Fish Stick Spaghetti, Anyone?

So, I told my husband that our youngest child had refused to come to dinner because, "Daddy doesn't cook the food I like anymore."

He asked for suggestions. This child professes his favorite food to be fish sticks, but, of course, Paul doesn't make those. I suggested pasta.

Paul's solution? The next day, we had pasta with salmon and asparagus sauce.

My solution to Paul's solution? I told the baby that it was "Spaghetti with Fish Stick Sauce."

He was happy. Sometimes I wonder if Paul remembers for whom it is that he cooks. To be fair, the salmon had been in the freezer since my mother-in-law's last visit, months ago, and needed to be used up.

One time, this same baby said from his high chair, "I hate my dinner." I had looked over at his meal--baked fish with grapefruit on it and marinated asparagus, and had to agree that no three-year-old wouldn't.

But, this time, he actually finished his spaghetti with fish stick sauce before I had encouraged him to. Even once. And, he asked for seconds. He didn't actually EAT the seconds, but he asked for it.

Most of my other children did not fare as well. The two oldest made forts of salmon chunks along the edges of their plates.

"You'd pay a lot of money to eat this in a restaurant," I told them. Which is true. Paul could cook for the best restaurants if he weren't busy cooking for me.

They looked at me like, "No, YOU'D pay a fortune. And we still wouldn't eat it."

I also told them that it was wild salmon, caught by some family member or other in Alaska.

I don't think they really cared. Contemplating his pile of salmon and heap of salmonless pasta and sauce, the boy actually shed tears.

Another child dawdled throughout his meal, and, between bathroom breaks, downed the minimum daily requirement of food to stay alive. As usual.

My middle child--the slimmest and smallest for her age out of all of them, devoured her dinner and ATE her seconds.

I ate my portion to set a good example. For fishy pasta, it was delicious.

I am not a vegetarian, but I prefer my meat to be very neat and tidy and not attached to anything that reminds me it used to be an animal. Please, no feathers, scales, or eyes.

A home-cooked meal is the equivalent of a handmade gift, and I know the proper response to Paul's cooking is always gratitude. For high-maintenance wives like me, though, knowing and feeling are not always the same thing.

The other night, I lifted up the crock pot lid and twenty-four pork ribs were staring at me with a ton of meat sliding down them toward the inch of melted fat in the bottom. I realize that many people would go hog-wild over this and down them in no time, but ribs aren't really my thing. I was tempted just to carefully replace the lid and slide the whole thing into the refrigerator.

However, I got out some heavy-duty weapons and armor, and went at the beast in the pot with all the courage I could muster, placing little bits of meat on each of the plates around the table. My pickiest eater apparently told his dad it was the "best meal" he'd ever had, so I have much to learn.

I remember on my first birthday with Paul in my life, he spent the day cooking paella, his most gourmet dish ever. It simmered and bubbled in his biggest pan all day. I really was touched and excited.

Until he lifted the lid.

Paul's ideas of fine cooking include cooking dishes the right way--the way a famous and snooty food critic would expect them to be prepared in order to give five stars, or an A plus plus plus plus or whatever famous and snooty food critics give.

My ideas of good food are more along the lines of it being--along with the above-mentioned unrecognizable as animal parts--just plain good. I want to taste the meat, the cheese, the grains, and not just the spices covering them up.

My paella was covered--COVERED!--with tiny animals with legs and antennae and all possible and imaginable body parts still on every single of the dozens of creatures RIGHT THERE ON THE FOOD!

I was so shocked that anyone would want food covered in tiny animals like that (level one), that Paul would know where to acquire such a menagerie (level two), would spend actual money on them (level three), and that he would think it appropriate to place it on my food (level four), let alone my birthday dinner (level five) that I know I did a horrible job of hiding my surprise and dismay. I probably said twenty-four inappropriate things and made him feel terrible. The learning curve for me to appreciate what he had done for me was so steep it was like a wall in front of my face, and I couldn't clear it. As I recall, he removed the animals and served me my rice, and I ate it.

I'm lucky he went ahead and married me.

And I'm doubly lucky that he will still cook for me.