The Hot Dog Incident and Other Love Stories...

It is pizza week at the Skalicky nest. Yes, you read that correctly. Pizza W E E K. I'm pretty sure the good man just about passed out from excitement when I told him.We are on the hunt for the perfect crust. And later, when our metabolism is back and we are no longer laying on the couch in post-pizza week sluggishness, we will begin the search for perfect pizza sauce.

Pizza week is a compromise of sorts. He lives for pizza, I live for healthy food.

You know when you're sitting in church or class or watching TV and the subject is marriage and they list the top few things that couples fight about most often -- sex, money, family...? The good man and I always giggle to each other. And sometimes just bust out laughing because it is just plain ridiculous. We are just plain ridiculous. You want to know the #1 subject of our fights (all fights, even in the depths of infertility!)?

F O O D.

I'm serious. Ridiculous. And it all started very early in a "the honeymoon is over" blow out that we have so eloquently dubbed The Hot Dog Incident. If you know us personally, the mention of this "incident" might come up from time to time. It was the first big fight we had as a married couple and thankfully now we find it utterly hilarious and like to share it. The details vary, depending on to whom you are speaking, but since I am telling the story, you will get the correct version.

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It all started on a lovely evening. I usually worked nights but had this particular evening off so I set out to make a wonderful feast for my handsome man, in proper newlywed wifey fashion. I grabbed my new apron, got out my cookbooks and made a mess of the kitchen. Slaved over the oven and set the table all fancy and whatnot. Tablecloth, placemats, fancy glasses, candles...Everything was about ready but the turkey was taking a little longer than I had expected. The good, young man walked in the front door and did make some wonderful comments on how great it all smelled, how good it all looked, and how excited he was to be home. I was beaming. clapped my hands together and dusted off my apron. He set his lunch bag down and I said, "Just a few minutes til turkey's done." I told him. I told him, nicely, and sweetly. I told him only minutes he would have to wait.

I walked over to the sink to clean a few pots while I waited and when I turned around the man had two hot dogs in his hands, placed them on a plate, and beep beep beep started the microwave!!

"Are you serious?" I asked, with a half-smile on my face.
"What?" He replied.
"The turkey will be done in a few minutes."
"Well, I'm hungry." (!!!) He shrugs, like I should know what is happening in this moment but for the life of me I can't understand.
*Long moment of staring, a standoff, both dumbfounded and waiting for the other to break*
I flung my apron at his face, "You are going to eat hot dogs, HOT DOGS, while the turkey I made, I MADE, is almost done in the oven?!"

I'll leave the dialogue there and tell you that it was a loooong night with cold turkey, hurt feelings, apologies (from both sides), and promises to never, ever, EVER make hot dogs while a turkey is in the oven.

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We are polar opposites when it comes to food. My good man is a meat and potato kind of guy. He likes a full meal. Main dish, potato side, veggie side, and bread. And, of course, dessert. I think it took him a while to figure that out himself. After a couple years of living off of mountain dew and Little Debbies between breaks at work and school, he didn't know what he liked to eat. 

And I am not at all like him. I do not eat meals. I'm a snacker. A carrot here, some yogurt there, a mug of coffee, a bowl of broccoli salad, pasta salad...He calls me a bird because I just peck and nibble all day. I do not eat meat. I do not smell a steak on the grill and salivate. If anything, the smell of meat cooking makes me gag. And I am not alone. The husband of a good friend of mine also has a similar aversion to meat. We share the same blood type, not sure if that has anything to do with it, but needless to say, the good man and I have struggled with meals.

Okay, okay, I have to make this clear in case there is confusion. The turkey involved in The Hot Dog Incident was a boxed Jennie-O turkey. That weird slab of "meat" in the aluminium pan. It's the good man's favorite, which is beyond me, as he whines for venison and duck wrapped in bacon. 

Our families are very different too. He grew up in a hunting family. Deer, duck, goose, turkey, grouse, pheasant, fish. I grew up in a house in the middle of the town with a dad from an urban city. We didn't hunt. We didn't shoot anything. We got our meat at the grocery store and that's all I needed to know. We did go fishing, but I have to admit, my sister and I lost interest rather quickly and would play house in the trees until one of us, the younger less agile, would fall into the lake and cry. And that would be the end to the fishing expedition. Imagine my surprise as I visited his family for the first time and learned that "hamburger" does not necessarily mean ground beef. Talk about eye-opening. 

We've fought about the time to eat meals. As I snack my concept of meal time is when a mom tells us to set the table. I struggle to be that homemaker who starts the meal. And as my "meals" usually consist of something simply grabbed from the fridge (yogurt, an orange) prep time was also a foreign concept. 

We've fought about what makes a meal. I could eat side dishes all day long. The good man needs meat. And I have to make the meat. It's not that he orders me to do it. He's working and I'm at home. And I like that he comes home to a peaceful place where he can rest, a reward for keeping this little family financially afloat. But would I trade places if it meant I would never have to cook meat? ...maybe...Haha.

We've fought about who makes the meals. This was mostly when we were both working. My days were generally shorted but more stressful and involved. And my unwritten rule had always been (and still is in some ways) "You get what you get and you don't pitch a fit." Try telling that to your burly, hunter man as you dish up pasta salad and "weird" food like sweet potatoes and black beans. He's going for the hot dogs in no time, without a second thought to the immanent blowout.   

It's taken a while. A long while. Probably longer than it should have, but we have come to compromises. Pizza week is one of those compromises. Homemade, homebaked pizza with our choice of toppings. Healthy and yummy. 

And we've learned that just as we share roles in the rest of the home, we can share roles in the kitchen. I'll make most everything, but if he wants a steak or Italian sausage he's on his own. We've learned that maybe the best option sometimes is precooked chicken strips? And "Fend for Yourself" nights aren't so bad. 

We've also learned that when the zombie apocalypse hits I am more likely to starve, refusing to eat whatever animals the good man shoots, rather than being bit by a walker. 

And I have learned to, slowly, cook meat. I started with a sausage patty one morning, made chicken the next day (screamed and squealed through the whole ordeal), and can now make a mean venison roast (still screaming and squealing, but it gets done). 

The point is: After almost eight years we're still learning. We're still figuring out this thing called marriage. We're still enjoying the adventure and learning what it means to compromise. Maybe most importantly, we're making our own rules and drawing our own picture of marriage. And it has been the most amazing journey yet.

After eight years I look back in awe and wonder, how did we ever find each other? However it happened I am truly grateful it did. Life would be boring without this bearded, flannel wearing, gun-toting, deer eating, potato-craving man.