A Tableau of Domesticity

I'm giving you a peek into the domestic life of me and Steve. Adventures abound in this realm as neither of us like to clean (so we invite people over so we're forced to clean) and if we fight it's usually over food (see previous posts). Anyway, this night I call Steve, who acts as my prep chef, while on the road home and tell him to prep the asparagus for roasting. I instruct him to dab the asparagus with butter and sprinkle with salt and pepper (my favorite way of eating asparagus). Now Steve is a great helper but I forget that he doesn't actually cook (except on rare but utterly delightful occasions) and therefore, doesn't understand certain terms like dab, as in place small pieces of butter at varying points across the row. As you can see from the above picture, Steve interpreted dab to mean "butter the asparagus", which for some reason struck me as hilarious. I can see now, in this retelling that the humor may not translate. Say "buttered asparagus" out loud though and I'll bet you giggled...or not. Maybe it really only tickled me. But he did a damn fine job of buttering the asparagus and I heartily ate all of mine.

After dinner Steve read the first pages from a bunch of essays from Air Guitar by Dave Hickey. The first pages are the best because it's all concrete writing. After those introductory pages Hickey delves into the meaning and interpretation of the events he describes at the beginning. Those bits aren't as interesting to me, but maybe they are to his erudite readers, like his wife Libby Lumpkin. What a marvelous name, but I certainly hope she doesn't look like her name sounds. The onomatopoeia of it suggest dumplings, soft and squishy. I guess for BOTH their sakes I hope she's neither. The one exception was his homage essay to deceased friend Grover Lewis, who sounded like just the sort of character you'd want as a life-long friend. But if you wonder what I mean by that you'll have to read the essay yourself.

I'm notoriously bad at remembering band names and song lyrics. In fact I'm not really musically inclined at all (sorry, mom and dad, that you shelled out the bucks for my nine years of piano lessons) especially when it comes to modern music. I'm simply clueless on my own, but Steve keeps me educated and open minded to new music. However, he does have his moments of frustration. I'll ask him over and over again the name of a band I should know (I think I have a tumor) and he patiently tells me over and over after offering me a few clues that I never get. Well, tonight I think I asked one too many times. He just wouldn't tell me, but I kept nagging. He then drops to the floor and starts rolling around. Then comes up and makes the characteristic signs for a charade. Yeah! I love charades! My man plays charades so I can guess the band and now it's fun for both of us. His rolling around on the floor (plus some other not so clear pantomimes that had me guess culvert originally) led me to the correct answer: Catherine Wheel. He wasn't so good out of the gate on the next charade since the miming of shooting a bow/ arrow doesn't lead one to naturally guess Slayer as the band. However, the sword thrusts certainly did.

So folks, that's a not so normal night behind the domestic curtain.