Of Lasagna and Housekeeping

Lasagna does not require ricotta cheese, and should be made in a very large pan. The sort of pan one might use to prepare a meal for a church potluck dinner. These are two things that Nancy taught me in the last 24 hours. She sent me to the market to get a pan for a lasagna she planned to make for dinner, and she explicitly requested, or rather demanded, that I get the,"big lasagna pan, not that stupid little one." This made me nervous, as I don't cotton to shopping, and I surely don't want to disappoint my beloved wife by getting the wrong pan.

We sparred a bit about the need for ricotta cheese to complete a proper lasagna. Feel free to guess who won that argument.

 One can't deny that this is one tasty
fucking cookie, however

At the market, patrons had to run a gauntlet of Girl Scouts (like that horrible scene from The Last of the Mohicans), selling their mediocre cookies at jacked-up prices, to fund a nebulous cause. For all I know, they launder the money and and it ends up in the coffers of some Ayn Rand group, or the John Birch Society. And there was also a patina of Lord of the Flies about the whole operation. Remember what happened to the fat kid in that novel? But you can't tell a child to go take a flying fuck at a rolling donut. Or can you? I don't know. Regardless of the social contract between adults and children selling cookies, my scruples wouldn't allow me to be mean to a little girl. So instead I said, "Did you bake them yourself? No? Oh, then I don't want one, young lady." An adult nearby smiled, so I survived that particular social interaction. Nothing I said would bother me later, there would be no regret. No self-loathing.

In the market, there was a problem. There were two large lasagna pans, and purchasing the wrong one would get me a beating from Nancy, so I got both of them. And when I say a beating, I don't mean in a kinky, sexually-pleasing and playful way. No spanking with a safe word. When I say, "beating" I mean that she will endeavor to hurt me and use something like my recently restored 1938 Royal typewriter, or a polo mallet. With a smile on her face, and a song in her heart, I'll be beaten unconscious. Then she'll make fun of me for wearing women's underwear, which I find comfortable because I have no balls. And they're nice and pretty and comfortable. Men's underwear has a large space in the crotch that mocks me (in my mind) for having nothing to fill the space. My little penis and deflated scrotum isn't going to fill the void. My regular readers know my feelings on this subject.

All men of consequence
wear them

A word about that last paragraph. I'm kidding. Nancy rarely beats me, and she is fine with me wearing panties. Last week I asked her if she thought it was indicative of some sort of sexual kink. Her reply? No, you just find them pretty, and they are more comfortable because you have no balls. Magnificent. What a woman.

As it turns out, she did want the extremely large steam table pan, and after receiving it my wife, a fabulous cook, went on to produce a magnificent lasagna with plenty of leftovers that won't last. For breakfast, I had a piece. Nancy is one Hell of a cook. Even though I worked as a cook for 2 years, nothing I make is as good as anything she makes, except for my wonderful popovers. But she doesn't like popovers.

On to housekeeping. I'm a feminist, dammit, and I'm not going to have my wife cook dinner while I sit on my ass and watch Key Largo or Judge Judy, or read, "Down and Out in Paris and London" for the 5th time. Oh no. So I scrubbed the kitchen floor, vacuumed up the place, and cleaned the dust bunnies off the stairs. Hopefully, I filled the dishwasher, as well, and put some plates away. I forget.

We were so domesticated yesterday. Laundry was even done. It was like Pleasantville. Well, not quite.

Without further ado, here is a very short video of our lasagna dinner. The beautiful woman at the end is Nancy, of course.