Most men haven’t progressed further than the caveman hunter stage. They are happy to forage the forest to bring home the bacon. But who usually whips up the BLT?

The gatherers, of course. We women have been sharing recipes since we were presented with our first dead mammoth and blazing fire. Why are we in charge of this task? Because when it comes to cooking, most men aren’t firing on all four burners.

Now I must pause for a moment and pay homage to the rare female who “doesn’t cook.” I’ve met a couple of them and I always ask the same question, “How the heck did you manage to get away with not cooking? I didn’t know that was an option!”

Granted, in this hectic fast-food world, many women have become hunters, too. They hunt for the quickest drive thru. But when it comes to Thanksgiving dinner, you’ll find the women slaving in the kitchen over non-lumpy gravy.

There are some men who cook. They are referred to as professional chefs and come with sharp knives, fabulous cookware and zesters. Normally they do not date women.

When Stroke of Genius moved in to the Dancing Dog Ranch, he claimed he was a great cook. His promises of Mom’s meatloaf, fish fry parties and grilling marathons made my heart go pitter patter.

Want to know how he cooked dinner last night? He nuked two corny dogs and then slapped them in the toaster to crisp them up. No zesting was involved. Just lots of mustard.

Finally I have let go of my “he’s darling and he’s a gourmet chef” fantasy. It was a really good one where this perfect man of mine could whip up a marvelous French butter sauce that made me lose weight. No, reality is corny dogs in toasters.

It’s probably best to live with a man who doesn’t cook at all. All other men are pretty dangerous in the kitchen.

Let’s take the Breakfast Chef. This is the man who claims he can cook up a stack of pancakes or a passel of French toast without batting an eye. Sure he can, but you’re left with eggshells on the floor and a mountain of dishes covered with syrup in the sink.

Then there’s the Lunch Man. He’s addicted to a variety of sandwiches all of which are served on stale white bread with way too many condiments. I have at least two extra bottles each of mustard, mayo and ketchup in my pantry because it strikes terror in SOG’s heart that we might (gasp) run out of condiments.  He has even requested I figure out how to grow mayonnaise in the garden.

But the scariest is probably the Grill Master. Armed with long tongs and a flipper, he can create havoc with a perfectly decent rib-eye. Around here, it didn’t take me long to figure out the problem with my grill. Seems it has the perfect resting spot for an ice cold beer. When the liquid refreshment gets more attention than the entrée, it makes for a tough dinner. Maybe that’s why some man invented Beer Chicken.

Stroke of Genius is hoping for a bright new toaster oven for Christmas. Since he still can’t figure out how to operate my oven or use a toaster properly, I think I may just ask Santa to bring him one. Small appliances don’t cause very big house fires.

Now I know why I learned to cook. It’s just safer that way.

Spreading laughter throughout the world…one corny dog at a time.

Mikie Baker
www.mikiebaker.com

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