We like to play a game in our house in which Darth has become an unwilling participant. It’s a little game I like to call Darth, Did You Burn It? Mind you, this game is sure to send me into peals of ridiculously joyous laughter; meanwhile, Darth probably has a good divorce lawyer on speed dial just waiting in the wings for the one time I can’t talk or flirt my way out of the joke that is had at his expense.
I’ve been working a good amount in the evening lately so Darth has taken to making dinner a few nights a week. There is nothing entirely too unusual about this as he is happily willing to do anything that involves food and the possible consumption of it. Actually, what is unusual is this picture is his method for gauging doneness in whatever food product we happen to be eating that night. Whether it be pasta, chicken or a casserole, he relies heavily on his Gauge of Doneness, or what we normal people call their smoke detectors.
On any given night, you’ll find me working in my office, otherwise known as the dining room sans dining room furniture. He is standing at the stove like the dutiful husband, working to earn his keep. I’m keeping my eye on him because he knows he better look DANG GOOD while he cooks that food! As the process progresses, through my headphones I might hear the hiss of boiling water, the sizzle of a frying pan or even smell the golden brown completion of whatever it is he is making.
This is when the game begins. I ask him, “Is it done yet?” He’ll sigh loudly and tell me no, obviously hoping I’ll leave well enough alone. I’ll then ask him again, “Is it done? How long has it been in there?” He’ll then force out a sigh mingled with an irritated moan. I giggle and pause. I wait for it … wait for it … wait for it … I’m breathless and expectant … wait for it … until in one glorious moment I am rewarded quite handsomely with the golden goods!
BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP
The chaos begins. The kids stampede into the room. The dog barks wildly from one set of legs to the other. The cats scatter every which way, knocking into walls and each other. Darth then swears quietly under his breath and turns off the obedient smoke detector.
And then the magic happens.
I choke back the giggles, give him a few seconds to think I’ve matured in the last 24 hours and capable of resisting what is now so obvious. Then right when he thinks he’s in the clear, I loudly ask, “Hey, Darth? DID YOU BURN IT?” HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA
He scowls at me under his heavy brow and I laugh hysterically because I am just that funny. And despite my predictability, he still has this look of surprise on his face that I’d even suggest such a thing that he’d actually burn the meal. I am delighted all the way around from the chaos, to the alarm and even at the firm set of his mouth and the cool look he gives me, dialing finger ready to say go to the aforementioned lawyer. And right when he thinks he’s got me where he wants me, possibly even shrinking under his direct stare and clenched teeth, I smile a full, toothy smile and shrug my shoulders — some might even say impishly. Then he shakes his head with a look of pure hopelessness. He gives up because really, he is the one that asked for this deal when he proposed. He has no one to blame but himself.
Just tonight I told him I tried to resist but the urge was much too strong for someone as weak as I am. I tried! I tried really, really hard. I was defenseless in the face of such possibilities for mirth and good cheer that was just mine for the asking.
He tells me I should try harder. I nod and say I will next time. But secretly, I eagerly await the next installment of my favorite game Darth, Did You Burn It?
