” What type of oil did you cook the squash in?” my husband asked the other day.
“I sauteed it in olive oil and a little butter,” I told him, surprised by the question. A few days ago he asked me how to make salad dressing and memorized the proportion of three parts oil to one part vinegar. My husband does not cook, though he can do a good job of hamburgers or chicken on the grill. And he can fry an egg. But anything fancier than that is beyond him. I got an emergency call from him one Friday night a few weeks ago when I was in Michigan visiting my daughter.
“I’m trying to make frozen pizza for dinner,” he said, a question hanging in the air.
“And?” I responded, confused as to what that question might be.
“What temperature and for how long?”
Now I understood. We had bought a three-pack of DiGiorno pizzas at Sam’s club, and I had to take them out of the box because the box took up too much room in the freezer. Since they were individually wrapped, I didn’t need the box, but of course, the directions were gone.
“Twenty three minutes at 400 degrees,” I said. There was a long pause as he processed that.
“Do I take the cardboard off the bottom before I put it in the oven?” I had to cover the phone so he couldn’t hear my daughter and me laughing hysterically.
So this morning at breakfast I was gratified again when my husband asked another cooking question because I assumed that means he wants to learn how to become more useful in the kitchen. He wanted to know what seasonings I had used in the omelette.
“Fresh basil and a pinch of Aleppo pepper. I’ve noticed you’ve been asking a lot of cooking questions lately. A lot of questions but nothing in practice.”
He smiled. “One step at a time.”