Watch What You Say To Your Wife

Dear Boo and Bubble,

Just a little advice for you now that’s way too premature, but hopefully when the time comes, you’ll put it to good use. Watch what you say to your wife. Even though I’m sure you’re wondering why this would be the topic of a letter to you at such a strange time with all the Covid-19 distractions swirling around, it does have basis in a logical origin—the new art of grocery shopping.

It used to be that going to the grocery store was one of our mundane, taken-for-granted pleasures that didn’t require a whole lot of thought or groundwork ahead of time because…hey…if you forget something, you can just turn around and go get it. Plus, sometimes you never know what you need until you see it, like Jello Snack Pack puddings on sale 10 for $5.00. And, letting a man loose by himself to wander the aisles always translated into busted budgets. I mean why would you want to get the family pack of pork chops when the two extra thick cuts are sooo much more appealing? 

But Coronavirus has changed all that. You must always go prepared and preferably only one person per family.  In our case, that’s Captain. Don’t know whether it’s a male thing about protecting his mate or just a real desire to get out of the house, but he has asserted himself as the one eligible candidate to represent us.

The other day, I had fashioned a rather lengthy tome (more commonly called a grocery list) that included, among other things in the inventory of needs and wants, the ubiquitous entry of fresh green beans. After donning his protective face mask, Captain tucked the list in his jacket pocket and made a run to the local Food Lion in what has become our latest favorite game—let's see how many things on a list are actually available.  

Upon his return, he gave a synopsis of his unmitigated successes and abject failures. Alas, there were no fresh green beans but being the resourceful fellow that he is, he grabbed a couple of packages of frozen ones. (Don’t worry. He wasn’t hoarding. He left some behind.) I restocked the pantry with canned goods, soups, pasta sauce and paper products. The perishables found their way into the refrigerator, bread in the breadbox and laundry detergent on top of the washing machine. The beans ended up in the freezer along with the Skinny Cow ice cream sandwiches…which were on the list…and a pack of P.F. Chang eggrolls…which were not but must have somehow been too irresistible for our designated shopper to pass up.

Several days later, I pulled the beans out to go with some mashed potatoes and hamburgers in mushroom gravy. I didn’t notice until the bag was opened, and I dumped them into a pan that they were French cut. Hmm…not a conscious choice I figured. French cut beans just don’t cook up like snapped ones—a thought that brought back a funny string of stories. Thus, the point of this letter.

I’ve told you before that Great Granddaddy Schaefer and Mamaw Mary married during World War II. It was a disruptive time, much like this one. As an attorney, he was called up to serve and sent to Chicago to train in the 90-day Wonder School for the Navy's Judge Advocate General Corps, the military's equivalent of a judicial branch. The circumstances also uprooted their original wedding plans, scheduled for the First United Methodist Church in Houston, Texas, and re-ordering them to hastily take place in the chapel on the campus of Northwestern University in Evanston, Illinois. 

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They rented an apartment in Chicago near the facility where Granddaddy went to classes. As was her penchant from then until the day she died, Mamaw dedicated her time to making a comfortable home for him which was challenging because of the rationing and interrupted supply chains that we are experiencing somewhat today. One day at a grocery store, she made a rare find—fresh green beans. Excitedly, she came home, washed them in a colander and began the meticulous process of cutting them with scissors into the long, slender version known as French.

I don’t know what she planned for the main entrée of the meal, but I do imagine that she tenderly and with loving care steamed the beans in a double boiler so that they would be al dente and not limp. It is with great amusement that I visualize what happened when Granddaddy came home. Mamaw was not prone to self-pride but I’m sure her face beamed with delight at the dinner she presented to him. Perhaps the shine began to fade with the first question.

“Mary, what are these?”

“Why, Schaefer, they are French cut green beans.”

He took a forkful and put them in his mouth, chewing contemplatively.

“Well…I can see right now I’m going to have to get you back to Greenville so that Granny Bryant can teach you how to cook beans.”

The quivering lip of his new bride elicited by this comment should have been a sufficient clue to Granddaddy for all of posterity…that remarks of criticism, no matter their innocence, should be avoided at any cost when it comes to your wife. Perhaps it is the male condition…I don’t know since I’m not one…but the lesson didn’t seem to stick.

Later on after the sting of this incident might have subsided (but, trust me, wasn't forgotten), Mamaw found a recipe for Lemon Meringue Pie in a magazine. She wasn’t skilled in the art of pastry but did have a pie pan in her arsenal of kitchen equipment. Following the recipe to the nth degree, she carefully made the dough…rolling it flat, pressing it into the pan and crimping the edges with a fork, then sticking it in the oven to bake.

Once the crust cooked, she set it aside to cool. She whisked the ingredients for the lemon mixture and cooked them on the stove until thickened. After pouring it into the crust, Mamaw turned her attention to the pied de resistance—the meringue. She whipped egg whites until foamy and then added sugar until stiff peaks formed. After slathering the meringue over the surface of the pie, she baked it for ten minutes until the tips became brown.

That night, after dinner Mamaw presented the pie to Granddaddy Schaefer. He loved it and said so profusely…to the extent that she decided to bake another pie as soon as that one was gone. The reaction to the second pie was almost as abundant as the first. So much so that it spawned yet a third rendition. At some point in the avalanche of sweetness, it all came to a sudden end with one simple question.

 “Mary, do you know how to make any other kind of pie?”

I don’t think I’m wrong when I say this, boys, but he never saw another lemon meringue pie the remainder of their marriage.

Unfortunately, it seems to be the fate of men that they can’t refrain from such tone-deaf comments. Captain stepped in it early in our marriage by cozying up to me at the stove and suggesting that the way his mother fried chicken might be better than my haphazard method. It didn’t go over well.

He...and Great Granddaddy...and you...and all men...would be better served by taking the simple advice of Uncle Sid Tally who offered this as the secret to a successful marriage…”Just say ‘Yes, dear.’”