“This is a pickle.” He said looking at the vegetables in the bag of groceries his wife brought from the store.
“Indeed it is.” His wife said as she removed the scarf that kept her hair in place.
“I checked everywhere but just couldn’t see any cucumbers. You’d just have to make do.”
Mr. Right couldn’t believe what he was hearing coming out from his wife’s mouth. He had already promised to make the best weekend dinner for his sister’s family who was coming over.
The rice was ready, turkey was in the oven, sauce and drinks all set. All that remained was the salad and now instead of cucumbers, the woman brought pickles. Bloody Pickles!
Mr. Right looked in dismay at the brewing dinner disaster. His sister was thirty minutes out and he hasn’t started on the salad.
“What a pickle!” Bruno, his son at 4 years old said as he waddled into the kitchen.
“Come now Bruno, your father, the master chef is cooking.” His mother said, an unhidden grin on her face as she saw the salad bowl empty, and the vegetables still laid on the counter.
I knew what this was. It was a sabotage as he decided to cook this one meal. “Ready to call it quits Oh ye Master Chef?”, she asked.
“Quits? I haven’t even gotten started yet.” I said bluffing.
“Okay. Just so you know, your sister called. She’ll be here in 20 minutes.” With that, she left the kitchen.
Immediately, I flipped through my cooking book. Looking for any salad recipes that included pickles. Do I have to salt it first? Clear out the insides? Or do I slice and sprinkle it on top the sliced cabbage and diced carrots just like you do with a cucumber?
The possible ways of cooking were endless. Yet, which one was the correct way?
Mr. Right couldn’t help but wonder.
As he looked at the clock tick down to his eternal embarrassment, he decided to at least start making the salad. So, like he did with the rice and the turkey and every other dish on his Wondrous Weekend Dinner (WWD) menu, he sliced and diced.
Impressed with his work. He then put the cucumbers in the dicing board. He looked at the cold bumpy skinned yet cylindrically long legume and couldn’t decide on what to do with it.
His cookbook specifically stated cucumbers as the ingredient in the salads and he had followed everything the cookbook had said to the letter T, he could afford to just wing it now, even more so when it’s an unknown element in play.
He looked at the clock again, twenty minutes had already passed and he was grateful for whatever element was keeping his sister away from the doorbell for any minute longer than she planned.
The gratefulness didn’t last long though, for no longer was the turkey out of the oven and everything except from the salad was set on the table, the doorbell rang.
“I’ll get it!!” Mrs. Right Screamed from her room upstairs, literally descending two steps at a time, rushing to go invite the guests.
Mr. Right beat her to it though, she almost ran into him at the foot of the steps, on his knees, begging her to please finish up the salad.
“Ohhhh? I thought you were the master chef who literally did all the cooking in the house?” She said, trying to manoeuvre around him to get the doorbell which just rung the second time.
“I’m not the master chef. I can’t cook at all; I was just following the instructions from a cookbook.” Mr. Right confessed, suddenly feeling hotter than when he was in the kitchen.
“Ah! A cookbook, eh? And your little cookbook doesn’t have any recipes on pickle salads?” She asked again, clearly enjoying his grovelling.
“It doesn’t.” He said apologetically. The doorbell rang a third time and Mrs. Right still made a move towards it.
“Okay, I’ll make it worth your while, just please finish the salad.” She stood to look at the man she married as he tried bribing her, a large smile growing on her face.
“You know that wig that I showed you last week-” “Done.” Mr Right replied without her even finishing the statement. The guests had begun knocking now and he went to greet them.
Mrs. Right, grateful for her bribe, donned the apron her husband had flung on the door and stepped merrily into the kitchen.
“You know, when John told me you cooked on weekends, Paul, I just couldn’t believe it…” Mr. Right’s sister said between mouthfuls.
“But here we are...” Her husband helped her finish. “Indeed, here we are.” She concurred then took another spoonful of the rice.
“This rice is just simply heavenly.” She said before loading her mouth again. “Actually, you’re meant to use the salad I prepared to eat that.” Mr. Right graciously offered his eldest sister the covered bowl.
After his sister had packed some on her plate, Mr. Right scanned the food. He saw the cabbage and carrots, with cauliflowers and peas, but he couldn’t see the one ingredient that caused him a headache throughout the preparation.
He looked into the salad bowl and in shock, stood up and asked out loud. “Where are the pickles?”
“Pickles dear?” His wife sheepishly asked her confused husband.
“Yes. The pickles that were meant to go into the salad.” He asked again in confusion.
“Pickles? In a salad?” His wife asked. Then his sister and wife laughed together.
“Oh you’re so funny dear.” His wife said after calming down. “Why, everyone knows pickles aren’t meant to go into salads. Cucumbers? Yes. But pickles? It’s just not done.”
Mr. Right looked on in bewilderment at his wife while his sister laughed on, having to take a sip of water as her laughter turned into a coughing fit.
For the rest of the dinner, Mr. Right was quiet, his wife instead was all cheers, inciting numerous gist topics.
Later on, she sent him a message.
Now don’t you dare forget the promise about some wigs..
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