What is it about men when they’re in the kitchen that they think they are in the final round of Masterchef, performing untold culinary feats? Even if they are making curried snag casserole, they seem to expect a reverence and praise that on par with an Iron Chef winner.
In keeping with Iron Chef, have you noticed they also tend to keep a running commentary going. Like for instance: Just putting the pastry on the mince now, tearing off a piece of grease proof paper, putting on base of baking tray. Then they get into some sort of wierd combat role play. Maybe channeling a surreal mixture of Bruce Willis and Jamie Oliver, with a dash of old-school Arnie thrown in. Oven – On; sausage rolls In. Oven – 200 degrees – I’ll be back.
Yes, that’s right, they’re out of here. Kitchen resembles First Blood – mounds of grease proof paper everywhere, the benches and floor peppered with flour, excess mince strewn across the bench and recipe book (not that he used it – this is a man after all), with a nice splat of butter and wine on it.
But hey, he’s still a hero because – HE COOKED! And when the masterpiece emerges from the oven, deep freeze, microwave or jaffle maker, Masterchef Husband is rapt, and expects praise for his chicken stir fry commensurate with winning Masterchef at least, but more like creating world peace or discovering another planet.
And people treat the male chef as though he is some kind of reconstructed genius. So what that his pork medallions taste like an alien turd burger. So what that his chocolate mud cake is like crunching house bricks. He is a man and he cooks!
And us girls, I hate to say are the worst. I could take into my mostly female office a sample of my husband’s more indigestible offerings and they would practically drool at the site of misshapen waffles the consistency of a bathroom tile, and say isn’t he clever!
Well, maybe he is. Anyone who gets to use the kitchen without tidying up isn’t as silly as they let on.