What's Cooking = Who's Cleaning?

I thought I’d show you this little cartoon as an easy way to explain the love/hate relationship the Lovely Mrs. G. and I have with my cooking abilities. Yep, this just about sums it up:

It’s the rule in the Gressel household – one cooks, the other cleans up. Sounds fair, doesn’t it? Well, in theory, at least...

Ah, you haven’t seen me at work in the kitchen. The problem is that my culinary skills usually run into the “Emeril Overkill” category -- not the 5-star cooking part – the part where he dirties every dish in the household. (Fortunately, I don't like to fondle the garlic in borderline-obscene ways. But I do like to yell "BAM!" at inappropriate moments.)

I’m a big boy – I can publicly admit that I’m somewhat of a Cooking Slob. I don’t intentionally set out to make the biggest mess mankind has ever seen, but it always seems to work out that way. And even when I try to “clean as I go” (an oxymoron if there ever was one), the mess still seems to come out of the woodwork and all over the counters.

I like to think I’m a halfway decent cook, and I’m a trained baker, so I do know my way around a kitchen. I can make croissants that would make the Pope weep with joy, and my smothered chicken is a perfect knockoff of Applebee’s version, only without the sassy wait staff and tacky decor.

But the high price you’ll pay for it? Well, that’d be the goop I inevitably slop all over the burners, which will then smoke and stink up the house for the next month. Or maybe it’s the spillover in the oven, which will char and burn like one of those cheap-o 4th of July snakes. And for the love of God – whatever you do, do not look in the microwave. Trust me; it’s for your own safety.

Now, I have to hand it to Mrs. G – she’s usually a good sport about hosing down the kitchen after Hurricane Tommy has blown through. And I really do appreciate her helping out, even after my annual Cooking Catastrophe: Thanksgiving. (I have pumpkin pie for dessert – she has Tylenol.) Yes, your old pal Tommy can put on quite the spread for Turkey Day, and I truly enjoy doing so. But there always seems to be enough dishes to wash to last until Sunday. Our usual post-Thanksgiving dinner conversations go like this:

Yours truly: “Honey, Survivor is on.”
Mrs. G.: “I can’t watch it now – I’m up to my elbows in your kitchen mess. Why don’t you get off your butt and come help me clean up this disaster?”
Me (with the post-turkey sleepiness in high gear): “Zzzzzz….”

So here’s to the Lovely Mrs. G. and all the wives out there who are willing to pick up after us Slopaholic husbands. May you never get dish pan hands. And to show my eternal appreciation, I’ll even pick up my shoes from the middle of the floor every now and then.

Hey, if I’m nothing else, at least I’m considerate.