we average ManPreneur’s only get there if we, as big burly, trash-taking-out kinda guys, learn the secrets of spices, sauces, cooking times and deglazing.

Like many things, the four stages of ManPreneur acceptance apply here to cooking.

Denial: I don’t need to cook, MacDonald’s is introducing a new healthy dollar menu!

Anger: Wait a minute, these french fries are NOT good for you!

Bargaining: Dear Ronald MacDonald, I’m writing to beg you to introduce a new soybean french fry product and tofu burger meal.

~or~

Baby, if you cook tonight, I’ll…I won’t have a headache later on…

Depression: Fuck it. Life is suffering. Give the little bastards a happy meal.

Acceptance: Wait a minute, I’m a ManPreneur, I’m big enough, and strong enough, and smart enough, and handsome enough to cook any meal my wife can, and dammit, I like who I am.

Back in the real world, I’ve just gotten to the stage where I’m asking Shannon for cooking guidance. She’s a great cook, not just a good one, so I’m hopeful that I can replicate some of her more fundamental skills over time.

Hey you little bastards, dinner’s ready!

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