Not Much Cooking on Donmar Lane

It’s hot this week in Brookfield. My new kitchen's been done for eight months. I’ve cooked in it (sort of). I’ve also weeded my gardens. I’ve deadheaded my flower beds. I’m getting really crabby. It’s time to get out of Brookfield. In my opinion.

So on Friday when The Man comes home from work I say, "Let’s go downtown to a movie and then go out for a drink or a cup of coffee somewhere near the Lake, where it’s cooler and there are some different people to look at."

The Man has his projects and priorities. He has his favorite Ace Hardware store nearby. His computer is just waiting on his desk to tell him the latest Brewers' scores and the prices of gasoline in every gas station in the Milwaukee area. What could possibly be more exciting than that?

"What movie do you want to see?" The Man asks. I tell him what’s playing at the Oriental. He checks the web. "We can see any of those movies at the Majestic right here in Brookfield." I tell him (again) that I REALLY want to go downtown, into the city. "So where did you have in mind to go for a drink afterward?" he asks, and, of course, I have no idea, because how would I know? We never do this. Mr Practical thinks that driving along Lake Michigan looking for a cool place where we can sit outside for a drink is really dumb, when we have two patios and plenty of booze right in the cabinet in our sunroom. Cheaper. After I talk at him for a half hour or so, he says, "It’s supposed to be really humid again tomorrow. I have to mow the lawn this weekend, so I think I’d better mow it tonight, while it’s a little cooler." Now what the hell am I supposed to say to that? We stay home. He mows the lawn.

Saturday I start in over breakfast with ideas of where we might go. Eventually he picks up his keys. "So are you off to Ace Hardware?" I ask. "No," he says. "I thought I’d go to the farmer’s market with you." I am faint with excitement. The Man has never been to the farmer’s market – or to any other purveyor of food, for that matter. Our only pre-marital agreement was his statement: "I just want you to know. The only thing I do with food is eat it." He has remained faithful to his vow.

On the way, The Man informs me that he wants me to buy a canteloupe like the one I had at home a couple of weeks ago. I doubt there are melons available yet from farmers in Wisconsin and tell him so, but, as soon as he discovers there are bakers at the market selling sweet rolls, he agreeably walks the whole market to check for canteloupe -- as well as a bit of dessert for the breakfast he just ate – at home of course. We get to the last booth as he is finishing off a gooey, frosted cinnamon roll. There are no melons. He’s ready to go home. I have bought nothing. As we walk briskly past booths on the way back to the car, I manage to purchase some local corn, tomatoes, beets. raspberries, a cucumber and a dozen eggs.

We drive away from the market. The Man is going the wrong way to go home. "Where are you going?" I ask. "To find a canteloupe like that one you had at home. You said it was from Sendik’s." "There is no way to tell if a canteloupe is going to be any good," I tell him. "They may not have the same ones as they had 2 weeks ago." But he drives to Sendik’s on Capitol Dr.

"Have you ever been here?" I ask, knowing the answer. He has not. So I attempt to show him how cool this store is. "Here’s their wine department. Pretty good selection," I tell him. But he is on a mission. "So where’s the produce?" "At least you MUST see the walk-in cheese cooler," I insist. I try to drag him inside. "It’s cold in there," he says. I am still exclaiming about the incredible selection of goat cheeses as he heads down an aisle to the produce. He buys a canteloupe, not knowing, of course, whether it is any good or not.

Back in the car, I tell The Man Who Apparently Loves Canteloupe about Brennan’s, the only place where you can sample everything – all the fruits, the cheeses. It’s the only way to REALLY be sure you are going to like the melon you are buying. He is indifferent. So I put my foot down. "We are GOING to Brennan’s. It will take you five minutes. Have you ever been to Brennan’s?" Of course I know that answer too. We’ve been married for 48 years; he’s not set foot in any grocery store in all that time that I know of. But I’ll give him this: he goes to Brennan’s without a comment. As we walk in, I say, "See? You can try the peaches and the plums and ..." as I sample them all. He tries none of it. "Where’s the melon section," he persists. He tries two kinds of canteloupe. He buys one. He is uninterested in trying the cheeses. We go home. He immediately heads off to Home Depot, rents a truck, buys 1200 lbs (I am not making that number up) of paving bricks and proceeds to spend the entire weekend building a path in a part of our yard where the grass won’t grow.

At least I’ve got some local corn to cook.

Signed,
Stirring the Pot