Greg thinks my cooking looks like an open wound.
“BETH?” he yelled from upstairs. “WHY DID YOU POST A PHOTO OF AN OPEN WOUND ON YOUR BLOG?”
Listen; with a family our size, we have to yell from one floor to the other. Yes, our parents taught us not to hollar throughout the house because we are humans and not elephants trumpeting in the wilderness —“Go FIND people and TALK TO THEM WITHOUT YELLING,” my mother would yell — but we have too many people in our house for that to work. Do you have any idea how much exercise we would get if we always talked to our people in person around here? Every request and reminder? For all five children plus the spouse? THAT’S SO MANY STAIRS TO WALK, y’all. We’d get repetitive stress injuries like extreme marathoners, and, healthcare being what it is in America, WE CANNOT AFFORD THAT. So we yell. It’s just practical.
So. “BETH?” Greg yelled from upstairs. “WHY DID YOU POST A PHOTO OF AN OPEN WOUND ON YOUR BLOG?”
And I yelled back, “I DID NOT POST A PHOTO OF AN OPEN WOUND ON MY BLOG.”
And he yelled, “YES, YOU DID. I’M LOOKING AT IT RIGHT NOW.”
And I yelled, “I DIDN’T.”
And he yelled, “OH, YEAH. I SEE IT NOW. IT’S JUST PIE.”
Which is when I realized my beloved partner — the man to whom I committed my life and body — can’t tell the difference between my cooking and torn flesh.
There is no point to this post other than to make you feel good about whatever you’re putting on your table. I live to serve. Simply ask yourself from now on, “Does this look better than a fresh, bloody lesion?” If the answer is yes, you’re doing better than me.
You’re welcome. Weird encouragement is better than no encouragement?