When I moved in with M he had a lot of glassware, in particular, mugs and cups with logos on them and a curious amount of delicate, long-stemmed liqueur glasses. For a bachelor who was on the road a lot, it was excessive.
I soon realized the logo cups were more like collectables and, though it’s never really been my thing, as a sports fan I can wrap my head around saving something with my team’s emblem on it. But a shot glass from a bar, or a beer mug from a pizza joint? Not so much. I did ask him about the liqueur glasses, and they were a gift. More like re-gift because really, there’s nothing about M that screams rainbow-hued liqueur glasses.
When we moved into our new condo, I conveniently left the boxes with collegiate glassware in our storage locker, mostly because we had less kitchen storage, but also because I wanted to purge our home of certain kinds of stuff. M claimed the office as a hands-off zone, meaning that was the one room that could be messy, and where he could display his stuff. Since he spends 90% of his weekdays working in there, I thought it was a fair compromise.
This is the room whose shelves adorn M’s humidor with his beloved cigars, multiple baseball caps, cowboy hats, bobble head, giant plastic playoff cups, 100th Grey Cup commemorative Bailey’s Irish cream glasses, balls (basket, football, golf), vintage video game, Canadian flag and, of course, beer stein of International coins, amongst other things.
On our way to an Argos game last Sunday, M noticed a ticket in our season’s ticket booklets for free drinking glasses! Huzzah!
“Hmm, do you really think we need those?” I asked, unenthusiastically.
“Sure, we do!” He said, excitedly.
Turns out they are pretty decent glasses. With giant Argos logos. Just what our home needs.
M is a creature of habit. He likes things the way he likes them. I’ve documented his simple food tastes in the past, but he’s also particular about how he prepares the food in his limited cooking repertoire. He likes eating pancakes or French toast on the weekends. He likes cutting the bread for the French toast with the same dull serrated knife. We have several other sharp serrated knives, but he always uses this dull knife, and lays it flat on top of the loaf to measure the thickness of each slice, then cuts and, essentially, squishes the bread down to half its thickness with each effortful saw (don’t get me started on the crumb shrapnel!).
He likes mixing the eggs and milk in the same shallow bowl, the one with the white flowers and gold lining. He likes flipping the pancakes or French toast with the same spatula, the third one I bought when the first two I bought trying to replace the old one from the 1970’s that had broken, didn’t feel quite right.
He likes using the same frying pan. He used the same “non-stick” frying pan for years, until the coating was so burnt that everything stuck to it, despite the fact that we have another perfectly good (but slightly larger) non-stick frying pan. With each (probably) toxic mouthful, I vowed to find a replica pan. I finally did, and all was right with our insides.
He likes holding the frying pan over the ceramic stove, and spraying it with non-stick oil (Pam, not the generic stuff), in a large circular fashion from a distance, ensuring the entire surfaces of the pan and stove are coated with speckles of grease. Let’s not forget that anything sprayed from an aerosol can eventually falls. Downward. To the kitchen floor.
M likes making me breakfast. I’m not as crazy about pancakes or French toast as he is, but…
M likes making me breakfast.