POB (partner of blogger) and I have the same couples over for New Years each year. A decade-old tradition. But every now again, we like to gather a sub-set of the group for a “mid-semester” dinner.
POB really enjoys cooking new recipes. But she needs a sous-chef. I look to my left, I look to my right and then I realize, “le sous-chef, c’est moi”. I am good with that. We set up a play-date for TLP (the little prince) and the two of us hang out companionably in the kitchen, each at our own stations, chopping and marinating and chatting.
POB accidentally purchased un-pitted olives. She needed pitted olives for the fish marinade. Two cups. So, of course, I pitted the olives (and smell like Kalamata olives even today — two showers later). Only when taking out other ingredients for the meal, did POB discover that she, in fact, had pitted olives in the refrigerator. Hmmm, I thought. Was there a passive-aggressive undertone? Nah. We just have an over-stocked refrigerator and we forget what is in there.
Guests arrive. Wine and hors-d’oeuvres are warming up the crowd. The smelling of delectables cooking in the kitchen puts everyone in a happy mood. Time to be seated. I help with the plates coming out. The fish, which has a roasted tomato and olive marinade (along with various spices), looked very red. As no no olives. I look in the kitchen and there, on the counter-top next to the stove, was the mountain of olives I had pitted, a task that stained my hands and caused a noxious reaction with the perfume I had put on. WHaaaaaaaat? Maybe there was something passive-aggressive after all. . . .
I turn to POB, my eyes wide with a sense of betrayal. “Oh, no, sweetie, people were talking to me and I forgot to roast them . . . and . . . I am soooo sorry!!” “No worries,” I say. I bring the olives out, pour them over the fish as a garnish and explained to everyone, “I personally pitted these, so everyone is going to eat them — no excuses and no dispensation.” I overheard someone say to Sabrina, “if I got [her partner] to pit olives for an hour and didn’t use them, I would be making up for it for — I don’t know — YEARS.” I caught POB’s eye and she looked at me and I smiled. POB responded, “I think, it is only a question of months with [Blogger]; she is the forgiving sort.”
POB and I both smiled. All is good and, as you all know by now, the “bravas” from our guests over my pitting the lives made up for everything. I even washed the pots and pans.
