Early on in my marriage, I worked full time and my wife worked part time. She did most of the housework in this arrangement including cooking. When my wife’s job became full time, I still did very little housework, and it took me a while to realize how irritated she was with me. Guys are oblivious and as I grew up in the “Leave it to Beaver” era with old Ward bringing home the bacon, and June frying it up in the pan, this still felt normal.

It was probably the “No woman has ever shot her husband while doing the dishes” refrigerator magnet that caught my attention. I didn’t wait for her to purchase a Smith & Wesson. I started looking around for the household job that was the least annoying. I picked cooking. Over the years, I have taken over pretty much all cooking, except grilled cheese and macaroni & cheese duties. Melted cheese dishes are still my wife’s domain.

As I am a pretty darn good cook, my wife seems to be happy with this solution as well (and for any woman reading I do other household work as well). I always tell my son to take up cooking because if you have to do something to help out, it’s way better than ironing.

So the other night while I was making cookies, my daughter didn’t feel well at rehearsal and called and needed a ride home much earlier than I expected. As my wife had dropped her off and knew the location, I asked if she would run out and get our ailing child while I finished cooking. She said she would rather I pick her up as it has gotten dark out and she doesn’t like driving at night. Fine. I said, “OK, then why don’t you finish the cookies?”

“I’d rather not do that either, you’re so much better at baking them than I am,” was her wimpy, trying-to-get-out-of-both-tasks reply. “OK fine, I’ll get her AND bake the cookies,” I said as I snatched my keys and left in a bit of a huff.

Heading home with my daughter, I mentioned that my wife wasn’t making the cookies I started. My daughter asked what kind I was making. “Molasses,” I replied.

“Oh, I wouldn’t make those either, yours are way better,” she said.

“Better than you or Mom can make following the exact same recipe?” was my confused reply.

“Oh yeah. When you make them, well I can’t explain it, it’s weird, but they’re like a little…” she left her sentence hang.

“Miracle?” I guess from her verbal cues.

“Yeah!”

“So you think I am Molasses Cookie Jesus?” I ask.

“Exactly.” She replies. So at least I have that going for me.

I have gotten pretty good at preparing most foods. While not necessarily miraculous, most of the foods I make are pretty dang good. In fact, unless I don’t have my reading glasses on and forget integral ingredients (I’ve been forgetting eggs a lot recently, it’s a very little word), I’d match my food against most anyone’s. And according to my daughter, my molasses cookies are literally heavenly.