The Husband, the Momentary Cook

I'm the cook in my household. The husband is the dishwasher.

Ever since we've been together, which is going on 15 years, I've been the cook. I was also the dishwasher, until the husband left his nine-to-five job. The husband becoming the dishwasher rates right up there with him not going down the path towards a heart attack, which he was bound if he hadn't left.

I'm glad the husband doesn't mind washing dishes. He likes to say that he is a professional dishwasher. For one summer in his youth (a thousand years ago), he likes to remind me, he worked as a dishwasher at the Oregon Caves lodge.

The husband says he can cook, but I'm still waiting for that yummy omelet he says he can make. This morning, I did get him to help me prepare tonight's dinner. My hands were all chickeny from cutting up a big ole chicken. Not wanting to wash my hands, I asked the husband to pull out a Pyrex container so I could soak some chicken parts in yogurt to make oven-friend chicken. Once he did that, I realized I would still need to wash my hands. In short, with my hands all chickeny, I leaned against the counter and guided him into creating a marinade for me. Here it is:

The Husband's Oven Fried Chicken Yogurt Marinade
(As usual, the measurements are approximate)

6 tablespoons of yogurt
1 level teaspoon of paprika
1 heaping teaspoon of garlic
1 (less than level) teaspoon of turmeric
3 shakes of liquid smoke
1/2 a capful of balsamic vinegar

The taste results: We both agreed—very subtle, then pow! what a kick.

Some kind of sweetness was needed to balance the taste. So, I added the residue from a bottle of honey. Probably 1 tablespoon's worth. "The honey brings out the spices," said the husband.

Tonight, I'll dredge the chicken in a combination of crumbled crackers, seaweed flakes, and black pepper before putting it in the oven for about 40 minutes. I can hardly wait to eat it.