My Wife Absolutely Cannot Cook But I Love Her Anyway

Sure, she put nachos in a blender to make nacho soup, but she did it for me.

September-2017-VV-DOW-why-i-have-takeout-on-speed-dial-Nishant-Choksi-for-Reader's-DigestNishant Choksi for Reader's DigestHolly cannot cook. She is capable of the process 
of cooking, but my wife cannot cook in the same way that 
an octopus cannot ride a bike. It has enough arms to reach 
the pedals and handlebars, but the result will rarely be a 
successful journey from A to B.

I once looked over Holly’s shoulder to discover her 
crumbling Alka-Seltzer tablets onto a meal she was preparing because “they are salty and we ran out of salt.”

Another time, I walked into the kitchen to find Holly making toast. (This is how to make perfect toast, according to science.) I generally feel safe eating toast that Holly has made because it requires minimal ingredients to forget, replace, or experiment with. But this toast was a bit thin and soggy.

“It’s a bit thin and soggy,” I said. “What bread is this?”

“It’s the same bread we always have,” Holly said, pointing to the bag.

“I didn’t even know we had any brea— Oh my God!” I exclaimed. “It has a best-by date of January 2009.”

“It was in the freezer,” Holly said. “The best-by date doesn’t count if the product is frozen.”

“I’m fairly sure there is a limit,” I responded, holding up a slice of bread consisting almost entirely of permafrost. (Use these tricks to keep frozen foods fresh.)

“No, there isn’t,” she replied. “I saw a show once where scientists found a mammoth ­frozen in ice for millions of years. They thawed it out, cooked it, and ate it.”

I mention all this because recently Holly stated that she was making 
nachos for dinner, so I was surprised to be presented with a bowl and spoon an hour later.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“The nachos were a bit runny, so I added a few cups of water. It’s nacho soup,” she replied.

“What are these bits in it?” I asked.

“They’re the chips.” Holly sipped a spoonful of nachos and made a long “Mmmmmm” noise. “I put it all in the blender, so there shouldn’t be any big bits.”

“I’m sending out for pizza,” I said.

“You never appreciate anything I do,” replied Holly.

“That’s not true,” I said. “I appreciate everything you do. You’re a beautiful, kind, thoughtful person. But if I ordered a hamburger at McDonald’s and they handed it to me in a cup with a straw, saying, ‘Sorry, 
it was a bit runny, so we threw it in the blender and added two cups 
of water—it’s Big Mac soup,’ I would assume there was something wrong with the restaurant staff. And if they asked me, ‘Do you 
want fries with that?’ 
I sure wouldn’t reply, ‘Yes, mix them in.’”

“It would probably be good,” 
responded Holly. “But you would never know because you wouldn’t taste it. Even if the guy at Mc­Donald’s spent an hour in the kitchen making it for you and burned his thumb on 
a saucepan.”

“Fine,” I relented, taking a scoop and raising it to my mouth. “I’ll taste it.” Sipping the brown and yellow ­puree, I felt an intense burning 
sensation not unlike having a mouth full of red ants. I swallowed with 
effort as my eyes began to water and said, “It’s a bit spicy.”

“Yes,” said Holly. “We were out of cumin, so I used cayenne instead.”

David Thorne is the creator of the humor website

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