Read Online The Longest Date: Life as a Wife by Cindy Chupack - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Cindy Chupack
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tomatoes with the folks who grew them. I will buy fresh parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme (while humming the song, of course), amazed that I ever used the dry versions. Somehow this new language—food—allows me to engage in long, passionate, mouthwatering conversations with anybody, anywhere, anytime.
That is something else I never cared to do before I married Ian. I would like to say that Ian taught me the beauty of talking to strangers, but the truth is, marrying someone means that even if you didn’t used to want to talk to strangers, you may want to start talking to strangers, because, unlike your husband, they at least have something new to say.
Is that terrible? Am I a terrible person? I love Ian’s stories. But I have heard most of them. And he has heard most of mine. Let’s listen to a stranger for a while. Let’s invite friends over. Let’s have a dinner party! Let’s make new stories!
Step Three: Apologize. To Ian. For what I just said, since he has heard
my
stories over and over, even read them over and over, and he’s still allowing me to share my stories about him in this book.
But since I brought it up (she says, unable to let it go), I do find this to be a very confusing part of partnership, which inevitably comes up when you’re entertaining together. I’m a good storyteller, Ian’s a good storyteller, we met at a storytelling event, so who knew my biggest question about marriage would be: what the hell am I supposed to do when Ian is telling friends a story I’ve heard a million times? Am I supposed to pretend I’ve never heard it? Should I say, “Oh, this is a great one!” (whether it is or not) so I don’t have to hang on to every word like everybody else? Can I go to the bathroom or clear dishes instead? Can I start my own conversation, or is that rude, because I’m depriving someone else of his story? What if I know that other people at the table already know the story? Am I allowed to say that? Can I finish it for him? Where is the book that answers these questions? Is it supposed to be
this
book? I hope not, because I don’t know the answer, just like I don’t know how I ended up preparing dishes my family has never heard of for people they
have
heard of, like the Chilled Cauliflower Soup with Sevruga Caviar that I whipped up—in eight hours—for Lisa Kudrow and her husband. (We met them at a friend’s wedding in Colorado, and by the reception, Ian had invited them to dinner.)
Incidentally, Lisa Kudrow and her husband seemed genuinely delighted and entertained by each other’s stories, as were we (by their stories), although I didn’t get to participate in the talking as much I would have liked, because I got completely carried away with (and intimidated by) my own menu planning.
Step Four: Plan. Like I said, we are not Iron Chefs. We need more than an hour to plan (not to mention shop for) a meal, especially if
someone
(Ian) decides the duck needs to be bought in Chinatown. Or if that same someone further complicates the challenge by promising to use the ingredients “in an unexpected way.”
For example, at our first four-ingredient meal, Kimberly’s grandmother’s apple pie became an apple martini with graham cracker rim. (Ian considers a cocktail a first course.) The chocolate showed up in a Mexican mole sauce for chicken (not, as I had assumed, in my cookies). The brie was baked and served with sliced pears as an appetizer, which now seems altogether too obvious, but we needed one ace in the hole. And dessert was a homemade pear sorbet, which we made with store-bought pear juice in an ice cream maker that until then had been gathering frost in our freezer.
For that first dinner, Ian did most of the menu planning, and I just helped execute the meal (in a good way, not in an “I killed it” way, like I did with the London broil).
But just as I started to get into it with these dinners, Ian started to get out of it. This might be because I’m a perfectionist
That is something else I never cared to do before I married Ian. I would like to say that Ian taught me the beauty of talking to strangers, but the truth is, marrying someone means that even if you didn’t used to want to talk to strangers, you may want to start talking to strangers, because, unlike your husband, they at least have something new to say.
Is that terrible? Am I a terrible person? I love Ian’s stories. But I have heard most of them. And he has heard most of mine. Let’s listen to a stranger for a while. Let’s invite friends over. Let’s have a dinner party! Let’s make new stories!
Step Three: Apologize. To Ian. For what I just said, since he has heard
my
stories over and over, even read them over and over, and he’s still allowing me to share my stories about him in this book.
But since I brought it up (she says, unable to let it go), I do find this to be a very confusing part of partnership, which inevitably comes up when you’re entertaining together. I’m a good storyteller, Ian’s a good storyteller, we met at a storytelling event, so who knew my biggest question about marriage would be: what the hell am I supposed to do when Ian is telling friends a story I’ve heard a million times? Am I supposed to pretend I’ve never heard it? Should I say, “Oh, this is a great one!” (whether it is or not) so I don’t have to hang on to every word like everybody else? Can I go to the bathroom or clear dishes instead? Can I start my own conversation, or is that rude, because I’m depriving someone else of his story? What if I know that other people at the table already know the story? Am I allowed to say that? Can I finish it for him? Where is the book that answers these questions? Is it supposed to be
this
book? I hope not, because I don’t know the answer, just like I don’t know how I ended up preparing dishes my family has never heard of for people they
have
heard of, like the Chilled Cauliflower Soup with Sevruga Caviar that I whipped up—in eight hours—for Lisa Kudrow and her husband. (We met them at a friend’s wedding in Colorado, and by the reception, Ian had invited them to dinner.)
Incidentally, Lisa Kudrow and her husband seemed genuinely delighted and entertained by each other’s stories, as were we (by their stories), although I didn’t get to participate in the talking as much I would have liked, because I got completely carried away with (and intimidated by) my own menu planning.
Step Four: Plan. Like I said, we are not Iron Chefs. We need more than an hour to plan (not to mention shop for) a meal, especially if
someone
(Ian) decides the duck needs to be bought in Chinatown. Or if that same someone further complicates the challenge by promising to use the ingredients “in an unexpected way.”
For example, at our first four-ingredient meal, Kimberly’s grandmother’s apple pie became an apple martini with graham cracker rim. (Ian considers a cocktail a first course.) The chocolate showed up in a Mexican mole sauce for chicken (not, as I had assumed, in my cookies). The brie was baked and served with sliced pears as an appetizer, which now seems altogether too obvious, but we needed one ace in the hole. And dessert was a homemade pear sorbet, which we made with store-bought pear juice in an ice cream maker that until then had been gathering frost in our freezer.
For that first dinner, Ian did most of the menu planning, and I just helped execute the meal (in a good way, not in an “I killed it” way, like I did with the London broil).
But just as I started to get into it with these dinners, Ian started to get out of it. This might be because I’m a perfectionist
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