So it’s a Sunday, and I’ve just invited the boyfriend over for pie. No, not like that, you pervert. I mean a literal pie, chicken to be more precise. And man, what a pie it is. It’s got golden pastry on top, a homemade sauce, tender roast chicken, and… peas. Oh fuck, it’s got peas it.
I only realise this horrifying mistake as I’m serving the pie up. The little green bastards mocking me as they come rolling out from under the pastry. Why did I put peas in the pie? My boyfriend HATES PEAS!
|Under that heart filled crust is a pea nightmare|
“Look I’m sorry,” I say straight off the bat, as I place dinner in front of him. “It’s totally my fault, a complete brain fart on my part. I should have thought more carefully about your needs, maybe you’re right, maybe this just shows how selfish I really am. Honestly, I’m a complete cow. How on earth could I forget-“
“What are you talking about?” My boyfriend asks, while scoffing down another spoonful of pie – peas and all.
“Erm, well, I erm… You like the pie?”
“Oh yeah, it’s delicious.”
“All the pie?”
“Every last bit.” I watch, amazed, as he proceeds to scrap pea, after pea up from the plate.
And then it hits me, I have got my boyfriends confused. My ex-boyfriend was the one who hated peas – bugger.
Anyone who’s been in more than one relationship will understand where I’m coming from. For those who don’t, imagine that your vagina is a restaurant, and all your boyfriends and lovers are the customers. When placing an order for a slice of your vagina’s pie, they tell you what they want, what they’re allergic to, ect. After a time you grow accustomed to your customer, and learn off hand his tastes. But what happens when one customer leaves and a new one arrives?
All of a sudden you have to forget one list of things for another, and somewhere in the mental reshuffle, the clicking and dropping of info into your mental Trash Can, things can get confused.
|Replace the word ‘diner’ with vagina and you have my metaphor.|
You find yourself wondering: “Who was it that doesn’t like cake? The new boy or the old boy?”
And of course, you don’t want to ask the new boy this question because that would break the illusion of him being a super special romance snowflake. So what can you do but guess?
Which can lead to instances like, oh I don’t know, you lovingly preparing a tomato and basil risotto only to find out, half way through the meal, as your new boy forces back a heave after every bite, that he doesn’t like rice and was too polite to say so.
(And yes, I cook for my boyfriend a lot, because otherwise I would be eating Kievs for dinner every night.)
And this confusion can only get harder the older you get. I’m only twenty, with a grand total of TWO boys under my belt. What if I break up with this boy and get a new one? What if the new one has actual dietary requirements, what if he’s diabetic? Or worse, a vegetarian!
I occurs to me that this is why I’ll never be a Samantha Jones character. I imagine Sam never worried about getting glutton-free pastry for her conquests. Or broke out in a cold sweat over serving rice instead of roast potatoes with her stews. She could have as many customers into her vagina cafe and never worry about what was on the menu. And in a way I’m jealous, as I always (sometimes) am of the Sex and the City girls.
But then I remember that with every pie I cook, with or without peas, I always have someone to do the washing up. Which probably explains why Samantha Jones bought herself a dish washer.