Let me set the scene…

Kitchen table, cluttered with things not “out of place” so much as “homeless.” (Things like apothecary jars and huge white bowls and 11×17 wedding photos [leftover from the reception]). A 9×13″ pan of chicken enchiladas rests on a wrought iron trivet, steaming with gooey melted mozzarella cheese. Clear glass bowl of tossed green salad is nestled in the background, and to the side lies a bag of tortilla chips and a gallon jug of Costco salsa. (Chips and salsa are backup dinner.)

Me: (calling to the computer room) Kyle, are you ready for dinner?
Kyle: Yeah.
(five minutes later)
Me: Kyle!
Kyle: I’m coming…
(He comes)
Me: These enchiladas might be a little spicy because enchilada sauce doesn’t come in a can in this country, so I had to make my own with sour cream and jalapeños. I think I might have used too many jalapeños.
Kyle: (Takes a bite) Mmm…this is good.
Me: (With a questioning look on my face) Thanks…
(Kyle rises, refills his glass of ice water, and returns to his chair. Takes another bite. Re-rises. Meanders to the kitchen, opens the fridge, pilfers, and closes the door empty-handed. Turns to the cupboard, opens the doors and reaches for a bottle of a molasses-colored elixir of some sort. Returns to the table.)
Me: (After noticing the elixir is not elixir at all, but actually a bottle of Tony Roma’s original Barbecue sauce.) …Umm…
Kyle: (Noticing my questioning expression) Oh, it’s okay. Barbecue sauce fixes everything.

Does this mean The Honeymoon is finished? Should I be getting over the part where my cooking determines my worth as a wife–as a human being?

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