The Nerve!

I am not a chef. I, in no way, am contestant material on a cooking show. But every once in awhile, if I really try, I can create something not only edible, but even enjoyable.

However, I don't think my culinary efforts are always appreciated by my beautiful boy. I spent most of my free time at work searching for a cream of crab soup recipe that was similar to Nadine's, the chef at a restaurant I used to work at. I immediately disregarded those that didn't use Old Bay. I narrowed my search even more by ones that used cornstarch. Finally, I found the one that seemed closest to what I remembered.

After work, I ran over to get my crab meat(in Chestertown, it seems to be tradition to gather together at work and pool money for pounds of crab) from the bed and breakfast. It was good, and fresh, and not all of it made it as far as the soup stage. Next was a trip around the corner to our local organic foods store(not out of any health benefit, just convenience this time) for heavy cream and half&half. I dash back up to my apartment and begin the preparations... What's this? Cornstarch?! I'm now mid-soup, so I call out to my sweetheart.

"Feel like doing me a favor?"
"Uh, not really."

...Well, shit.

I turn the soup to low, dash back across the street, grab the cornstarch, and dash back up. Things are going well now, the base has come to a nice boil, and it's time to add the cornstarch. No one ever told me that cornstarch was so light, and that the slightest bit of force used to open the bag would send a fine mist into the air.

So here I am, irritated at his general lameness and covered in cornstarch, but like the trooper I am, I continue. Finally, the soup is done.

"Soup's done! Would you like some?"
"Nah, I'm good."

Oh, the heartbreak. Mind you, I've been talking about trying to make this soup for a week and a half by this point. He was fully aware of the general Hell I'd gone through this afternoon(and, of course, when I feel accomplished in something I work hard at, I want him to share it). I turned the burner off, moved the pot from the heat, and walked casually into my room. And, much to my surprise, he seemed to notice that I was put off. He calls to me from the kitchen:

"You know what?"
"What?"
"This really is delicious."
"Good."
"..I think I'm going back on what I said before."
(This is the part where I sigh internally because dammit I can't be mad at him)
"Be careful, it's still really hot."

In the end, we all had good soup, and trust me- it was GOOD soup. Moral of the story? Men are jerks, but occasionally they aren't.