by Kathy Soltani

Created on: September 25, 2008

I used to think that there were a million reasons why men should do housework. I don't feel that way any more. You see, I hounded my husband to pitch in and he did. That's when the real housework began. It all started with my suggestion that my husband prepare dinner. I had a meeting to attend and kids to pick up from after school activities. Time was tight and I wouldn't be getting home in time to cook. My husband, ever the model of cooperation, assured me that it would be no trouble to put together a simple supper. I was so grateful. I was so touched. I was so naive.

Before I left for work, I told my husband that there was some chicken in the fridge that he could bake and some veggies in the freezer. I left simple cooking instructions and went about the business of the day. When he arrived at home that evening, my husband dutifully placed the chicken in a baking dish and took a cursory look at the recipe card I'd left behind. It was then that he made an executive decision. If the chicken took 35 minutes to bake at 325 degrees, then it surely would cook in half the time at 500 degrees! This simple temperature adjustment would allow him time to catch a short nap before starting dinner.

Having napped for twenty minutes, my husband awoke to find that he was now behind schedule. He turned on the oven and threw the veggies into a bowl and then into the microwave. He slid the baking pan of chicken into the oven and congratulated himself. There was nothing to this cooking thing, he concluded. In fact, since the rest of the family still hadn't arrived, he had time to watch Sports Center. He settled in on the couch.

Thirty minutes later, I pulled into the driveway with the kids. My son was the first one out of the car. As I gathered my things from the front seat, he said, "Hey, Ma! What's that smell?" I sniffed the air and made a dash for the house. Nothing could have prepared me for what I found in the kitchen. The smoke detector was in full voice. The air was thick with smoke. My husband was frantically waving a dish towel in the general direction of the oven, which was belching smoke and grease. Soot was puffing through the vents and up the wall behind the stove. I grabbed potholders, secured the flaming chicken and threw it into the sink where it sizzled its reproach. I shut the oven off, turned on the exhaust fan and opened the back door. My family stood in silence.

A few seconds passed before my husband could speak. "I'll go pick up some burgers," he offered. "Good job, Dad, " snickered the kids. Suddenly, I was alone. I surveyed the damage, changed my clothes and gathered the necessary cleaning supplies. Two hours later, having scrubbed the stove, walls, floor and baking pan, I sat listlessly chewing a cold burger. My husband was mortified. "Sorry, Hon. I was just trying to help," he said. "That's okay," I replied as I made a mental note to cook all day on Sunday. That way, we'd have meals ready to reheat all week- in the microwave.

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