Since I never, ever cook and my fiance is oh-so-handy in the kitchen, he decided to make a lovely vegetarian meal of veggie stew and cornbread for me just to be the sweet man that he is. Being the sweet fiancee that I am, I lounged on the couch in his favorite t-shirt and a cup of coffee, spilling my beverage randomly on his shirt so I could make it mine (he won’t wear a shirt with a stain on it, heh heh), and watched TV blandly while he cooked away in the kitchen in his underwear with the kitchen windows wide open for all the world to see. Ahh, what a day…
I don’t pay attention when he cooks. Because if I wander into the kitchen, he recruits me to cut carrots and onions, and other simple things that I have to get out of by claiming a to-the-bone cut with a butter knife so I can whine my way out of the kitchen. I let him chop and boil, stir and mix all by his lonesome, whistling “Comfortably Numb” off-key and dancing around in his panties as he lovingly made me a delicious meal fit for a lazy Queen.
He even served me my meal on a “tray”, a cookie sheet with a bowl of steaming aromatic stew with squash, tomato juice, carrots, onions, peas, green beans, zucchini and tiny mushroom pieces, with a large helping of Idaho’s great potatoes chopped in (fresh from a random field that we stole spuds from after driving to the store for coffee filters), and a huge piece of cornbread slathered in honey and butter. My mouth watering, I was sticking my face in the bowl during our dinner blessing so he wouldn’t catch me eating during prayer, and discreetly wiping my face on his t-shirt as the long prayer progressed into a sermon. By the time we hit “Amen”, half my bowl was gone.
I ate my meal with lightning speed, as sitting in the house typing all day works up quite the appetite, whereas my fiance lovingly scooped up his meal (still in his underwear) bite by gentle bite, taking simple pride in his work. I let out an oh-so-ladylike belch to show my fiance my appreciation of the meal and settled my “food baby” down by returning to lounge on the couch. I even let my man lounge with me and take the outside part of the couch, leaving me to steam in body heat and pant in claustrophobia as he squished me into the cushions.
And then the rumbling started. About an hour later my stomach was talking like a war was going on in there, and I could feel that bowel-tightening muscle clenching of an impending anal explosion. My fiance was punched in the balls in my hurry to scramble over him and off the couch to the glorious toilet, hands over my ass to prevent loading my pants before I got to the potty, several miles away. I sat on the toilet praying for death for a good 15 minutes, purging out my delicious, delicately prepared meal like I had liquid bowels. What the hell did I just eat?
That was when I heard, “Oh, honey? Do vegetarians not eat beef stock?”