I said, “So, I’m thinking of making blue cheese and walnut soufflés for dinner.”
I was vigilant about mentioning the blue cheese, since Andrew is only intermittently tolerant of the stuff. However, I was relatively confident his tolerance would embrace soufflé. I mean, who doesn’t like soufflé?
Indeed, when Husband heard the word ‘soufflé’, it appeared to result in retrospective amnesia. Because later, when I removed the softened blue cheese from the microwave, he said, “Eee-ew. Stinks. What’s THAT for?”
“The soufflé,” I said shortly.
“Ugh,” says Yer Man. “You didn’t tell me it was a blue cheese soufflé-”
I interrupted the extensive soufflé preparation to fix him with a glare, and snarled, “I DID TELL you- I specifically said- it’s a blue cheese and walnut soufflé. I was as explicit as I could get fully clothed-”
“You KNOW I don’t like blue cheese-”
“But you do sometimes!” I cried despairingly, waving the whisk at him. “I have to resort to TALKING to you about WHEN you like it, and even THAT doesn’t work!”
“Sorry, baby,” said Andrew solicitously. “Listen, I won’t have soufflé. I’ll just gnaw my lamb chop.”
“I just spent the last forty minutes preparing this-”
“I know. Sorry. <mutter> KNOW I don’t like blue cheese.”
Apparently – and I believe this – married women don’t live as long as single women. Earlier this evening I actually felt five years slough off my lifeline. In fact, by my calculations, I only have a couple of minutes left to live. If this is my last post ever, you know what happened to me. In the meantime, I’d better type fast.
I had blue cheese and walnut soufflé for dinner, with a rocket salad and red pepper vinaigrette.
Here is what Andrew turned down:
If you’re interested, the soufflé recipe is courtesy of Epicurious, here