“So, since you already have Valentine’s Day off, are you going to cook dinner?” I asked Tom. I love when I don’t have to cook. I hate cooking. If we were rich, we’d buy a cook. Well, you know, pay him or her to cook FOR us. Not actually BUY them.
“I already ordered you a present. Why do I have to cook?” Tom responded, furrowing his brow.
(I am incredibly impatient so I’m dying to know what my gift is. He won’t give me any sort of hint.)
“Well, in Redbook, some guy is making his wife Farro and Orange salad, Miso-rubbed rack of lamb with collard greens, and whiskey fudge,” I said matter-of-factly. I left out the fact that the guy was also a celebrity chef. And that I had no idea what farro was. It sounded like fart.
“A lot of that doesn’t even sound English,” Tom said, frowning. “What’s farro?”
“Farro is,” I began, behaving like I knew exactly what it was, “Farro is…a seed…that tastes like…um…a seed. A good seed.”
(I later learned that farro is some sort of grain. I hope Tom is never in a situation where farro comes up and he's like, "Oh, right, the seed!" and everyone looks at him like he's just admitted to having a crush on Margaret Thatcher.)
“I’ve never even heard of Miso before,” Tom mused, wrinkling his nose.
“It’s a popular spice,” I lied. (I think?)
“And I prefer chocolate fudge. Not whiskey fudge,” Tom pointed out.
Well. Actually, me too. Whiskey fudge did sound a little odd. Plus, I don’t even like whiskey. I tried it once and announced that it tasted like sick.
“I bet that guy making the food is some hot shot chef,” Tom said.
“No. He’s just a regular guy wanting to impress his wife,” I fibbed.
“I’m taking you out to lunch. How about we just order a heart shaped pizza for dinner?” Tom suggested.
Most people might have balked at this. But…I do love pizza. I prefer real food as opposed to fancy foods with farro. I’ve never understood rich people food. It usually comes served on a plate—a circular tower of mashed up fish or meat and it’s surrounded by a green syrup to make it look pretty. Only it doesn’t, because the green syrup makes me think of snot.
Yeah. We’d never fit in with the rich crowd. Or those Real Housewives, who are forever throwing dinner parties and serving things like that. I’d be like, “Um. Can I have a burger? Without the green snot syrup around my plate?”
“A heart shaped pizza sounds good,” I agreed.
I mean, who needs Miso-rubbed rack of lamb anyway?