I cooked! (VERY easy recipe included)

I cooked dinner.

This is a big fat deal.

I didn’t have a gun to my head.  I wasn’t having people over that I was trying to impress, or at least give the impression that I eat like a normal person.

I just was craving the chicken tacos that I used to make, and, this is almost as remarkable as the fact that I cooked: as I was thinking about how good they sounded I realized that, without going to the store, I had all of the stuff at home to make them. I had grocery shopped a few weeks ago, and had had the foresight to think that this day was possibly coming, so I had planned for it.

Let me tell you why this is such a big deal.

Remember the spatula war?  Part of that was my being mad that all my stuff had disappeared and that his stuff had replaced it in my kitchen.  Part of the solution was for me to get my butt out of his kitchen.  I rarely cooked while we were married, and when I did, I felt like either the sous chef, or like I was using his stuff.  Other than the usual things married people fight about (finances and children), the kitchen was one of our main sources of conflict.  I got in trouble when I scratched one of his pots on the BOTTOM.  I got in trouble when one of the lids of the pots ended up with a dent in it.  I had seen it when I unloaded the dishwasher and knew he was going to be pissed, but had no idea how the dent had ended up there (and hadn’t been the one to load the dishwasher in the first place).  When he asked me about it later, I said, “I knew you were going to be mad at me about that!  I didn’t do anything to your stupid pot!”  But really, how can I complain about someone who took such good care of me that I never had to cook, or even do meal planning or go to the grocery store?  I had amazing gourmet food regularly. 

Then, he died, and now the only kitchen stuff I have is his.  Even though I’ve moved it twice, and everything is exactly where I put it the last time, I still feel like I’m not really welcome there.  Like they’re still his things.  He didn’t really like to share his good stuff. 

So, since I’ve been widowed, I’ve cooked about 4 times.  One of the times that I’m counting is a frozen pizza.  I’m not kidding.  I eat lots of Lean Cuisine.  I eat lots of Chipotle.  It’s just easier.  It’s easier than the pain of dealing with being in the kitchen.

But not today.   Today Rotel Chicken Tacos were worth more than the pain of using his stuff.   What’s weird is that this was my recipe, and something that I would make for the two of us often (We would laugh because he was not allowed to cook us Mexican food.  With parents from New Mexico my tastes are more toward the green chili, spicy side, his  were a little more gringo), and it’s so, so easy.  The hardest part is chopping tomatoes and whatever else is going to go on top.  But they were his knives I was using to chop.  It was his cutting board.  I was stirring with his spoon.  He had tried to teach me a trick once for cutting cherry tomatoes and I hadn’t listened.  I hadn’t paid attention because I thought he would always be there to cut them for me.  So now, it takes me forever to cut tomatoes.  At the end, I was exhausted (I think more emotionally, then anything else).  It took everything out of me.

But, they were delicious, and I was glad I did it.  A little at a time, I’m getting there.

Rotel Chicken Tacos

In a small crock-pot, place two chicken breasts and one can of Rotel Tomatoes and Green Chili.  Let cook all day on low, then shred the chicken.  Yep, that’s it.  They’re that easy.  (Best served as soft tacos, with pico de gallo, cheese and guacamole and whatever other taco toppings your little heart desires!)  Now place the back of your hand to your forehead and say dramatically, like Scarlet O'Hara,  “I slaved all day.”

The Spatula War

When we got married, Sawan moved into the condo that I had already been living in for several years.  I owned it, he was renting, and it never occurred to me to sell it and move somewhere new together, and he never suggested it.  So, we kicked out my roommate, I did some purging of my stuff, we painted my pink bedroom, and he moved in.

I think that learning to live together always creates conflict.  At least, I’m pretty sure that this is pretty classic first year of marriage stuff or just moving-in together stuff that people always say is difficult.  I will say that I was glad we waited to live together until we got married, because without the covenant of marriage, I think that there were a few fights that I would have told him to pack his sh#! and get out.  One of them involved a spatula.

We got married July 1, and it was Labor Day weekend.  I always take the 3day weekends off of work, and so I didn’t have to work that Saturday, but Sawan did.  I had plans to meet some girlfriends at the pool in the afternoon, but being an early riser (ish—at least compared to Sawan), I wanted to make him breakfast in bed so that we could spend a little bit of time together before parting ways for the day.  So with him still sleeping, I pad into the kitchen to make scrambled eggs and whatever else I could find.  Well, the kitchen was Sawan’s domain.  There was nearly nothing left of mine.  I had made room for him on the bookshelves, and we had cleared out the guest-room closet to be his, he actually had that whole bedroom, and there was room for fishing stuff in the storage area downstairs and in the front closet (plus whatever shelves and stuff in the bedroom), but he had packed up nearly everything that I owned in the kitchen and we had given it to my sister.  Every dish, every pot and pan, every utensil.  His were better.  He was in culinary school at the time, so he had a million gadgets and we had to make room.  As I got out the stuff that I needed for scrambled eggs, I couldn’t find a decent spatula.  The one he had brought was flimsy and flexible, I’m sure it’s for a specific purpose, but not useful for things like getting cookies off a cookie sheet or making scrambled eggs.  I was furious.  I wasn’t SURE that he had gotten rid of the solid spatula, though, because he never put things back in the same spot, either. He was a stasher.  When he emptied the dishwasher he would just find an empty spot in a cabinet or drawer and stash stuff there, so I could never find anything.   So I spent several minutes slamming drawers looking for the decent spatula, at which point he came in and wanted to know what was going on.  HUGE, daylong fight ensues.  I’m pissed that he got rid of what I wanted, he’s pissed that I haven’t welcomed him into my house.  We eventually worked it out, and he bought me a new, solid spatula, and we kept both, for their separate purposes, and would laugh later about the daylong fight over a SPATULA.

"Mine" that he bought me is on the left.  His flimsy, not good for scrambled eggs one is on the right.

Fast-forward 3 and a half years.  This is why I can’t cook.  I can barely re-heat anything in my kitchen without there being pain.  I’ve started to do a lot of things that I didn’t think I would ever want to do again.  I’ve watched movies where the main characters are widows (I put P.S. I love you on my Netflix queue.  I can’t believe I did that).  I listen to the radio sometimes, because lately it’s been worth negotiating the minefield.  I heard a Sarah McLaughlin song (she was his favorite) in a store the other day, and I found myself singing along and enjoying it, it didn’t even occur to me to run out.  About halfway through I noticed this and was so surprised at myself…I thought “Whoa, that’s movement!”  I’ve gone to nearly every restaurant that I avoided for the first year…I still need to make it back to our favorite date place, Hapa, but that’s it.  So I’ve really made progress.  But when I was re-heating a sandwich in my skillet the other day, and I reached for the spatula, I started to cry.  I guess this just goes to show that you never know what will set you off.  Ugh.