Today, I am making up some more cookies. Chocolate Chip for my Dad and, thanks to my friend, Shirley, Spritz for my husband (I still cannot find my press in the packed boxes). My husband made some fresh comment as he headed out the door about my cooking to which my daughter thinking that she was helping sunk the entire female gender with this comment, "You don't need to tell Mom how to cook. She's been cooking her whole life and SHE'S A WOMAN. She knows how to cook." (Hmmm! I better get out some femanist books for that girl to read).
Of course, my husband laughed because he knows the truth. He knows that cooking was not my forte. He remembers the pancakes my dog wouldn't eat. So he made the ultimate admission, "You mother's entire weight battle is because of me. Trust me she couldn't cook before me. I am responsible for a few of those pounds."
See the truth is out! It is really not just that he taught me to cook, but he encourages me to eat things I shouldn't. If it was just me, meals would be much lighter, but instead I get, "Chicken, Chicken, I hate chicken." "We can't just have a salad for a meal" I won't even count the numerous tastey treats that he has brought home when clearly I don't need it. So not that this admission helps in the battle of the buldge at least a bit of the truth is out. The scary part is that he truly loves every inch of me. If only I could . . .I rather love many fewer inches of me . . . maybe that Yoga set for Christmas will help. I can't wait to open it tomorrow morning!