"You know Himself took me shopping last week. I spent $250.00 on food."
"Yup."
"Well, I haven't had a meal since we brought the food in."
"What do you mean you haven't had a meal?"
"She hasn't cooked! Not a thing!"
"And your arms and legs are broken so you can't make yourself something to eat?"
I tried to explain to Dad that Ma isn't going to make home-made raviolis ever again. Cooking is one of the activities that's beyond her. She doesn't have good control over her hands. I reminded him how often she drops things: silverware, cups, papers.
"It's dangerous for her to try to cook. Moving hot pans about."
"What am I supposed to do?" his voice rose with frustration.
"You have a few choices."
"Yes?"
"Yeah, you either pay to have someone come in to cook." I know this won't be an option as he also rides Ma's I'm Not Paying Train. "You can have meals on wheels brought in, which would be cheaper on your grocery bill in the long run."
"No, I'm not doing meals on wheels. The food is garbage."
"And you know this because you've eaten it?"
"No, but it's garbage." What he means is it's not Italian. No home-made gravy. No home-made ravioli, eggplant Parmagiana, no braciole.
"Then your only option, besides starving, is to take over the cooking."
At this point in the conversation, Popeye could be heard grumbling. "Cooking is woman's work..."
"Well, if you don't want to starve, cooking better become man's work."
