So in our house, there’s a pretty standard division of labor when it comes to dinner.
The wife does the cooking.
I do the dishes.
It makes sense: She’s a tremendous chef. I burn shit. She can cook anything. I wanted to create banana chicken. She fills the room with wonderful scents. I make the kitchen uninhabitable.
And yet … recently she’s been trying to kill me.
It starts like this—”Can you go to the supermarket and grab a few things?”
Then I go, “Sure.”
Then she goes, “It’s just a few things.”
Then I go, “OK.”
Then I get in the car and drive to the nearby Albertsons or Ralphs.
Then I see this …
Or this …
And this one all but killed me …
And here’s my belief—my honest-to-God belief: She’s testing me.
We’ve been married almost 20 years, and she’s still testing me.
We all know Hoisin sauce isn’t a real thing. We all know pickled ginger is mythical. There is no such thing as pork butt, and Hominy is … well, it’s bullshit. It’s all fucking bullshit. I roam these supermarket aisles for hours, a wayward soul seeking out fantastical minutia all so my wife and kids can laugh at me as they watch from afar on a secret camera.
Wait. I’ve gotta cut this short.
The wife needs a jar of crispy tarantulas.
