My kitchen IQ used to be really lousy, before I started baking

Before I became master of the kitchen, my wife wrote about my reluctance to venture there. Story by Paula Hunker, courtesy The Washington Times.

The first gift I ever received from my husband-to-be was a pair of oven mitts. Wait! There's more. This was not a gag gift. These mitts had no special significance, such as being typewriter-shaped to show that he knew where I worked, or with a New York skyline to show that he knew where I lived. They were plain old denim oven mitts. Wait! There's more. This gift was carefully selected, beautifully wrapped and punctually mailed to ensure that it would arrive in time for Valentine's Day!

Years later, when I could look at those kitchen mitts with nostalgia instead of wrath, my husband told me that he actually went shopping and spent hours at a mall before he decided that oven mitts would be the perfect way to say "I love you." I can just imagine that shopping expedition. As he entered the store he went by the jewelry counter thinking, "Ah, beautiful, expensive jewelry. No, that would never impress her." Then he stopped for a moment to consider perfumes. "Lovely, captivating fragrances. No, who would want that?" This took him past rack after rack of clothes, from silk scarves to ruby slippers. "Oh, tasteful, elegant clothes. No, that's not quite the message I'm looking for." Finally, he stumbled into housewares and perked up at the sight of pots and pans and other kitchen utensils. Picking up a can opener, he knew that he was almost there. But finally his eyes lit upon a display of kitchen oven mitts. "Eureka! This is it. This is the gift that will let my fiance know that I want to spend the rest of my life with her. Saleswomen! I'll take two, and throw in an apron!" The good news is that with such an inauspicious beginning, he had nowhere to go but up on the gift-giving scale, and lately his gifts have shown care, thought and taste.

My husband's repertoire now includes defrosting pizza, ordering pizza, and even going out and picking up pizza. Unfortunately, my kids are enthusiastic disciples of the cold cereal and/or pizza school of nutrition, and it usually takes at least a week of forced balanced- meal eating to get them back on track after a prolonged trip. If Daddy's dinners only meant a few missing nutrients, I could pass the effort off as endearing. But these rare forays into "cooking" are inexplicably followed by a gloating phase. Not only must I compliment him on his wise parenting skills - actually noticing that his children were hungry - but I must acknowledge the huge burden that he lifted from my shoulders by passing around the corn flakes or phoning out for pizza. The final insult is when he passes off his culinary attempt as an "I spent all day slaving over a hot stove" triumph and uses it as an excuse for not doing the dishes. ("But Hon, I cooked!")

There is one excuse that I can understand. In fact, I'm quite empathetic that when my husband is dressed for work in the morning he is hesitant to do the breakfast dishes for fear of dirtying his clothes. That's why I'm getting him an apron for his next birthday.

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