Beggars Can't Be Choosers

In the spirit of the holiday season, I decided that I would make everything less traumatic on our children by holding Easter dinner at the house now referred to as “mine.” It was our first holiday since “the split.” Seeing that Jesus made a sacrifice… so could I.

Now, more than one person was extremely confused by the fact that we were doing Easter dinner together, seeing that we weren’t together anymore. Of course, just as there was nothing conventional about our marriage, it only made sense that we would approach our break-up in the same fashion. Hey, different strokes for different folks.

Anyway, there were two camps – J-Fed’s and Kiki’s. On my side, the guest list included my parents, brother and sister-in-law. In J-Fed’s corner, it was his mother, his sister, niece and brother-in-law. In the middle…. our two girls, the dogs and Zip the cat who now lives in the garage. Needless to say, the event had all the makings of a first-class disaster, yet the only incidence (albeit a small one) arose from the big baby.

As I took over the kitchen as if I was Martha Stewart’s apprentice, J-Fed overheard Kuku and I gathering the ingredients for our gorgeous 13-pound Prime Rib.

“Helloooooooo,” J-Fed hollered from across the house. “You’ve got to be kidding me. You know that I can’t eat Rosemary and Thyme. What are you trying to kill me?”

J-Fed, of course I know that you can’t eat Rosemary and Thyme. Why do you think I add it to almost every dish I prepare -- from wild rice to Rice Krispy treats? Nothing gives me more pleasure than launching a secret culinary assault against J-Fed, the man who takes such delight in eating. Talk about kicking him where it counts. It’s not uncommon for me to become absolutely giddy as I watch him devour one of my gourmet meals knowing I can sit back and watch as he begins clutching his chest and writhing in pain.

I mean, it’s not like I’m lacing his food with rat poison or anything. It’s perfectly legal and delightfully lethal. These are fresh herbs that come right from Mother Nature. Is it really my fault his stomach can’t tolerate them? And to be frank, I know what he eats most nights over at his apartment. You can’t tell me those cups of easy mix beef stew topped with Barbecue Fritos and mayonnaise don’t give him a wicked case of indigestion.

Anyway, it was the holidays. Feeling generous, I made J-Fed’s portion of prime rib separate from everyone else’s. To be fair to the Fedster, he wasn’t the only one who had special requests. I also made chicken for my sister-in-law because she doesn’t eat red meat. I made a separate side of smashed potatoes for my brother because he doesn’t eat dairy. And my mother-in-law had to have her own batch of sweet potato casserole since she can’t have nuts. It would be safe to just call me Burger Queen since I did it everyone’s way.

Forgetting the idiosyncrasies of the other guests, I narrowed my focus on J-Fed and his need to be different. In cooking his prime rib separate, I had to totally recalculate the roasting time. Now, instead of cooking one prime rib – I was cooking two. For 20 minutes, Kuku, J-Fed and I struggled to figure out exactly how to work the mathematics of this dual dish preparation. I kid you not. An outsider would have thought we were performing brain surgery – or at the very least in need of it.

“I’m hungry,” he whined. Well, J-Fed. If the chef hadn’t had to prepare you your own personal slab of prime rib, then we’d be eating, not all camped out around the counter, salivating like hungry wolves.

“Aren’t there any appetizers?” he whimpered. Oh wait the caviar is on the top shelf and the escargot is still chilling. Care for some Dom in the meantime? J-Fed, does this look like the Four Seasons? Well it’s not. If you want a starter course, eat a bowl of Lucky Charms numbskull.

As the family waited around for the feast to begin, we talked about life. We gave extended overviews about what was going on in our lives. We talked about the latest movies, music and television shows. And when we ran out of things to do while waiting for the rib to roast, we began singing 99 bottles of beer on the wall to kill time. Ok, so maybe we didn’t go that far. But it felt like dinner was taking forever, and it was no thanks to the Fedster.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, we all gathered around the table to eat this 10-course feast -- Prime rib, smashed potatoes, goat cheese salad, succotash and sweet potato casserole. It was a meal to die for and I sat back and waited for J-Fed to dive in with reckless abandonment. He lifted his fork and nibbled on a scoop of sweet potatoes before crumbling up his napkin. I waited… waited… waited… But he never picked his fork up again.

“My stomach isn’t feeling so well,” he whispered. He then excused himself, picked up the baby and went outside with her, an ice cold Frappuccino in hand. After the anticipation of such a scrumptious meal, I guess J-Fed didn’t want to ruin the build up BY ACTUALLY EATING IT. That’s right. He didn’t eat one bite of his perfectly prepared prime rib.

By the end of the meal I realized perhaps dear J-Fed should eat something… eat sh*t and die.