She stood over the oven making his favorite fried chicken. Not the Rachel Ray version mind you, but the Emeril version which required no less than 10 ingredients and 30 minutes worth of preparation. If it was by her choice, it would have been dinner with the colonel. But he'd have none of that. It was his way or the highway.
Speaking of ways, she was midway through fixing the meal when he summoned her.
"Where are those cookbooks we got the other day?" he asked.
"I don't know. I'll look for them in a few minutes," she told him, working diligently.
He looked at her as if she had just shot his dog. You see, he wanted the cookbooks and he wanted them now. Why? It wasn't that he was going to fix an accompanying dish to go with the bird. No, it was something far more important. He needed to take a dump and appropriate literature WAS a must. Like most men, he "had" to have something to keep him occupied when he was on "the move."
Of course, this meant she had to stop what she was doing to find the cookbooks. The little chicken could wait while the big chicken could not. It just showed that a woman's work was never done.