This is the Fella smiling after cooking us lunch. Consider this the before photo. I do not have an after. Only the one burned in my memory.
He asked his mom for the recipe and made it all on his own. The Fella doesn't generally cook. As in NEVER. He grills, he microwaves, he orders pizza. He doesn't cook. But lately he's been inspired to give it a try. And I love that. Love him.
Saturday we went out and bought all the ingredients. Everything looked good- the rice, the tomatoes. But this part got me.
Kielbasa. Beef Kielbasa. I can do it, I thought. It's just an giant hotdog. I like hotdogs- fried to a crisp and smothered on a bun. Could that rice and tomato make me forget?
He served up a small portion on my plate. I smiled through several bites of everything but kielbasa. And then I took a teeny tiny bite. I chewed. It got bigger. I chewed more. This wasn't going well.
And then I did it.
After my adorable Fella worked so hard and made us lunch...
I spit in out in a napkin in front of him.
That my friends is how NOT to tell your husband you don't like his sausage.
He has since forgiven me and I was allowed to kiss my cook. Though I can promise I will never hear the end of it. That's how we roll.