Can you believe I berated my husband for "doing too much" yesterday? As we prepared to host dinner for 10 adults, one teenager and two children most of whom are related to him by blood? Neither can I.
As nuts as it seems, he is so capable that I found myself stamping my foot at him. "I SAID I would do the potatoes". Poor man; he handed me stalks of mint to mollify me - 'can you please rinse and strip these, that'd be very, um, helpful'. Hymph.
I love his capability - it's a very nice counterpoint to my laziness and general lack of common sense - but when it comes to the crunch, I'm embarrassed that all my family and friends know he's the wonderful driving force of this unit. They're all extremely admiring of his skills. By contrast, my immediate family appear to be convinced that I never 'cook' more than opening a bag of chips and lord only knows his family must think I'm a special case (the one time I made meringues I received such praise I waited to be handed a dog treat, to reinforce the trick. Kindly and genuinely meant praise, of course - issues entirely my own.)
P always wins. He let me pour drinks and top-ups, with only gentle directive nods at empty glasses when I was slacking. I found myself on dishes duty. (Ha - his cousin came in to help, looked around with dawning horror on her face and said 'you don't have a dishwasher?!', which, fair enough. Dark ages in these parts, I tell you.) Bizarrely, I felt so grateful to him for handing over these chores - I mean, honestly? That's ridiculous. He's such a good host - I want to be more like him, I guess.
In other news, do make sure you wear close-toed shoes when operating machinery. I very nearly made the decision to mow and strim in jandals yesterday; very grateful I didn't, as I strimmed the toes of P's old hi-top kicks. Hopeless 4 Eva. Apparently.