So… what are we having for dinner tonight?

I’ve grown to hate this question.  There’s only one question more annoying:  ‘Have you lost weight?’

A:  Yes, I’ve lost weight, thank you very much.  And thanks for pointing out that I was, in fact, overweight in the first place.  (That is what you’re really saying, isn’t it?)

Unfortunately for me, the dinner question arises every day – since one must eat dinner every day.  Why, I wonder, is this momentous decision always left up to me?   Is it because I’m a woman?  A mother?  A not-exactly-Alexa-Chung-skinny person who is therefore an expert on the subject of food?

Who the hell knows?

So I ask Mr Oliver:  ‘Will it be spaghetti with marinara sauce tonight?  Or the frozen codfish and French fries?  How about a salad with cucumbers, shaved parmesan and a scattering of walnuts?  Or perhaps we can have the boxed macaroni and cheese with neon-orange powdered cheese sauce, and some canned peas?’

Mr Oliver:  ‘We had all of those last week.’

I eye him balefully and snap:  ‘Then YOU decide, damn it.  I can’t take the pressure any longer.’

Mr Oliver:  ‘It’s hardly rocket science, is it?  I’ll take care of it.  Go and have a glass of wine.”  Then he mutters something about stressed-out cows and the husbands that put up with them.

When he calls me into the kitchen a few minutes later, he presents his never-fail breakfast/lunch/dinner specialty – an omelet.  He stuffs it with whatever borderline-moldy cheese he unearths from the fridge, and makes a large stack of toast (with all of the burnt bits scraped off, of course).

Him (smugly):  “There.  Dinner’s done.  I really don’t see why you make such a big fuss about it.”

Me:

Needless to say, our omelets are consumed in frosty silence.

Why not go out to a restaurant to eat? my friends ask.  Let someone else do the cooking.  And, in theory, this is a great idea.  A nice, relaxing meal at a table with an actual cloth draped over it, eating expertly prepared, delicious food from plates that aren’t made of melamine, with plenty of wine and pleasant, adult conversation – what’s not to like?

There’s just one problem with this scenario.  Well, several, actually.  Someone has to choose which restaurant we’ll go to.  So the question then becomes, not ‘What’s for dinner tonight?’ but… ‘Which restaurant shall it be?’

And once that’s decided to everyone’s satisfaction, there’s Mr Oliver’s next inevitable question…

‘Who shall we get to babysit?’

‘Emily,’ I say without hesitation. ‘The kids love her.’

He looks doubtful. ‘The last time she babysat she ate all my pistachio nuts and drank half the ouzo.  That ouzo was a gift from the Greek ambassador,’ he adds, affronted.

‘What about Isabel?’ I say, to stop him going on and on about the damned ouzo.

‘Don’t you remember?  We found her in the family room, where she was playing an extended game of tonsil tennis with her boyfriend James.’

I wince.  ‘Right. I forgot.’

So we decide to hire our elderly neighbour, Mrs. Fitzsimmons, to mind our little darlings for the evening.  She’s a bit absent-minded, perhaps, but the kids like her, and she’s never been a problem.  (Well, there was the time she tried to watch “Downton Abbey” on the microwave.  But that’s another story for another day.)

At last, we arrive at the restaurant, where we’re promptly seated and given menus.

‘What would you like to drink?’ Mr Oliver asks me as he ponders the wine list. ‘Red, or white?  Chardonnay?  Merlot?  Syrrah?’

‘I don’t care if it’s red, white, or blue,’ I mutter as I grab the wine list from his hands, ‘just make sure it’s the biggest bottle they’ve got!’  I turn to the waiter and say firmly, ‘We’ll have one each, red and white.  Thanks.’

I turn to Mr Oliver and say (smugly): “There, that wasn’t so difficult.  I really don’t see why you make such a big fuss about it.”

Mr Oliver:

We consume our expertly-prepared, delicious meals – and our wine – in frosty silence.

But thanks to the alcohol and our perfectly-cooked salmon and roasted potatoes, we eventually relax and enjoy our little culinary vacation.  How nice it is to savor each bite! To linger over a glass of wine!  To eat food that isn’t bright orange!

When we finish, I’m even feeling a bit amorous.  I’m just about to lean over and whisper something naughty to Mr Oliver when he suddenly turns to me in all seriousness and asks, ‘So… what shall we have for dessert?  The chocolate tart?  The strawberry shortcake?   A slice of pie?  What do you think?  I really can’t decide.’

‘That’s easy enough.  Let’s have the chocolate tart.’  I can’t resist adding smugly, ‘After all… it’s only dessert.  It’s hardly rocket science, is it?’

Mr Oliver:

Needless to say, we finish our desserts in frosty silence.