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My husband and I will have been married for twenty-five years next June. I remember before we got married, I was so excited about waking up in the same bed with him every morning that I was delirious with the joy of the thought. “We are going to have the best life!” We told each other, as we stretched out on the hood of his car, looking at the stars and planning our future. Our life didn’t exactly work like that. For a while it seemed we were living the dream, raising three boys, each working and helping each other make our family the strongest it could be. Then Carrick died and it all came crashing around us. We somehow managed to grab on to the other and sloshed through the days in a sea of tears and sorrow. We realized that our marriage was not at all as we had dreamed, but that without each other, we would sink. If we could survive the death of our child, we could survive anything. Right? Who knew we could come to words over...roast beef? It started harmlessly enough. I was reading the Sunday paper and saw an article in the PARADE about how to make a meal stretch through the week. “I WOULD VOMIT”, I announced, “If I had to eat this!” My hubby, who was reading the sports (that was when we still had a glimmer of hope that the Cleveland Indians would win another game…), was intrigued. “What?” He asked. “What would make you vomit?” I paused for dramatic effect. “Roast.” I said, “BEEF!” “Roast-beef?” He asked. “I LOVE roast-beef.” “But wait!” I cautioned. “It gets worse!” I went on to explain how the PARADE had 5 days of follow up recipes made from the dreaded roast-beef leavings. “I would starve to death rather than to eat that.” I dramatically announced. Instantly the roast-beef discussion escalated into a full-fledged roast-beef fight. “You would NOT RATHER STARVE!” He bellowed. “I HAVE SEEN YOU EAT BEEF!” “WELL I DON’T LIKE IT!” I shot back. “Well….” I compromised,“at least I don’t like ROAST-BEEF!” “Just because,” my husband analyzed, “you had some ‘traumatic’ experiences as a child where your dad made you clean your plate and you had to sit at the table a long time, you have decided that you will never again eat roast-beef. WELL THANK YOU VERY MUCH BECAUSE THE BOYS AND I ARE STARVING FOR ROAST-BEEF!” I was infuriated that Raymond “Dr. Freud” Herb had decided that my lifelong aversion to roast-beef stemmed from some childhood dinner table experience. “Did you ever think?!” I screeched, “THAT MAYBE I JUST DON’T LIKE ROAST-BEEF?!” My brain was churning with anger. “I HATE IT! BUT I AM GOING TO MAKE IT FOR YOU NOW!” “Oh don’t do me any favors!” He groused, “I don’t want your martyr roast-beef.” Naturally, I had no recourse. I cooked a martyr roast-beef today. I cannot say I loved it. I cannot say I even LIKED it. What I do have to admit is, that watching my eleven year old son and my hubby scarf down that roasted meat and gravy like a couple of wolves was kind of, well, sort of, worth it. Afterwards, my hubby happily cleared the table. “Are you going to save the leftovers and make some beef stew?” He asked, ‘Maybe some roast-beef sandwiches?” I gave him a slitted, evil eye. “Don’t push it, Mr.” I said, as I did away with the leftovers. “Or you may never see the roast-beef meal again.” I always knew we’d live happily ever after.
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