If my husband has a live-in chef, why don't I?

If my husband has a live-in chef, why don't I?
19 August 2013

I am all for marital equality.  And both partners in a marriage have equal rights and privileges.  Forging a proper partnership, in which both husband and wife have the same say.  The same veto and voting rights.  Fair is fair.

Yet somehow, I think I’ve been done in.  The bargain I struck was perhaps not all that good?

How come my husband got a live-in chef when we got married?  And in return I got none?

This smacks of blatant favouritism.  It’s true!  And his supreme privileges do not seem to end there.  His chef even does the shopping for ingredients for the meals she prepares.  And most of the clean-up thereafter too.

Imagine the bleeding luxury of coming home after a day at work, knowing you don’t have to worry about grocery shopping and cooking something yummy for dinner.  The thought doesn’t even enter your head.  Because with ultimate confidence you know, that your chef would have prepared something delectable in anticipation of your culinary needs.

I think it is time for a revolt.  For a change in the status quo.

I simply have to insist on having my own chef too.  Perhaps a lovely little French number.  I can call him André.  Funny enough, he’ll have a remarkable resemblance to Brad Pitt and Johnny Depp too.  He’ll wear a little black beret and the prerequisite stripy black and white shirt under his chef’s coat.  And for extra good measure?  A charming bandana around his neck – in red of course. 

On his breaks between slaving away in my kitchen, he’ll retreat to my courtyard garden (the one I don’t have).  He’ll sit in the dappled sunlight under my great giant big oak tree (the one I don’t have).  He’ll draw deeply from his Gauloises Plain cigarettes (he’ll have to bring his own), and sip on some rare vintage red wine from my cellar (the one I don’t have).  He’ll have floppy hair, that is slightly over long.  And he’ll speak in the most charming accent.  He’ll call me “Ma Cherie” and tell funny little jokes.  And talk about life in gay Paris.  Walking along the Seine and having picnics along the Rhine – baguettes and cheese platters, fresh seasonal fruit, preserves, crackers and the lot.  He’ll say “oui-oui” a lot, with no reference meant to his bladder at all.

Cause here’s the thing.  The main reason I have a kitchen, is because it came with the house.  Yes I do cook rather nice food on occasion, but I don’t really have a passion for it.  I do it in order to feed my family and myself.  To service a need.

But the thought of having a live-in chef like my husband does, fills me with great joy.

And I’m wondering why he was the only one who struck this lucky deal when we got married? 

Now, it can be said, that his chef, looks nothing at all like my beloved André.  In fact, I have a suspicion that he wishes his chef looked a bit like Angelina Jolie.

In which case, he really bummed out.  Because instead he got me.

Anyway, off to the shops I go.  Ingredients needed for home-made chicken schnitzels.  I’ll do a to-die-for cheese sauce too.  Home-made chips.  Veggies as well.

And on my breaks between slaving away in my kitchen, I’ll retreat to my courtyard garden (the one I don’t have).  I’ll sit in the dappled sunlight under my great giant big oak tree (the one I don’t have).  I’ll draw deeply from the fresh and crisp winter air, and sip on some freshly squeezed orange juice (sadly not made from oranges picked from my orchard – the one I don’t have).  I’ll be having a bad-hair-day.  And I’ll speak in the most charming accent.  I’ll call myself “Ma Chef” and tell funny little jokes to no one at all.  And talk about life in sunny South Africa.  Walking along the Lourens River and having picnics in the Nature Reserve and all along the coast – soft rolls with delectable delights, fresh seasonal fruit, crackers and the lot.  I’ll say “wee-wee” a lot, with every reference meant to my bladder.

If only….. André would be a much nicer option.

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