When You Can't Handle the Heat...

When I fell pregnant, Husband and I made some decisions. Some were easy (what religion to baptise our child into, our stance on circumcision, our stance on vaccination). Some were not so easy (baby names, choosing godparents, our stance on dummies). And some decisions were made for us.
Of the two of us, Husband was clearly destined for the role of bread winner. He earns more money. He has a clear career progression ahead of him.  He can't breastfeed. Oh, and he earns more money. It was a no-brainer.
When Little Gem was born, Husband spent a glorious five weeks at home with us. He cooked, he cleaned, he shopped, he changed nappies, he project managed bathtime to within an inch of its life. I merely strolled around the house in a post-birth daze, took regular catnaps, and occasionally looked down in wonder as a miniature version of my husband stared back at me. (To be fair, I also spent a fair bit of time wincing in pain as a baby chewed on my nipples as though they were a half softened Mintie.)
But all good things come to an end, and as I finally emerged from my post-birth fog, Husband returned to work. And he works hard. They are long and ridiculous hours, and start times that vary from 10pm to 6am. I often end up sleeping half the night on the lounge during a spate of nightshifts. When he gets home, he is rightfully exhausted.
So isn't he lucky to have me, all domestic housewife like, zipping around the house in a beautiful dress and heels, a face full of make up, and not a hair out of place, to greet him on arrival? His clothes have been washed, ironed, folded and put away. The house is perfectly perfect. Baby is cooing quietly in her bassinet. And there is the gorgeous aroma of a gourmet meal simmering away on the stove, awaiting the finest of finishing touches before being served, with garnishes of course.
Ha.
Ok, well the house is usually very clean. Little Gem doesn't move around too much yet, so I do have the time to keep the place in order. And the clothes are usually washed and put away. But I definitely do not iron. And, I think, maybe once Husband came home to his daughter quietly cooing in her basinet. But mostly she's rolling around on the floor squealing. Or, if it's Arsenic Hour, she is red faced and screaming for no reason in particular.
But as far as the food preparation goes, I failed. Not an easy thing to accept. Not something that I'm proud of. But its true. I failed.
Despite the thought of succumbing to that 'dutiful wife' stereotype, I had all intentions of cooking our dinner every night. I was going to be very well prepared, and get it started during the day, while Little Gem had her naps. And I was going to have the time to peruse cookbooks to choose the most delightful recipes. I might even have started trying pastries and cakes (from scratch, of course).
And I did try, I really did. But the thing is, having a couple of recipe books and good intentions does not guarantee a Rick Stein quality meal. And I was starting from behind, as you will come to understand. Below is a brief history of my culinary escapades.

• Beef Stroganoff - A tasty meal that I cooked probably once a week for about three years. It may be from a jar, but I add the sour cream and salt and pepper and it tastes alright. I like it. And I thought Husband did too. But, when I was about 20 weeks pregnant, Husband informed me that he does not like it, hates it in fact, and always had. He also turns up his nose at my Butter Chicken and Lemon Chicken. Basically anything from a jar is not acceptable meal time fare.
• Random Pasta- Where I throw a whole heap of stuff in a pan. Oil, bacon, onion, mushroom, maybe a bit of chilli, some tomatoes perhaps, then cook it all for a stupidly long time and chuck it on top of some pasta. Now, even Husband doesn't mind this one. But he cannot help but to give me some pointers on How To Make It Better. I'm sure that not boiling pasta for thirty minutes, and not cooking the bacon until its black, and maybe even stirring the whole thing occasionally may, in fact, be helpful. But to me, its just criticism.
• Silverside- This is a meal that I have cooked successfully a few times (Thank God for pressure cookers). Let's just forget about the time that I forgot to half the cooking time to make up for the smaller cut of meat.
• Roast Chicken- Ok, so by "roast" chicken, I mean "cooked in a bag, in the microwave" chicken. Artistic licence, whatever. So this one should be pretty easy. How could you stuff this up? Put the bagged chicken in the microwave and press Start. Except, I forgot to read the instructions, failed to put the power on Medium, and completely misjudged cook time. So this actually ends up being "burnt, cooked in a bag, in the microwave" chicken.

To make matters worse, Husband is a total foodie. And a qualified Pastry Chef. So he has food interest, and the skills to match. His patience with my *cough* average ability has waned. These days, Husband has resumed most cooking duties. I do try to assist him as much as possible. He lets me cut things up, but warns me every three minutes to be very careful with the sharp knife.

I'm sure that my cooking would satisfy some people (particularly those who have lost the ability to taste). But my Husband is such a bloody great cook, that I simply cannot compete. So I have thrown in the towel.

But not the tea towel. I still do the dishes.