He Cooks, I Clean

The perfect marriage. He cooks, I clean. Sure, I can cook, but I'm not fond of it. I cook to eat, he cooks to create. He can make a steak that melts in my mouth like a popsicle. He also makes a fabulous breakfast taco that puts every other one in Texas to shame. His corn on the cob is always as juicy as an orange fresh from the tree. He is a master in the kitchen. After eleven hours of working with preschoolers, I really have no desire to go in the kitchen and make dinner. I'd much rather plop in the recliner for a bit while my man whips up a delicious dinner for us. My creative chef leaves a trail of dirty dishes across the kitchen every time. Apparently it takes forty dishes to make one meal. I love to see my kitchen shine, so I don't mind cleaning up at all, although I love to kid him about the messes he leaves. Since he gave my kitchen a makeover a few years ago, I have the kitchen of my dreams. We had this horrible off-white tile with grooves in between each to catch every crumb, and it was popping up in about twenty places. The appliances were adequate, but it was obvious from the dried paint drips and flaking edges, that the black stove had once been white. My new appliances are stainless steel, and it happily gleams at me when I polish it. I also got a brand new floor, dark chocolate swirls and a beautiful stainless pot-rack he so graciously installed for me. Dare I say it's actually a joy to clean my kitchen? He is a great guy and I'm lucky to have him. Thanks for dinner, dear!

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