Cutthroat KitchenDQ Reader My Wife is a very good cook. That's why I can write about this.
Gloria made enchiladas tonight, but she tried a new recipe. It did not go well.
I looked at the pan, then got my plate. "Do we have anything else that goes with this?" I asked, innocently. "Like rice or something?"
We usually have rice or something.
Later, after dinner, the awkward questions began.
"So, what did you guys think of the enchiladas?" Gloria asked.
I was going to jump out of a window, but I couldn't. That's why you shouldn't put the living room on the first floor.
"I know you didn't like them," Gloria said.
"They were, um--very wet," I said.
"WET," Eli 14.5 said.
"Something with the texture was a little off," I said, "but they were definitely wet. They were sort of--wet-chiladas."
Eli burst out laughing. I know this was heading downhill, because once we both start laughing, it's hard to stop.
"That's it, Mom," Eli said. "Wetchiladas!"
"I have to go to Walgreen's in a little while for Benadryl," I said, mouthing the word "Chic-Fil-A" to Eli, which sent him into borderline hysterics. Now we're both laughing ourselves silly.
"All right, the next person who says 'the word' has to clean the kitchen," Gloria said.
"What word?" I ask.
"Oh, no," she said. "I'm not falling for that."
"What if, hypothetically," I said, "I say the word as part of a call and response. So what if I say wet--"
"--chilada," Eli says, and bursts out laughing.
"You are both completely hopeless," Gloria said.