When Iris makes preparations to have a peaceful supper with her husband in order to reconnect with him, she does not anticipate that he would toss it away without even giving it a second thought. On the other hand, what begins with a dinner that is spoiled reveals something far more profound…
I was looking for a new recipe to surprise my husband with supper, so I discovered a roast chicken with orzo dish that could be prepared in a single pot.
Even though it wasn’t something really ambitious, it was warm, it was reassuring, and it was a little bit indulgent. Neil had made sure that I hadn’t cooked for him in quite some time, and he had done it in a stealthy and cutting manner, but I was making another attempt.
I was attempting to demonstrate love in the manner that I was familiar with.
A Friday had arrived. Earlier that morning, I placed an order for the groceries on the internet, and I picked them up at the supermarket shortly before lunchtime. It was the first morning of the week that I had experienced a completely peaceful morning. The day consisted of nothing more than a peaceful errand for something I wanted to complete; there were no calls and no appointments.
Everything that I purchased seemed to have been done on purpose. Wrapped in brown paper and secured with string, the herbs were prepared for use. Whole, uncooked, and well cleaned, the chicken was packaged in transparent plastics. In addition to orzo, I had fresh garlic, stalks of celery, lemon, shallots, and so on.
It had a purifying effect. That’s good. An example of something that might warm more than simply the kitchen would be.
While I was chopping and stirring, I carefully poured myself a glass of wine and took my time preparing everything. In accordance with the instructions provided in the recipe, I marinated the chicken to perfection, packed it with lemon and herbs, and massaged olive oil into the skin of the bird.
When I was in the process of zesting the lemon, Neil came in. While holding a briefcase in one hand and keys in the other, he seemed to be preoccupied.
When I cleaned my hands, I smiled and remarked, “Oh,” as I did so. “For supper, I’m going to prepare something delicious. Chicken roasted in a single pot with orzo. It is going to be an amazing experience! I even went so far as to get candles,” I said, feeling a bit self-conscious about how eager I sounded.
“It seems to be quite complicated,” he added, without taking his eyes from his phone.
“It’s not,” I responded to the question. “It’s actually really simple but—”
Iris, I’m sorry, but I have to interrupt you. I have a client meeting.” “I’ll be back later.”
In spite of the fact that he was already leaving, I gave him a nod.
Iquickly shook off the uneasiness and went back to it as soon as the door was shut. In order to set the table, I utilized linen napkins, white pillar candles, and the heavy dinnerware that we would only use sometimes. While the aroma of garlic and roasted chicken permeated the air, I took a deep breath and inhaled deeply.
The light in the ceiling was even turned down.
An amazing aroma emanated from the kitchen, like something that was alive and golden, delicious and slow. It wasn’t about making a good impression on him; rather, it was about providing him with a moment of affection and comfort.
It was almost as if I had forgotten about the previous brush-off by the time Neil arrived, softly, just as I was lighting the candles.
The gentle thud of his shoes on the carpet, the sound of his keys hitting the bowl at the entrance, and the sigh that he let out each and every time he went in were all sounds that I got to hear.
I couldn’t help but grin to myself as I waited for a “wow, Iris.” Also, a kiss. Or even simply a moment of silence conveying gratitude.
It was instead the sound of his footsteps entering the kitchen, followed by the sound of the garbage can lid swinging open.
Then there was the gentle, wet slip of something that was weighty.
My haste brought me into the kitchen. While using one of my silicone spatulas, Neil was removing the whole roast chicken from the oven and placing it in the trash.
“What on earth are you doing?!” I became numb.
“Iris, it had been sitting out for far too long,” he replied without even flinching slightly.
After wiping his hands and closing the lid of the trash can, my husband entered the living room to continue his work.
He continued, “You’ll thank me later,” as he took up the remote control and casually thumbed through the stations as if this were any other night.
I was standing there in the kitchen, still grasping the edge of the counter, and gazing into the trash can made of stainless steel as if I had just seen someone tossing in my wedding ring.
This chicken was sparkling with oil and rosemary, and it was sitting at the bottom of the container, half-buried in peels and paper towels. It seemed to be… flawless.
Ifollowed Neil into the living room, my voice trembling somewhere between surprise and anger over what had just happened.
I said, “Neil,” while still attempting to maintain my composure. You must reassure me that you are kidding. “Would you kindly reassure me that you did not just throw away dinner?”
The way he looked at me was as if I were the one who was being too theatrical and unreasonable. I had grown to despise that person’s appearance during the course of our marriage.
“Iris, before you loaded the chicken into the oven, it had been sitting out on the counter for a period of twelve minutes. I had not yet left my house. My meeting was about to begin, and I was seated in the dining room getting ready for it. I made sure to set a timer for when you removed the uncooked chicken from the refrigerator.
“What?” When I asked, I frowned. “You were timing me?”
“I’ve told you before,” he remarked with a long sigh. “I’ve told before.” The length of time that is considered to be acceptable for chicken to be left out is ten minutes. What comes after that is fraught with peril. You’re in luck, Iris; I managed to pick it up.
I was aware that it was not in fact dangerous, but I also realized that it was not worth arguing over.
“Lucky?” My voice was trembling. Neil, I put in a lot of time preparing the lunch. When I promised you that I was going to do something unique! This foolishness about the chicken being left out for an excessive amount of time is just absurd! You are correct, Neil; it was not in the sun. During the time that I was preparing it, it was right here, on the counter.
“I didn’t think you were serious about dinner,” he gave a shrug. “I was wrong.”
I glanced down at my hands, which were still a bit sticky from the garlic and lemon zest, and then I looked back at him, who was lazing about, smug, and unaffected by the total destruction that he had just caused to my work and my day.
As he continued to surf around Netflix, always in a calm state, I suddenly became aware of something.
It was at that same time that I realized I was not going to continue living in such a manner.
I grabbed my phone and placed an order for an extra-cheesy pizza right away.
I filed for divorce the next morning as I was sitting at the dining table with my laptop open and a piece of cold pizza that I had only partially had sitting next to me.
There was not a single incident that could be considered dramatic. On the other side, there was no sobbing, no shaking of hands, and no rushing about the home preparing suitcases. Currently, I am in the process of typing a message.
Now, Martin, let’s go forward. I am prepared to proceed with plans.”
After that, I opened the paperwork that we had discussed a few weeks ago, put in the information, pushed the confirm button, and then I sat back and relaxed.
Across from me, the coffee had become ice cold. When I finally caught a glimpse of my reflection, it was blurry, exhausted, and a little bit surprised. I gazed at the surface until I could see it.
In the midst of my continued sitting there, Neil entered the room. When he looked at the pizza box, he raised an eyebrow.
“Breakfast of champions, Iris?” he said, arching an eyebrow in acknowledgement.
It was then that I saw him leaning against the kitchen counter as he grabbed a glass of juice. It seemed as if he was enjoying the time of his life, as shown by the smile that was plastered over his face.
“You’re not still upset about last night, are you?”
It was when I gazed at him that I felt something in my chest begin to settle into place. That was neither anguish nor rage. The last click of assurance was all that was required.
After some time had passed, he informed everyone that we had divorced “over a stupid roast chicken.”
Every time he uttered it, he would do it with a chuckle, as if it were ridiculous. As if I were not sensible.
However, it was never about the chicken all along.
Regarding the timer, it was that. There was a rule that lasted for ten minutes. In addition to the twenty-two more regulations that he devised. The repeated revisions, the emails that he reworded, the outfits that he didn’t like, and the tone that he lambasted were all components of the problem.
I was being characterized by Neil, and he used terms like “irrational” and “hysterical” to describe me. This was the topic of discussion. His polished manner of making me feel as if I was always a tiny bit incorrect was the cause of this.
I had forgotten what it was like to take up space since I had been reduced to such a little size over such a short period of time.
As for me, I had finished forgetting.
The divorce was not a simple and speedy process. The majority of things were challenged by Neil.
“You’re throwing away twenty years over a misunderstanding,” he remarked to me as I was packing up the last of my bookcase.
I chose not to respond. Simply wrapping the porcelain mixing bowl that I had purchased with my first salary and then tucking it inside a box was all that I did.
When he looked behind me, he sighed and said, “You know I was right about the chicken, right?”
That was the very last thing about me that he ever mentioned to me.
After some time had passed, I finally figured out how to breathe normally again without allowing stress to build up in my shoulders. I had spent years training my body to expect criticism, and it had paid off.
As I went about the kitchen, I moved like someone who was getting ready for an inspection. I was constantly one step ahead of any unseen judgment, and I was always attempting to escape the inevitable sigh, the corrections, and the criticisms.
When it was no longer a part of my life, I didn’t even understand how profoundly it had affected me.
I ate an excessive number of meals while standing, still waiting for the criticism that never materialized when it did not come. Rather of sitting down, I would finish a dish at the counter rather than sitting down since I felt safer and less exposed doing so.
It took me many months, even after the divorce, to stop looking over my shoulder when I had finished preparing anything that was “imperfect,” partially anticipating that someone would take the plate away from me.
Then, during the spring of that year, I was introduced to Theo.
He taught history to his students. He was dressed in socks that did not match and spectacles with wire rims. The jokes he told were quiet and serious, and they grabbed you two seconds later when you were in the middle of a drink. He was a fan of jazz recordings and a hater of cucumbers.
After a number of years, he was the first person who did not attempt to help me.
Over the course of a little more than a year of being together, I can vividly recall a night when we were unloading groceries together. There was a low-key rendition of Miles Davis playing in the background, cherry tomatoes were rolling over the counter, and flour was billowing out of a bag that had been ripped open.
A entire chicken, which was still wrapped in its packaging, was taken out by me.
My response was, “Oh no,” as I held it up. “I meant to put this in the fridge before we went for that walk.”
“How long’s it been out?” An eyebrow was raised by Theo.
About… six hours?” I took a quick look at the clock.
Both of us were fixated on it. The chicken seemed to be aware. It sat there. Smug, unrefined, and completely and utterly defeated.
Theo laughed and said, “Guess I’m cooking something else today, honey,” yet there was no hint of resentment or hostility in his tone of voice.
Without any hesitation, he threw it away in the garbage, and then he bent down and passionately kissed my forehead.
As soon as I glanced at him, I experienced a change inside myself. The sensation was similar to that of something delicate and icy ultimately disintegrating. Even I was taken aback by the chuckle that came streaming out of my mouth. In that cluttered kitchen, I realized that I had finally arrived at a place of contentment.
The fact that the time you make the decision to leave is not usually a sensational one is something that no one will tell you. There is no guarantee that it will be a dramatic revelation or a slammed door. There are occasions when it is a spatula that is sliding against a pan. Alternatively, a supper that was spoiled because you forgot something for twelve minutes rather than ten.
There are instances when a guy would find it more convenient to toss away the whole dinner than to express gratitude to you for preparing it.
Additionally, there are instances in which a lady comes to the realization that the house she has resided in for twenty years has never once seemed like a home to her.
Only once did Neil call. One time only. Perhaps when the divorce papers were finally completed, which was four months later. Although he did not leave a message, I was dumbfounded when I saw his name appear on the screen.
My body was shaken by the unshakeable sensation of familiarity.
During that moment, I was outdoors with Theo, in the backyard, growing basil in a wooden box that he had constructed for me. The warmth of the sun was applied to the back of my neck. The dirt had completely coated my hands.
I had a sense of being rooted.
“Want me to take over for a minute?” As soon as Theo saw the name appear on my computer, he gave it a quick look.
My response was “No,” and I shook my head. “I’ve got it.”
As I put a seedling into the ground around me, I flipped the phone over so that it was facing down on the table next to me.
The things that end up being sacrosanct are rather amusing.
One of them is the cutting board that I use. In addition, a kitchen that is quiet. The aroma of rosemary’s scent. A guy who laughs when the meat goes bad and who reaches for the takeout menu without having the slightest bit of remorse for his actions.
What about a table where nobody speaks up? What about in the situation? Or a meal in which nothing is wasted, not the food, not the labor, and not the love that is shared between the guests?
In addition, this is the true tale.
It wasn’t a “stupid roast chicken…” that brought an end to my marriage to Neil; rather, it was everything that “stupid roast chicken” represented that brought about the final breakup.