Tonight, dinner was served. I didn't cook, or make plans for a meal. I didn't make a request, or set the table, or do anything at all.
Mostly, I cook dinner, and I love doing it so that's never a problem. On Wednesdays, however, Ward and I usually cook together. Wednesday was taco night for years, but the kids (or maybe Ward) were tiring of it, so we switched it up to burgers. This particular Wednesday, though, when I consulted with him about dinner (what are we having, who is doing the shopping) he said he'd handle it.
I asked, twice, what he was making for dinner, and he advised that it would "be good." No clues. I wondered what he could have been preparing. My bet was on spaghetti and meatballs with marinara sauce.
When I walked into his kitchen, I saw three pots on the stove. One with a top on it, two with water boiling, and it was clear that something was cooking in the oven. Whatever he was making, it looked interesting and it smelled really good. I was impressed. For more than a minute, though, I questioned his methods. "Ward, the water's boiling... Shouldn't you put something in there?" and "What's that big pot for? Pasta?" I actually had to leave the kitchen for a minute (to shut myself up). I realized how lucky I was. Ward was making the whole meal, top to bottom.
Finally, he allowed me to peek. A whole roasted chicken was browning in the oven. Jasmine rice, corn, and asparagus were cooking in pots on the stovetop. It looked amazing.
And tasted just as fabulous.