The Minnesota Farm Woman

Long ago and far away, I lived another life. Instead of planting apple or plum trees that freeze or get eaten by deer, I picked lemons and oranges just out my back door. Instead of shoveling snow from the front porch, I swept away a lot of  sand.  Instead of driving into town on country roads with little traffic, I lived in a city with a stoplight on every corner.  My husband and I worked a lot of hours and had a more disposable income. (Admittedly, he worked many more hours than I did.)  We spent less time relaxing. We never went fishing. We ate out more often.  Despite these very major life changes, the two of us really haven’t changed that much. South to North, sand to snow, the Atlantic Ocean to Bowstring Lake, and  here I am  still asking the age-old question, “What do you want for dinner?” He gives his usual answer: “I don’t care. Whatever you want to fix.” Just so you know, the words “I don’t care” do not mean that he doesn’t care. After 34 years of marriage, I understand his language. “I don’t care” means he would like meat which is baked, broiled, grilled, or fried, but not, and I mean NOT cut into small pieces and stir-fried in a wok or braised in some sort of liquid that is not gravy or barbecue sauce. He would also like a potato, baked, fried, or mashed, and a vegetable. Oh, and a salad with iceberg lettuce, please. Grilled baby bok-choy is not a vegetable in his book. Zucchini fixed in any way goes untouched. Raw spinach with raspberry vinaigrette is not a salad.  You see, I am a woman with an adventurous palate married to a man who likes simple country cooking. If someone were to ask me what I wanted for dinner, I would lean toward a spicy Szechuan stir-fry or perhaps a chicken breast in cilantro-lime sauce served with quinoa and sprinkled with capers.  My husband and I  are as opposite in our taste for food as our present life is from our previous one. Don’t take this as a complaint, though. He cooks, too. He grills the perfect steak and if you’ve ever eaten his hot wings I would almost bet the farm that you would go back for more.  I can fix whatever I want for dinner, too, and he wouldn’t say a word. He would just lift up the lid of the pan, sigh, and make himself a sandwich. It would not be a grilled Panini sandwich with fresh basil and buffalo mozzarella, however. His type of sandwich is  more like ham or turkey on whole wheat with iceberg lettuce, tomato, and a little mayo. There’s nothing fancy about his food.  Simply cooked, comforting, and with a southern accent. A lot  like the man himself, I would say. I think I’ll stick around for seconds.