Lou mazeby LOU MAZE
RMG Humour Writer

“What’s for supper?”

This question is almost always aimed at Mom, who has probably already asked the same people, “What do you want for supper?”

“Doesn’t matter to me,“ was probably the response. Then there’s the equally non-committal, “Whatever,” punctuated with a shrug.

As the day wears on and their stomachs rumble, these same people are suddenly consumed by curiosity and become eager for information. Information they would already have, if they had paid attention when Mom asked for input, the first time.

For me, the most annoying part about being the mistress of the kitchen, is having to decide 363 days a year, “what’s for supper.” (It would be 365 days a year but Christmas and Thanksgiving are designated turkey days. The turkey then proceeds to monopolize the menu for days afterward. This forces Mom to summon all her creativity and make multiple meals out of a dead bird carcass. There’s turkey soup, turkey sandwiches, turkey tettrazini, and finally turkey surprise, the surprise being, you have finally run out of turkey.)

Deciding what to cook takes brain power. Brain power, that Mom would rather use for intellectual challenges such as ‘name that stain,’ or “where’s that smell coming from?”

I don’t mind cooking. Out of all the domestic duties, cooking is the one I am most inclined to have fun with. I try to poison the meals I prepare with under undesirable things like vegetables and vitamins. I have learned to do this because I married a man I have tagged ‘an unredeemable carnivore.’ For 26 years I have been the only thing between him and scurvy.

For me, there is nothing like serving up the people you love a hot meal, watching them devour it and saying smugly to yourself, “I can’t believe they ate it.”

There is no joy in wiping down a toilet seat. And there is nothing creative about sorting laundry, unless your goal is to turn Daddy’s long underwear pink. Grocery shopping can be a pleasure, but is always followed by a gross diminishment in your finances and a fleeting sense of guilt, that you indulge your family in three meals a day.

Because I have fun with food, I have devised a number of responses to the question “What’s for supper?”

“Rocks,” is one of my favorites. “They can be very flavorful and tender if you simmer them long enough.”

“Mud and bricks,“ is another one.

But the winner came from a friend of mine, who answered her husband with, “A bucket of poop.”

His response was one for the record. “So leftovers. Again!”