As much as I love to cook, I’m not all that fond of red wine. And in the grand irony that shows up in many marriages, red wine is what my husband loves most to drink. So he’s always happy when he hears me say that I’ve bought a nice piece of beef to cook for dinner.
“So, my love, how will we be cooking that steak?” he asks.
“Well, I found this very interesting marinade,” I say. “It’s got soy sauce, and sesame oil, and...”
Then I stop because I notice his facial muscles have achieved a pained look, and he’s holding his head in his hands, making those motions that suggest he’s about to start pulling his hair out. He wants it simply done, so he can pull out one of his big Italian reds. That’s just not the way I think.
But this spring, we joined a small group that wants to do gourmet dinners in which everyone prepares a course. Our turn to do the main course was in October, so I promised to plan around the wine, instead of the other way.
