As those who know me will attest, I am the cook in our family. This mostly explains my girth and my attempts to maintain it (which is much harder when faced with a diet of salad and crudités, the perennial Mrs. Ottawacker dinner suggestions).
It is a case of 'if you want to eat food, cook it yourself', and so I have done.
Now, however, something is afoot. Mrs. O has been seen perusing cookbooks (in this case one containing dishes from the British Isles). And, lo and behold, some hours later, out of the oven came a delicious beef and oyster pie, replete homemade crust and thick, oozing gravy.
How has this happened? Has she started drinking? Has she met someone else? Are we embarking on a new phase of marriage that nobody told me about?
One awaits with bated breath.