Soup and Sandwiches

Last night it was vegetable barley stew with tuna sandwiches. Tonight it will be minestrone, romaine salad and fresh bread. Did I mention the soup will be homemade? Like last night’s stew? No, well it will be. How did this happen? Me cooking.

When I was young and my mother wanted to teach my sister and I to cook, she meant baking. The kinds of things that my father liked to have around that were time consuming to prepare, and she didn’t feel like doing herself. While I don’t think my parents had children with the intention of fobbing off their least favorite chores on us, over the years that is what happened. I am sure that I was never taught to cook a meal though my mother claims otherwise. I am sure for the simple fact that my father wasn’t someone who wanted his meal ready and on the table when he arrived home from work in the evening. He wanted to read the paper. Have a few beers. And then a few more. Smoke the cigarettes that had been burning a hole in his pocket during his ten hour shift at the meat packing plant. While our friends were having dinner, we were playing outside,waiting for them to be done, but by the time they were finished, it was dinner time for us. After enduring family meal, a ritual that became more and more arduous as the years rolled by, my father’s drinking got steadily heavier, and my parent’s relationship more strained; my sister and I would hurry through the clean-up the hope that would still be enough daylight left for play or homework or whatever. As a result, I never learned to cook a meal.

When I went out on my own, meals were haphazard affairs. I am the kind of person who can eat the same thing for weeks and months on end without thinking much about it. Variety never had much to do with food for me. Even now, I have certain preferences and if not for Katy and Rob, I would rarely spice up my routine beyond my few favorites.

My late husband liked to cook, and he was easily bored with routine. He did most of the evening meal prep when we ate in, but because we were childless for the first while, we ate out a lot too. Later on his illness effected his appetite to the point where he didn’t eat much, and Katy was still a baby, so there was no need to prepare meals in the traditional sense. I got into the habit of feeding the two of them and then eating breakfast foodmyself, if I ate at all.

Rob had limited rotation of meals when I first met him. When it became too tedious for his daughter to bear, I think, then Jordan would cook to change things up a bit. So, when he and I blended our lives nightly meals became something that I to truly deal with for the first time in my life. At first, I left it to Rob, who was pretty good about it despite the fact that he had to work all day and come home to the additional work of preparing the family meal. He would give me jobs to do like vegetable prep or salad making. From there I progressed to making lunch for everyone, as Rob came home most days, and it was a bit like making supper but with a less demanding menu. After a time the occasional meal became my responsibility. And now, I am making soup from scratch.

I know that many women would find my pride in this accomplishment laughable especially because in my peer group, many married young and have been juggling husband and children and jobs and cooking for decades now. But for me, I am still quite impressed with myself. First I am writing regularly, and now I cook. On par as far as creative endeavors go? Perhaps not, but both are outlets in my quest for personal growth and discovery.

Challenging

Last night the immigration paperwork was finally completed. Rob had all the proper documents, plus photocopies, organized Virgo style and ready for us to read through and sign. He had also taken some time to call the CIC and ask about the possible consequences of our up-coming trip to the States because along with the application for permanent residence a request for an extension of our visa needs to be sent. However, our leaving the country, even for a few days, will effect the latter as we will re-enter before that application is granted. Truthfully, I have been a bit worried. As a spouse the likelihood of being denied re-entry is minimal, but what they say about border guards and customs officials is true. They have ultimate authority and really aren’t answerable to anyone when deciding who is in and who must turn around and go back. Consequently, the CIC officials in the “home office” will never give a straight answer on matters of re-admittance.

When I questioned Rob about what he learned, which was the usual mealy-mouthed stuff - ie: not much we already didn’t know - and his assessment, he told me, “I think we will be okay.” To which I replied, “You think?” Using a tone that was meant to imply that I wasn’t reassured, and he took as “ What do you mean by that, dumb ass?” He then proceeded to tell me that while he had heard other women challenge their husbands in such a manner, it was a first for him. A statement I instantly doubted given what I know about his late wife, Shelley, and he later confirmed for me when we discussed it again. So, I turned it around and asked him what his response would have been to someone who only “thought” something was correct. The look on his face told me he would have responded in kind. My reply to that was “Well, I am your evil twin.” And he just laughed.

The other night before we fell asleep Rob was musing about opposites attracting but how much different it is when two like-minded spirits are drawn together. And he is right. Not that there aren’t the odd moments when our similar styles mean that one of us is forced to come at things from unfamiliar angle, but the more we are together, the easier it gets to know when that is, or isn’t, required. Although we both have known what it was like to be with someone who accepted us for ourselves, it is no less a miraculous thing the second time around. It’s actually more special in some ways because we are so much more consciously aware of the gift. Still nothing worth having comes without effort, and even work, at times. If there were no friction at all, then how could you know if the other person was truly being themselves and not just going along, stuffing real feelings that have to surface sooner or later? Better to challenge and have those discussions that promote growth and deepening ties. Relationships are give and take not go along to get along which I see so many people do. Out of fear? Perhaps but more likely out of the romantic misconception that if two people are in love, they never disagree or argue or get angry or need space or are still an individual with individual needs at all. That might work if all that is wanted is a hearts and flowers for a few years before trading up (or down) for the next bliss-outed encounter, but for a relationship to last reality must be acknowledged and dealt with. Sometimes the house needs to be cleaned and garbage needs to be put out on the curb. Kids will demand. Jobs will ruin plans. Extended family will require attention. Couples will actually see things from differing points of view. And it’s how those moments are worked through that reveal the true love in a relationship.

So last night, it was immigration. We have been a long time working on this and it’s important to get it as right as humanly possible. After the paperwork was done, child was bathed, read to and finally asleep, we curled up. Rob at his desk chair and me on his lap because he wanted to show me some funny email he’s gotten from a friends at work. We talked about this and that and just basked in the coziness of our life. Nerdy though it may appear from the outside, it’s working.