Spamettios

I have my little corner of the world. It's my man cave. It's where I do my writing, go to relax, and also to escape from the world. I'm a fairly organized person, though you may not think so by looking at my desk. It's got "a place for everything and everything all over the place" vibe to it. I know exactly where the bills are that need to be paid. The remote to my stereo system is within reach. My CDs (yes, I'm still fighting the good fight by buying CDs!) are on shelves to my right. In fact, everyone in my family knows that you don't mess with Daddy's man cave space.

Now, for full disclosure, my man cave is really just one corner of a room my wife and I sectioned off from the rest of our house to be our office. (Our main floor had an open plan, so we walled off one section and put a door in the other entry to make the office). The rest of this room I share with my wife. And when I say "share" I mean, she has shelves of crafting supplies and all sorts of other things that mom's need to keep a house running.

Just as my man cave is my "do not touch" area, the same can be largely said about the kitchen. Let me state up front, my wife is an excellent cook. She really enjoys cooking, which is one reason our marriage is so successful because I enjoy eating. My cooking skills, on the other hand, have much, if not everything, to be desired. In fact, while going to college, my motto was, "If it's not from a can, it's not for this man."

My wife isn't nearly as territorial of the kitchen as I am with my man cave space. She has a place where things are kept and such. I get that. She also has a certain way she wants the dishes done. I'm cool with that too. But once in a while, I'll need to pinch hit if she's not feeling well or busy with meetings and so on.

There was one day when she was under the weather. She was laying (or is it lying? I always get those confused) on the couch. I volunteered to make dinner and she said ok--which is a sign she wasn't in her right mind.

I went  to the pantry to see what I could make. There were a couple of cans of spaghettios--the kids liked eating those. But in the back of my mind, I heard my wife's voice about needing to have a balanced meal. OK, so I needed some sort of meat. No problem--there was a can of Spam.

So. . .I cut up the Spam and fried up little chunks of it while I was letting the spaghettios warm up. In the mean time, I cut up an apple into about eight uneven slices and put them on a paper plate. Once the Spam was cooked, I put it into the spaghettios. Tada! Spamettios was born!

The kids actually really liked it and ate it all up. Once my wife was awake and feeling better, I told her what I had made. I still remember the look of horror on her face. To date, I've not been allowed to make dinner since.