I've admitted on many occasions that I am not the domestic type. Especially when it comes to being in a kitchen, interpreting the foreign concept of recipes, or making anything edible. I don't even speak the language, but maybe I should start to learn some stuff, because at one point I was forming some pretty incorrect opinions.
Early on in our relationship, Boyfriend introduced me to his friend, Artois. They're the best buddy types, finding an especially strong bond in good food. Artois and his wife had us over for dinner several times, and it was clear from the beginning that Artois and Boyfriend got on very well.
That being said, there was a time years ago, when Boyfriend was in the kitchen doing his thing. He has this almost choreographed dance when he makes dinner, the movement is fluid: saute this, season that, sip beer, strain, peek in the oven, slice, check the score on the game, whisk, and taste the perfection. It's really something else to watch. That man just needs a frilly apron and he is ready for his own television show. On this particular night, Boyfriend stops in the middle of his routine and looks me dead in the eyes as I watch from my desk, undoubtedly procrastinating on some kind of work I need to do. Boyfriend's eyes sparkle as they do when he has a brilliant idea.
I gotta call Artois.
Now? What for?
We need to have another rub party.
Silence comes out of my mouth. My mind repeatedly ponders the words that just came out of him. I probably just heard it wrong, by my thoughts keep coming back to... like a rub... and tug party? I know. Wrong. Gross. Much too much. We hadn't been dating for a lengthy time. I thought maybe Boyfriend's into the occasional stint with other males. That's not unheard of. But how do I feel about that? Is it a deal breaker because of the dude thing or because of the polygamous thing? Would a part-time bisexual boyfriend be a bad thing? Lots to think about. Maybe he doesn't need a frilly apron. He would look great in one. I'm confused now, how can he not want to take me to the ballet but be into a rub party with Artois?
I bet he could use more rub too. I've needed rub for awhile.
Okay, you need to stop talking.
I thought you liked the rub.
I beg your pardon?
I put it on my meat.
Can we talk about this maybe after dinner?
I rubbed the pork loin.
My hands go immediately to my ears. There's no way I can have dinner now when he's rubbed down our food. I start humming to drown out the sound of any other gross omissions. I'm certain there's panic all over my face, and Boyfriend picks up a large spice container and holds it so I can see that it's almost empty. We've switched topics, it's safe to have conversation again. I cautiously lower my hands.
So? It's empty. Buy some more spice.
This is my rub container. I'm almost out. That's why I need to make more.
I read the label on the container that he's brought closer to my face: "Boyfriend's poultry/pork rub."
Well why the hell is it called rub? You can't blame me for getting the wrong idea.
...Because you rub it onto the meat.
Boyfriend looks at me like I'm stupid. It's a good thing we clarified this before I could call or text the girls. Being a closet bisexual for life would have quickly altered his life's narrative if I'd run away as my plan A strongly urged. Get the facts, kids. Learn the cooking lingo: there's plenty of words/phrases in kitchens that can cause confusion because of how they sound: Shucking, pulled pork, dutch oven, shove it in the bread box, meat grinder, the list goes on. Beware.
Time for tea,
K
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