About 10 days ago, after staring blankly into our bare freezer until I felt a hint of frostbite, I finally grabbed a pound of ground beef to thaw. I never have any idea what I’m going to do with raw meat once it’s thawed, I just feel like taking meat out of the freezer and putting it on the counter gets me some sort of Wife Points. Once it was mostly thawed, it went back in the refrigerator. Again, this shows at least a shred of preparation and forethought. Even if my entire preparation plan consists of “Thaw meat.”
Clayton came home a little early, then proceeded to fall asleep on the couch. Don’t worry, I’m not about to nitpick about naps. This pot’s just a little too black for all that kettle name-calling. But I did sneak out to go to the gym while he was snoozing. At the gym, I remembered we only ever make two meals involving a pound of ground beef, and we had none of the ingredients for tacos. Meatloaf it was.
To my surprise, or because I had already affixed a “Cook Me!” post-it note to the ground beef—I can’t really remember the details from that long ago—my husband was already working away at that meatloaf when I got home. This allows me the opportunity to still earn a few WP’s without actually cooking by saying, “Hey, I was going to do that!” And then quickly getting out of earshot in case the husband wants to let me follow through on that.
I showered and fixed us two massive salads. The meatloaf was already cooked when we sat down to eat our salads but, seriously, they were like entrée-sized portions, so Clayton put it back in the oven so it wouldn’t get cold. And then the enchanting world of fall television premiers locked us in. Clayton scoffs at oven timers, trusting his laser sharp memory and keen relationship with red meat to sense when food is ready.
So this happened.
Let’s rewind back to the previous night. The husband wanted to run, and I suggested he try a long run because, now that I can say it, he had decided to run the half marathon. By “long,” I meant 6-8 miles. He doesn’t really ever run unless I con him into it, and then he tops out at about three miles. A bit of the ADD in him. He wanders back in, about a half hour after I’d expected him, and starts to stretch.
“So, how did it go?” I ask, curious as to why he’s not really talking about his big deal run.
“It went good.” Conspicuous pause. “I did 10 miles.”
Of course he did. Of course he runs a handful of times in the past two weeks, heads out one random Tuesday evening and busts out 10 miles. Congratu-freaking-lations. It’s not like other people around here have to train for five months to do something like that. Totally rad for you, dude. Totally. F’ing. Rad.
After this little incident, I’m not going to say I gloated over the meatloaf charring. But I’m not going to say I didn’t gloat, either.
A girl needs to have the upper hand once in awhile. And sweet and sour chicken made for an absolutely delicious upper hand.