Sunday Breakfast
October 11, 2005 at 5:12 The E-Man has many excellent qualities, but high on the list of things I love is his ability to make kick-ass eggs. His scrambled eggs are fluffy and not dry. His omelets are lightly browned and oozing cheddar cheese, his fried eggs have viscous yolks and tender whites. If he could make biscuits too, I’d be pointing my feet and curling my toes like Meg Ryan in the diner scene of “When Harry Met Sally.”
But then again, if he could make golden brown biscuits with a slightly salty buttery crust and soft but not doughy middle, he’d probably be Martha Stewart’s Boy-Toy instead of my Main Squeeze. Then I’d be left alone with a cold bowl of cereal while he lived a tidy and tasteful existence somewhere in Connecticut or New York , tending tulips, pruning hedges, mowing grass, feeding apples to the horses, sleeping on clean, pressed sheets.
Women like me (the Oscars of the world) fear the Marthas of the world—that devastating combination of brains, looks, and domestic prowess. Lock her up and she only gets stronger. Like a Superhero in a comic book, Martha is larger than life. If she absconded with my husband, I guess I could accept it as long as he sent generous checks drawn from Martha’s account and cooked the kids and I breakfast on weekends.
Martha may be a billionaire tycoon, but I can negotiate a fair deal. In Grrrrl World, Sunday breakfast trumps all, and surely Martha would see a 6-1 split on the E-Man working in her favor. I’m a (mostly) good Grrrl and generous as well. As long as I get my eggs, I’ll let HER iron his shirts and sheets and sprinkle them with lavender water. She couldn’t resist an offer like that. I know what makes a Martha point her toes and say “Ah!”
© 2005 Veronica McCabe Deschambault. All rights reserved.
October 11, 2005
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