I do not refer to my husband by his real name in my column because my mother, Ann, advised me against it. My mother, who wrote a column for years in the Waterville Morning Sentinel, included the names of her husband and her five children (including me) whenever she felt like it. Apparently, not all of us thought it was funny.
So, what say I stop using the phrase “my husband” in my column to describe my husband and instead I give him a fake name like, Frederick? I chose the name Frederick because it was the first one that popped into my head. But, it turns out that the name Frederick means “peaceful ruler,” which describes my husband precisely.
He’s not a yeller like me. He’s not a drama queen like me. He’s not unfriendly, like me – sometimes I lapse back to my middle-school self. He is, truly, a peaceful leader.
Frederick, as you may remember, is also the cook in our house. He is the shopper of the food in our house. He is the provider of all things green in our house. His meals always include a protein, a vegetable and a starch. Frederick is, by his own account, a good provider.
“What say we stop buying meat sold on Styrofoam trays?” says I to Frederick. “Brown craft paper we can burn, but Styrofoam trays lined with padding that reminds me of a diaper we cannot.”
“Agreed,” says Frederick.
In compliance with our accord, Frederick stands in line at the meat counter every evening with the intention to buy meat not packed on Styrofoam trays. Meat, just enough for our small family, wrapped in brown craft paper, handed over the counter by a real person in a white paper hat is the desired outcome of his daily food shop.
Sadly, Frederick abandons his post in line at the meat counter almost every evening because there is rarely anyone behind the meat counter to sell him raw, unpacked meat. Frederick is not a patient peaceful ruler.
Head in hand, Frederick often arrives at home with a family size tray of boneless chicken thighs or a steak the size of Texas.
“Sigh,” says he.
“Where have all the meat-men gone?” says I.
“Gone,” says he.
Collected as a result of too many servings for one small family, Styrofoam trays with half portions of this and that sit stacked in our refrigerator one on top of the other.
“The family pack of 12 boneless thighs is cheaper,” says Frederick.
Frederick is a thrifty peaceful ruler.
Rebellion occurs for all different reasons and is not always bloody.
What say you (I don’t cook) stand in line at the meat counter with Frederick – all together as a crusade – and ignore the family-size pack of 12 boneless thighs until one, maybe two, maybe three meat-men and meat-women appear in white paper caps to sell you, your comrades, and my husband, Frederick, fresh meat from local suppliers wrapped in brown craft paper?
Humiliation is not always wicked: What say you join with Frederick and stop buying more than you need? Buying more than you need when face-to-face with the meat professional will become indefensible.
“For how many people?” the meat-man will ask.
“Just enough for our family of three,” Frederick will reply.
“You’ll be fine with a pound,” the meat-man will say.
Jolene McGowan lives and works in Portland with her husband, daughter and dog and has no plans to leave, ever. She can be contacted at:
respondtoportcitypost@gmail.com.
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