“For a strange pizza, it’s not that bad” was last night’s faint praise from my husband, for my pizza. I made him a separate one, crust included, with his favorite ingredients.
He’s a creature of habit and likes tomato sauce, mozzarella, mushrooms, peppers and pepperoni. Mine was different, with sliced pears, Gorgonzola dolce and a drizzle of pomegranate molasses, topped with lightly dressed arugula out of the oven.
As a longtime cook, professionally trained in French cookery, I try to widen his “meat and potatoes” vision of edible food. His reaction to my moussaka? Good but it has eggplant in it, ick. Roast chicken with a balsamic glaze? This has bones and skin! Steak and baked potatoes? Can we have it for Thanksgiving? And Christmas?
Not to mention that I can’t even cook fish or have a tuna sandwich because he’s deathly allergic. So I try. I do enjoy his reactions, however.
In a grilling phase about ten years ago my butcher gave me a great recipe for a marinade with rosemary and maple syrup. I put it on nearly everything until my husband had enough.
He does tell everyone that I’m a great cook and that even if a new creation isn’t spectacular, he says that it’s the best most cooks could hope to achieve and that by my third time it’ll be great! Gotta love him for that. Happy Valentines Day! Dee