You Are What You Eat

I do so hope that isn’t true.

Generally, I enjoy my wife’s cooking. She is good at it. Better than me. Occasionally though, she decides to test my palate with some strange or exotic concoction drawn from the pages of unknown gastronomy and the book of kitchen fantasy. I don’t know why I have to be subjected to this but I do know when these seldom occasions are iminent because experience has taught me to recognise the signs of the oncoming assault on my digestion.
I get two or three days of really good old-fashioned man food with all the trimmings. No expense spared, no lack of effort, all lovingly prepared and presented. Steaks, chops, mashed spuds, brown gravy. You know. All the good stuff.

And then it happens.

Today was the day. Something ‘different’ arrived on the dinner table. I call this the strange food. Something conjured up in a moments madness. Probably because she read something in a magazine or had one of those conversations with her mates about food or found some wierd new sauce in the local supermarket.
I have no idea what I have eaten today.
It was wrapped in an egg based pancake decorated with what appeared to be grass cuttings. There was some sort of marinade on the meat. Which could have been ferret or weasel for all I know. There was some potato and I think I saw bits of onion in there too. The whole thing was covered in grated cheese. There was salad. I avoided that.

I know better than to complain. To do that would be ungrateful. But, for the love of god, when she can turn out the greatest meals a man ever had the good fortune to eat, why should this be necessary?

Some questions, it appears, are not to be asked. Hopefully, we’ll be back to normal service tomorrow.