When I first met my husband, he was working in the restaurant industry. Although he didn’t eat any meat except fish, (and still hasn’t after 30 years), he preferred his vegetables ‘dead’. Absent of any evidence they were once living, growing, organic matter. That was the way both his mother and grandmother cooked them so, of course, no other way was acceptable. Then I came along, an early convert to the raw foods movement long before it had a name. At the most, I’d blanch ‘em and eat ‘em. Preferably with a juicy steak—the rarer the better.
While I knew we’d have to deal with the ‘meat/no meat’ issue, I never expected a cultural clash rooted in vegetables, or a kitchen taking on significance far beyond its size and place in our home! It took time for both of us to find a point of ‘veggie done-ness’ that our taste buds agreed on, but we did: able to be speared with a fork and retain bright colors and flavors, with no fear of breaking a tooth.
The same was true of our kitchen habits: I quickly tired of cooking wonderful meals, only to face a stack of dishes afterwards. When I sought his assistance in the kitchen, his reply was “you cooked, you clean-up!” Not the best foot on which to start our new marriage. I put it down to his career working in the restaurant industry, but it didn’t lessen my resentment for what I perceived as an attempt to define my wifely-role as one that included responsibilities I felt should be shared.
Funny thing was, when he cooked, he happily cleaned up. Since he cooked so rarely (although quite well!), I took it as a treat—a gift to me. I was wrong on both counts: Seems in his mother’s household, he and his brothers were raised to fend for (and clean-up after) themselves. “You’re hungry, you cook, you clean up.” In my mother’s home, we children were assigned weekly kitchen clean-up duties on a rotational basis. Mom cooked, and then one of us was responsible for ensuring the counters were wiped down, pots washed, and dish washer stacked, started and unloaded. Since there were 4-5 of us at home at any given time, after one week of serving as galley slaves (hey, we were teenagers, how dare we work so hard!), we didn’t have to worry about it again for a good month. Talking through the differences in the way we were raised, and its impact on our kitchen expectations, finally helped us both to appreciate our respective points of view.
Over the years, as my culinary skills have gone from strength to strength, I’m pleased to say my husband is happy to eat his vegetables, no matter how they’re cooked, and to clean up after me when I don’t feel like doing it myself. We’ve learned when good food is on the table, compromises are usually palatable to all.
