Meals From Hell
Title
Meals From Hell
Creator
Jacob Schlitt
Description
"Dinner is supposed to be a lovely, relaxed, warm, pleasant, sociable time, when couples and families sit down together, enjoying each other’s company."
Date
2013-07-29
Format
application/pdf
Type
text
Language
en
Identifier
MEALS_FROM_HELL
Text
MEALS FROM HELL
Dinner is supposed to be a lovely, relaxed, warm, pleasant, sociable time, when couples and families sit down together, enjoying each other’s company. Once upon a time it was. Unfortunately, that time is long gone. I can’t put my finger on it, but some time within the past several years, it has changed dramatically. Before that, there may have been hints of a problem, but I looked the other way.
Fran is very possessive about the kitchen, and about cooking and preparing meals. She sees it as her strength. As far back as I can remember, Fran has been collecting cookbooks, cutting out recipes, and reading articles about food preparation. When Julia Child was on TV, Fran was a big fan. She is proud of the fact that she has passed on to David her love of preparing food. He knows his way around the kitchen.
Fran claims I do not. It is true that I do not have an interest in fancy and exotic dishes, that I am not big on herbs and spices, that I am not “adventurous” regarding new food products. But in the nine years between Sylvia and Fran, I prepared my meals, including meals for my children and friends, and it all went very well. Granted, there may not have been a great variety, and I had only one cookbook, and when I ate alone, I consumed a lot of frozen food, and a few TV dinners, but looking back, I ate well, and enjoyed what I ate.
These days, when I sit down with Fran, or when we have guests (which is happening less frequently), the joy is gone. We only eat one meal together: dinner, and not every night. I usually have breakfast around 8 am, and lunch around 12:30 pm. Fran is still sleeping.
Some time in late afternoon or early evening, Fran may announce that we will be having “x” for supper. I will acknowledge, saying, “That’s nice.” Around 6 pm, I would set the table—plates, napkins, silverware, glasses; then look quizzically, wondering when Fran will begin to prepare supper. At some point, Fran will put down the newspaper, or get up from a nap, and work her way to the kitchen. And for the next two hours or more, there will be a rattling of pots, pans, dishes, and the opening and closing of the refrigerator, microwave and oven doors. After a while, I might ask her if there is anything I could do to help. No, she would answer. Fran might ask me to pour her a glass of water, or to bring the salad dressing to the table, but not much more.
After a couple hours, I would tentatively ask when supper would be ready, and would be curtly told that if I am hungry, I should eat something. She will let me know. Fran now appears harried and exhausted. She is perspiring, unable to walk even the few feet between the stove and the counter. The sink is filled with dishes and pots that she used to prepare the meal. Then one dish appears on the counter between the kitchen and the dining room. I bring it to the table. Then another. By this time, Fran is talking to herself, sitting on the kitchen stool, and seems incapable of lifting one more pot or dish. I conclude it is better if I am not around, so I go into the study. Eventually, Fran calls out, “supper is ready,” and I return to the dining room, picking up whatever dishes Fran placed on the counter. Fran looks drained and upset. I try to compliment her, but it is clear to both of us that the meal preparation took an inordinately long time. Occasionally, something is overcooked or undercooked. Fran tries to have all the dishes ready on time and warm, and uses the oven for that purpose. Occasionally, Fran forgets a dish that was left in the microwave. The last order to me is to bring serving utensils. It is now after 9 pm. The tension has been building from whenever it was that Fran began.
At almost every supper, Fran has prepared a dish of condiments for herself, knowing that I do not care for the onions, peppers, gherkins, olives, etc. that she would like with the meal. She drags herself to the dining room table and exhaustedly seats herself. After a few minutes, we make an attempt at small talk. I know how great an effort, and how frustrating, it was for her to prepare the food. Fran knows that I do not like to eat at so late an hour. When two people are annoyed and resentful, it does not make for pleasant dinner conversation. This is often compounded by one or both of us not wearing our hearing aids.
There used to be “safe” topics: politics, David, the weather. Now, there are no more safe topics. Arguments can start over nothing. If Fran is not wearing her hearing aids, she reprimands me for not looking at her when I speak. Fran constantly asks me to pass her a dish, even though the dish is as close to, or closer, to her as it is to me. To Fran, salads are eaten after the meal. Most of the time, when Fran finishes dinner, she does not eat the salad. I am therefore instructed to leave the salad when I am cleaning up. I do, and most of the time, the following morning, I find it where I left it.
Our suppers are usually eaten in silence, after one or two unsuccessful attempts at conversation. When the meal is over, I clear the dishes, but Fran sits there. I thank her. The “thank yous” have become meaningless. I keep thinking that with the amount of tension and annoyance surrounding each meal, we both should be getting ulcers, or at least indigestion. The most enjoyable meals these days are the ones I eat by myself.
7-29-13
Dinner is supposed to be a lovely, relaxed, warm, pleasant, sociable time, when couples and families sit down together, enjoying each other’s company. Once upon a time it was. Unfortunately, that time is long gone. I can’t put my finger on it, but some time within the past several years, it has changed dramatically. Before that, there may have been hints of a problem, but I looked the other way.
Fran is very possessive about the kitchen, and about cooking and preparing meals. She sees it as her strength. As far back as I can remember, Fran has been collecting cookbooks, cutting out recipes, and reading articles about food preparation. When Julia Child was on TV, Fran was a big fan. She is proud of the fact that she has passed on to David her love of preparing food. He knows his way around the kitchen.
Fran claims I do not. It is true that I do not have an interest in fancy and exotic dishes, that I am not big on herbs and spices, that I am not “adventurous” regarding new food products. But in the nine years between Sylvia and Fran, I prepared my meals, including meals for my children and friends, and it all went very well. Granted, there may not have been a great variety, and I had only one cookbook, and when I ate alone, I consumed a lot of frozen food, and a few TV dinners, but looking back, I ate well, and enjoyed what I ate.
These days, when I sit down with Fran, or when we have guests (which is happening less frequently), the joy is gone. We only eat one meal together: dinner, and not every night. I usually have breakfast around 8 am, and lunch around 12:30 pm. Fran is still sleeping.
Some time in late afternoon or early evening, Fran may announce that we will be having “x” for supper. I will acknowledge, saying, “That’s nice.” Around 6 pm, I would set the table—plates, napkins, silverware, glasses; then look quizzically, wondering when Fran will begin to prepare supper. At some point, Fran will put down the newspaper, or get up from a nap, and work her way to the kitchen. And for the next two hours or more, there will be a rattling of pots, pans, dishes, and the opening and closing of the refrigerator, microwave and oven doors. After a while, I might ask her if there is anything I could do to help. No, she would answer. Fran might ask me to pour her a glass of water, or to bring the salad dressing to the table, but not much more.
After a couple hours, I would tentatively ask when supper would be ready, and would be curtly told that if I am hungry, I should eat something. She will let me know. Fran now appears harried and exhausted. She is perspiring, unable to walk even the few feet between the stove and the counter. The sink is filled with dishes and pots that she used to prepare the meal. Then one dish appears on the counter between the kitchen and the dining room. I bring it to the table. Then another. By this time, Fran is talking to herself, sitting on the kitchen stool, and seems incapable of lifting one more pot or dish. I conclude it is better if I am not around, so I go into the study. Eventually, Fran calls out, “supper is ready,” and I return to the dining room, picking up whatever dishes Fran placed on the counter. Fran looks drained and upset. I try to compliment her, but it is clear to both of us that the meal preparation took an inordinately long time. Occasionally, something is overcooked or undercooked. Fran tries to have all the dishes ready on time and warm, and uses the oven for that purpose. Occasionally, Fran forgets a dish that was left in the microwave. The last order to me is to bring serving utensils. It is now after 9 pm. The tension has been building from whenever it was that Fran began.
At almost every supper, Fran has prepared a dish of condiments for herself, knowing that I do not care for the onions, peppers, gherkins, olives, etc. that she would like with the meal. She drags herself to the dining room table and exhaustedly seats herself. After a few minutes, we make an attempt at small talk. I know how great an effort, and how frustrating, it was for her to prepare the food. Fran knows that I do not like to eat at so late an hour. When two people are annoyed and resentful, it does not make for pleasant dinner conversation. This is often compounded by one or both of us not wearing our hearing aids.
There used to be “safe” topics: politics, David, the weather. Now, there are no more safe topics. Arguments can start over nothing. If Fran is not wearing her hearing aids, she reprimands me for not looking at her when I speak. Fran constantly asks me to pass her a dish, even though the dish is as close to, or closer, to her as it is to me. To Fran, salads are eaten after the meal. Most of the time, when Fran finishes dinner, she does not eat the salad. I am therefore instructed to leave the salad when I am cleaning up. I do, and most of the time, the following morning, I find it where I left it.
Our suppers are usually eaten in silence, after one or two unsuccessful attempts at conversation. When the meal is over, I clear the dishes, but Fran sits there. I thank her. The “thank yous” have become meaningless. I keep thinking that with the amount of tension and annoyance surrounding each meal, we both should be getting ulcers, or at least indigestion. The most enjoyable meals these days are the ones I eat by myself.
7-29-13
Original Format
application/msword
Citation
Jacob Schlitt, “Meals From Hell,” Autobiographical stories & other writing by Jacob Schlitt, accessed April 28, 2024, https://tsirlson.omeka.net/items/show/215.