Cooking for Vikings

Cooking for guys is like building a castle, outfitting it with the finest textiles, then throwing some Vikings in to occupy its glamorous halls. They don’t use window coverings because it balances out the sectional and the large armoire you bought for far too much money from an antique store, they use them to keep out the sun in the summer and the draft in the winter. Practical and pragmatic. That is what my boys are. I, on the other hand, am anything but.

Cook us dinner, said them. No problem, said I. And yet, somehow, we were speaking completely different languages.

Scouring my most recent issue of Bon Appetit, I landed on a menu. Healthy, low in carbs, but still filling. The spicy stuffing in the poblanos offset by the sweet and creamy texture of the sweet potatoes, which would be perfectly complimented by my take on Corn in a Cup, a local favorite. Perfection in menu form.

Wine uncorked, airing on the counter, food prepped and awaiting their arrival home, the guys came strolling in from a business trip looking more like Erik the Red and Ivar, rather than the fine dining dinner mates I had envisioned.

“Oh hey! Smells good,” says Erik.

“Better than that fart you let out in the car,” quipped Ivar.

“Did you wear that to work today?” Erik’s disapproval apparent as he eyed my outfit.

“Yeah, nice cardigan, Mom,” continued Ivar.

Seriously-I just woke up one day and had adult-aged children thrust upon me.

Finally done with their loving greetings to me, (I just assume that ‘you look frumpy’ translates to ‘You look smashing today. Absolutely riveting.’ A necessary lie I tell myself to maintain sanity.) the guys decide that it is time for our jacked-up family to eat. I turn around, wine in hand, to grab a few plates and glasses for us to all enjoy a civilized meal together, and turn back to see them both man-handling my perfectly poached poblanos. No plate, no fork, no semblance of appreciation for the flavor profile I had so lovingly created. My fault, I should’ve never assumed a candle lit dinner at a table. They really are Vikings. Burly, hilarious and lovable Vikings.

The immediate reaction to my hurt pride was scolding, turning into the woman I never want to be, tutting and nagging because things didn’t go my way. When in reality, the only reason I cooked such an audacious meal was to bask in their verbal praise of my domestic ability. I was mad because I was vain.

In the end, I refilled my wine glass, grabbed some food in a napkin, took off my shoes and slid onto the counter and perched, knees at my chin, as they recounted their days, my giggles more important than table manners.

With these guys, there are no rules other than honesty. Always honesty. And in that honesty, they step on the toes of my ego frequently, sending me into defense mode, ruffling my feathers like I can prove my worth to them. I can’t. I don’t need to. For guys, my worth isn’t a derivative of my skills; they are indifferent. For them, they simply need to know that I care, that I respect them, and that when made fun of, my response is to fight back rather than cry. They hate crying. Gives them the heebie-jeebies.

Learning to drop my pretenses is the most valuable lesson my Vikings have taught me, a close second being my now in-depth knowledge of video games and the proper knife technique for gutting a deer. My edges are rough, not softly rounded like fine granite. Spending my time desperately trying to cover up those edges only snags the cloth as it catches on the imperfections. With them, I can let those imperfections fly high. With them, eating off of paper plates…or no plates at all…is perfectly fine because the meal isn’t about the menu, it’s about getting fed.

We feed each other through our differences, and through what each of us brings to the table (metaphorically, though they make some mean grilled chicken and pasta). Each meal a lesson in humility and grace. Each meal completely different than I planned. Each meal another lesson learned while cooking for guys.