Barnaby “The Bruiser” Butterfield, my boxer husband, was trying to make me dinner. This was, in itself, a comedy show already. Barnaby could knock out a heavyweight champion, but his culinary skills peaked at boiling water, and even then, he occasionally burned it.
“Don’t worry, darling!” he boomed from the kitchen, followed by the unmistakable sound of shattering glass. “Tonight, it’s Pasta Primavera!”
I cautiously peeked around the corner. The kitchen looked like a small green explosion had occurred. Broccoli florets clung to the ceiling fan, asparagus spears lay scattered like discarded javelins, and Barnaby was covered head-to-toe in pea puree.
“Everything alright, sweetie?” I asked, trying to suppress a giggle.
“Just a minor…vegetable malfunction!” he declared, flexing a bicep. He held up a mangled carrot. “But fear not! The Bruiser is back in control! Now, where was I?”
He consulted the cookbook. “Ah, yes. ‘Gently sauté the vegetables…'” He grabbed a saucepan the size of a small car. He then proceeded to toss the remaining vegetables into the pan with the force usually reserved for uppercuts.
Smoke billowed. Alarms blared. The dog began howling.
“Barnaby!” I yelled over the din. “Maybe we should just order pizza?”
He emerged from the smoke-filled kitchen, face blackened, holding a plate. On it was a charred mass that vaguely resembled…something.
“Behold!” he announced proudly. “Pasta Primavera! The Bruiser’s special recipe!”
I cautiously took a bite. It tasted… indescribable. Like burnt rubber mixed with sadness and a hint of broccoli.
“Well?” Barnaby asked, eyes sparkling with anticipation.
I swallowed hard. “It’s…interesting, honey. Very…bold.”
He beamed. “I knew you’d love it! I’ve been thinking,” he continued, puffing out his chest, “maybe after I retire from boxing, I’ll open a restaurant! ‘The Bruiser’s Bistro!'”
I took another bite, then quickly excused myself. “That’s a wonderful idea, honey! I’m just going to…call the fire department. And order pizza.” As I dialed, I heard Barnaby in the kitchen, enthusiastically yelling, “Next up: Crème brûlée! Let’s get brulee-ing!” I knew then and there, my boxer husband’s culinary career was going to be even shorter than some of his fights, especially if he kept trying to cook. The firemen arrived and one of them asked, “What happened here? Did a bomb go off?” I sighed and replied, “Worse. My husband tried to make dinner.”
