SO YOU WANT TO BE A WIFE

I can't believe how different my life suddenly becomes with a new husband.  The stormy relationship with my Italian parents and my comprehension of marriage leaves me with poor training for my future.  I learned by watching my mother submit to my overbearing father for every decision.  I surmised this must be the way to live with a new spouse.  On the other hand, my man was raised by a dominant Russian-Jewish mother, who wouldn't dream of not asserting her own thinking.  Consequently Ed waits for me to react independently to life, but I wait for him to give me my next instruction.

Every penny is carefully spent.  We are one poor couple.

We settle into a dilapidated old house owned by an equally beat-up, screaming  landlady, Mrs. Belecci.  The dwelling, if you'll pardon the expression, is furnished.  The moth-eaten sofa has a missing leg, but isn't off-balance since the floor is slanted and evens out everything.  The kitchen is a sight to never forget with a refrigerator door that needs propping and refuses to stay closed.  Like our honeymoon motel’s air conditioner, everything is one temperature.  Frozen.  Not to be left out, the oven door needs a stick and a chair wedged against the handle.  But I’m an excited bride filled with optimism for a grand and wonderful life.  Nothing is going to deter me from proving my worth.  This is my kitchen.  Let the nest begin.

On our first Thanksgiving I take the opportunity to try my virginal culinary skills.

My acting career has started.

Although, I’ve never made a whole meal on my own, I decide to roast Ed's favorite.  Duck.  I watched my mother-in-law make the favored poultry, in a brown paper sack, which, in my uneducated cooking state, seemed unique to me.  But I am not afraid.  I am sure I can handle this unknown feat, even with my lack of experience.

I buy the duck and give the fowl fellow a good bath, dose him with spices, slip him into the grocery bag, then into the hot oven with the propped door.  I make the sign of the cross.

It rains all night and most of Thanksgiving Day.  We scatter pans throughout the house to catch the water coming through the well-ventilated roof.  So now the rain drives the ants and their friends indoors for shelter.  I seem to be drawn to one-temperature machines.  The stove, which also only knows high, blasts heat, hot as a foundry furnace, into the closet-size kitchen, while I, the 'child bride', wilt in the natural smoky sauna.  I prepare the side dishes.  The moment arrives to remove the bagged bird from the oven.  I peak into the grocery sack and see that the duck is a "Peking" knockout.  The crispy skin and aroma reward my heart.  I have conquered one gladiator in this untamed arena.  I place it on the breadboard to rest while I set the table and finish last minute preparations.  After ten minutes, in the poor kitchen light, I open the grocery bag and remove the canard sauvage, and shriek in horror.  I take a closer look.  The ants have taken up residence in the game bird, dancing the tarantella on his succulent back!  Amidst the tears, Ed and I make a joint decision to brush them off and trust the extra protein will not disturb our sleep pattern.

My daily question, "Eddie, what do you want for dinner?", planted permanently in my brain by my mother, soon starts to annoy my amore.

"Honey, you don't have to keep asking me every day what I want,” he answers trying to hide his exasperation.  “I know you're afraid of making mistakes but I'm sure you have some great ideas and I trust you'll do your best.  Why don't you surprise me?"

I set upon exploring my newfound freedom.  I’m not too familiar with American cooking, but I am willing to try.  I make every effort to prepare foods I know his delicatessen-owner-mother had cooked for him.

I remembered the layered and fruited gelatin dessert my talented mother-in-law served.  I buy two packages, strawberry and lime and a can of fruit cocktail.  I follow directions, and that evening I present the finished course to my spouse.  It smells delicious, but the fruit had sunk to the bottom and the lime had run into the strawberry, making the color a little less than perfect.  I attempt to cut a gray slice to place onto Ed's dish, but the Jell-O has become a secret, rubberized weapon.  Goodyear Tires could have used my research.

I am undaunted in my persistence to prove to my husband he has not lost two bucks on his share of our license.  I decide to venture into my Italian heritage for ideas to feed my trusting and food-loving mate.  I recall the different delicacies that delighted my gourmand father.  Surely I can recapture these moments of comestible delights.  A roast!  Yes, an Italian roast!  Damn, how clever I am!

Although I never actually see how my mother prepared this dish, it looked easy enough and certainly inexpensive.  I can do it.  I imagine the table for the evening meal.  A clean, freshly starched, ironed tablecloth, a few dandelions in a glass, even lighted candles, like they do in the movies.  I round out the menu with Ed's favorite baked potato with sour cream, butter and cheese, a salad of red onions, tomatoes and basil with Italian dressing, and a little ice cream sundae for dessert.  I can hardly wait.  It is almost dinnertime.  I freshen my clothes and cologne and wait for His Honor to arrive.

"Hi honey.  How's it going?”  Ed says, as he puts his briefcase on the chair.  “Oh that looks nice, candles oooh oooh!  Something smells good.  What's cooking?"

"Eddie, guess what?  I have an Italian surprise for dinner!  Come and sit down."

I light the candles and turn off the main light in the undersized room.  Next, I serve the salad and baked potato and then to the oven to remove my work of genius.  I put the roasted meat onto a serving platter and place it in the middle of the table, anticipating my husband’s admiration.

And with a pessimistic smile he questions.

“What is that honey?"

“You're gonna love it Eddie, my mother used to make this for my dad.  It's roasted kidney."

Silence.

“What?  Roasted what?"

“Roasted whole kidney!  Here, I'll slice it for you."  I return, with my confidence at high peak.

In the diminished light, I cut down into the awaiting gland.  It spurts some juices.  I put several slices on Ed's dish and he draws back, grimacing, as he cuts into the broiled organ.  Each time he sticks it with his knife and fork it releases more blood, until his dish is filled with the sanguineous fluid.  With disbelief and a weak loving smile, I drain the dishes.  But once again the juices return.

Ed is ashen.  "Er-aa I don't think I can eat this, honey.  I'll just eat the salad and potato."

However, now is the time for guilt and how much does he really love me?

In my best whining voice, "But, I worked all day on this dinner."

"I’m sorry, Chi-Chi,” he consoles.  “You know, Vin, you've been trying much too hard on these meals lately.  How about a night out tomorrow?  Maybe a Crab Louis over in Antioch?"