Cooking Up A Stew!

Alzheimer’s

It’s all about memory.
I shoulda just learned from it.

More of He said, She said
She was She and He was Me

Stirring It Up!

He said, You should heat the sauce separately.

She said, No, just pour it onto the hot spaghetti.

That’s silly, said he.

Oh, what do you know? she asked.

They were preparing supper. Together. Now that they were both retired, she wanted to do everything together.

Everything? he’d asked.

Yes.

Absolutely everything?

Yes.

But what about—

Everything, she insisted.

But—

Everything.

And so they were making supper. He’d chopped up the cabbage for a cole slaw and she’d set to boiling the spaghetti.

While chopping, he fumed about effectively being blocked from his traditional hobby: writing. Writing takes time and he’d always made time, especially when she was out selling real estate, at all hours of the day and night.

So now they were both in the house at the same time; all the time.

Secretly he longed for the silence of solitude. That feeling was followed at once by a pang of guilt. He slashed at the innocent cabbage.

You know what? she asked.

What? He fumed.

You’ll chop off your thumb if you do it that way, she said.

Good, said he, that way we’ll get some protein.

Full credit: Found at: CIC Client New England Country Foods
https://www.google.com/search?q=dueling+chefs&tbm=isch&tbo=u&source=univ&sa=X&ved=0CDgQsARqFQoTCNWdquWswscCFUiYiAodOmkJqA&biw=1076&bih=618#imgrc=qTnNd3DMk8CGQM%3A

It was an argument is what it was.

The spaghetti was done. The sauce was cold. He poured it into a saucepan and turned on a burner.

NO-O-O-O-ooooo! she screamed.

Ye-e-e-e-s, he said, it’ll make it taste like roast candy.

She didn’t want any roast candy.

She refused to eat ANY supper.

He tried to eat it all, partly out of spite and partly by way of comfort food in an effort to make himself feel good.

Later, of course, he rued the day.

Shoulda listened, he said.

You shoulda listened to me, she thought to herself.

I heard that, he said.

Too bad, she thought.

Next time, he told himself, I’ll remember: It’s the disease, not her. Just go with the flow, stupid.

But he slept on the couch that night.

And all was well in the morning, for she came into the living room, spotted him, and demanded that he tell her why he was sleeping on the couch.

Oh, he groaned, just fell asleep here.

And she gave him a kiss on the cheek.

Alzheimer’s. You just never know!

Indie Herb– Story Teller