It's your night

On Friday night, my partner and I took a class together at the Viking Cooking School. Joe is really into culinary experimentation, and I'm really into eating whatever it is he whips up, so this seemed like a good move for us.

We enjoyed ourselves quite a bit and ended up with a mean lobster-mushroom risotto, lamb chops, and a freaking yummy pound cake dessert parfait thing. (Hey Paula, if you're reading this, now we have a recipe for your yummy leftover pound cake! And to Cathleen or any of my other vegetarian friends: I'm sorry about the lamb.)

The moment of gender perplexity in this scenario occurred early in the evening when the chef was giving us instructions. He explained that there were two prep stations, while there were six of us, so we needed to work together in whatever arrangement was preferable. Then he turned to me and said, "Whatever set-up makes you happy. This is your night, and I want you to be happy."

Well, here's the thing. It wasn't really my night at all. Not even close. This was Joe's bread and butter. I was just along for the culinary ride.

I blinked a few times and remembered when I had heard that phrase before...three years ago, when I got married. I can't tell you how many people told me that the wedding was "my day," and I should do whatever I needed to do in order to make it perfect.

Uh, what about the other half of this celebration? I often wondered out loud. I'm not exactly getting married to myself here.

So as the chef stood there grinning at me, I couldn't help wondering something similar.

"This isn't my night." I said matter-of-factly.

His face began to twitch a little. This was not the culturally-conditioned response.

I tried again. "It's actually his night," I said, gesturing at Joe.

He tried to collect himself, and his grin got a little more uncertain, a little more forced. "Whatever makes you happy," he replied tersely.

Joe and I tied our own apron strings, smiled to ourselves, and began to chop some serious shallots.