Thank God for Ina

By Grant Shellen

(Grant is great at a lot of things. He is a great musician and a great writer. What I think he is the best at is being my husband. Recent events have proven that he can find his way around a kitchen quite well. Let the battle at Shellen Kitchen Stadium begin!)

Last Wednesday morning, Heather embarked on a nearly weeklong stay on our living room couch. She just recently started working out again, possibly because she's jealous of my guns. So while she thought the gym was her friend, it laid her out for the better part of six days, including over a long weekend. I don't know about your friends, but if any of mine knocked me out for a week, they would be off the Chanukah card list for shizzle.

I was fortunate enough to be able to come home early and help my dear wife do difficult things like stand up, sit down, get up off the floor after unsuccessful attempts to do either of the previous actions, etc. (Side note: As proof of her love of her favorite utensil, she used a pair of long-handled OXO nonstick tongs to help her reach things that would have otherwise required bending.) This was my duty as a husband, and of course my immediate concern was for Heather's health, happiness and well-being. Until about 6 p.m., when my concern shifted to what I was going to eat for dinner.

It's not that I can't cook, it's just that I don't. I used to, in college. Nothing fancy, but much better than my roommate, who mostly consumed food from the 99-cent menu at Carl's, Jr. and frequently complained of "ass burn." I believe there is a correlation between these two facts.

I'd love the opportunity to cook more regularly, but Heather is the default cook because she:

a) usually gets home a good hour before me, and
b) watches more Food Network than is probably healthy.

So when the dinner hunger pangs started to hit, I volunteered my services. I could tell that Heather was slightly concerned, mostly because she kept saying, "I'm concerned."

But it turned out fine. I donned my TiVo apron and made Ina Garten's Chicken with Herbed Goat Cheese, and I'll be darned if it wasn't downright delicious.

After a subsequent night of takeout, I took another stab at an Ina recipe, her version of a Croque Monsieur. This one was slightly more challenging.

"It has a Béchamel sauce," she said on the phone to our sister-in-law Allison, with an obviously anxious, troubled tone. "I'm sure it'll be fine."

The sandwiches turned out great, and I felt even more confident in my cooking abilities. Heather's feeling better now, and is back at the burners. But maybe I'll try to edge my way into the kitchen a little more frequently now. I can just hear the phone calls then:

"He has to brown the butter," she'll say, the quiver in her voice just barely detectable. "I'm sure it'll be fine."