Jay used to be a Moggy

So, I clicked on one of those silly Facebook things to find out what they thought I would have looked like 100 years ago. This was their estimation:

I can't say I could rock those eyebrows, but I do like a curly bob, red lipstick, and polka dot dresses.

I was a bit taken aback, however, that they turned Jay into a cat.

I expected something like this next to me in the photo:
 

Crookston County Firefighter
Photo credit: https://cabinetcardgallery.wordpress.com/category/policemen-and-firemen/

 
Until I pondered the notion for a bit. And considered the following points in defense of someone thinking that 100 years ago, Jay could have been a cat:

1. Jay will self-groom, but he prefers someone else to be responsible for the tidiness of his living quarters.

2. He gets annoyed when I make a fuss about his clothes, shoes, or anything else he considers trivial.

3. He has natural athleticism but won't overexert.

4. He can fall asleep just about anywhere and in any position.

5. He has more energy at night than in the morning. Sometimes I ask if he'll vacuum for me at 1 AM just to get him to wind down. (And he does--he's a sweet tom.)

6. He likes to take a nap if he had to get up early.

7. He won't discuss his moods but can get a bit offended if I don't notice when his mood has changed.

8. He brings me presents. And by "presents" I mean things he has hunted down that he wants that I have no interest in. E.g. "Honey, I bought you a weed trimmer!" Um, thanks? If I don't feign interest, he'll try to bag something better--like a tree trimmer.

9. He likes his head rubbed and back scratched.

10. He's skilled at climbing. Which is why he's on a ladder truck at the fire department.

11. He pretends he can't hear me when I call him.

12. He gets a glazed expression if I talk for too long. Sometimes he even wanders off when I'm in mid-sentence.

Yeah, a cat sounds about right.

Verse of the day: (2 Corinthians 5:17) "Anyone who is in Christ is a new creation. Old things have passed away, all things have become new!"

To compare Jay with our old cat, click here or here for stories on how she "enriched" my life with her generous "gifts." 

 P.S. For those who don't know, a "moggy" is: a cat, especially one that does not have a pedigree. See, my blog is educational. You learned a new definition today. Now you can nap like a moggy and feel good about it.

But She's a Dog (or The Fine Art of Refusing to Argue)

I'd never owned a small-breed dog before Zoe, so, after we got her, I was surprised to learn that she had hair instead of fur. That meant she had to be clipped regularly (hair won't stop growing at a set length like fur), and, since hair doesn't insulate well, she needed cold-weather clothes.

Well, okay then. I found a place that sold discounted dog clothes and set out to persuade Jay that I had to buy them. But even after showing him copious amounts of hair vs fur data, he remained unconvinced. 

He (slowly, as if I have difficulty comprehending English): She doesn't need clothes. She's a dog.

Me (earnestly): But because she was bred to have hair, she can't handle cold weather.

He (persistently): She's a dog. 

Me (with a little tear): She shouldn't have to suffer because selective breeding ensured she doesn't have fur to keep her warm.

He (rolling his eyes at the little tear): She's a dog. I'm sure her 'hair' will keep her warm, even in the snow.

At this point, we could have argued until the most determined person wore the other person out. In this case, I knew that I was the most determined person (especially since this issue involved altruistic shopping), but since I don't like arguing with Jay, I decided to agree with him.

Me (relenting, with a sigh): You know, honey, you have a point. She is a dog.

He (gratified): Yes, she is.

Me (agreeably): And, maybe, in spite of the research to the contrary, her body hair will keep her warm in the wind, rain, and snow. 

He (nodding with satisfaction at my capitulation): I'm sure it will. 

(Long pause)

Me (brightly): You know, sweetie, I just remembered from High School Biology that the human body is entirely covered in hair except for the palms, soles, and eyelids.

He: It's not the same thing.

Me (firmly): Hair is hair. If her hair can keep her warm, then your hair can keep you warm. From now on, the only thing you need is a loincloth, no matter what the weather.

He:  Now, listen---

Me (happily):  Think of the money we'll save when you stop wearing pants, shirts, sweaters, and coats!

He (shaking his head, mumbling): Oh, no. What ideas did I just put in her head?

Me (humbly): Thank you, oh, wise husband, for setting me straight about this 'hair can keep a body warm in the winter' stuff. I was wrong; you were right. 

(He rubs his face, groaning.) 

Me (warmly musing): Think of how cute you two will look taking long walks in the snow--her in nothing but a bow, and you in nothing but skivvies.

He (throwing his hands in the air): If you promise that you won't donate all my clothes while I'm at work, then you can get her a couple of shirts or sweaters or whatever.

Which was a silly thing to say since I wouldn't have donated all of his clothes; I would have left him some undies for modesty's sake. But I do love a man who is willing to change his mind, so I let the comment go. Besides, I was already shopping!

Jay flatly refused to walk the dog while only wearing his boxers so I could take a photo to illustrate this post, so, sadly, I can only show you pictures of Zoe.

 










Verse of the day: (Isaiah 61:10) "I delight greatly in the Lord; my soul rejoices in my God. For He has clothed me with garments of salvation and arrayed me in a robe of His righteousness..." Which is the best attire in all circumstances.


For more stories about Zoe (and/or Jay), click on Comical Cone of Contentment, But She Likes It!, and Pranking the Human.

For another story about when Jay abruptly changed his mind after I quite graciously agreed with him, click here.

(From Jay) If the Shoe Fits, WEAR It Already

Pamela is normally a responsible person. But she has some blind spots (see my posts about her issues with fire, counters, and power tools.) One of them is an aversion to wearing shoes on our property.

She has footwear of every conceivable type, so her persistence in being barefoot 98% of the time drives me nuts. 

Especially if she's outside. 

Worse, if I'm building something. 

I want her help because she has a good eye and great ideas, but I'm a First Responder firefighter, so I know freak accidents occur with surprising frequency.

She doesn't always handle my safety rules well. Here's a typical conversation:

Pamela (coming into the work shed, all business): Hey, Jay, Rose keeps knocking over the chickens' nesting box. I figured out a solution. If you cut this piece of wood on a 45 degree angle...

Me: Why aren't you wearing shoes?

She (puzzled by the question): It's hot.

Me: I don't care if it's hot; it's not safe to be around all these tools without shoes. 

She (contemplating her bare feet, then shrugging): It's hot.

Me: You could step on a nail or a staple.

She (wiggling her toes): It's hot. 

Me: You could get splinters in your feet.

She (patiently): It's hot. (pause) And I have cute toenail polish on.

Me (patiently): It's nice. (pause) And get some shoes on. 

She (stepping back): Now I'm on the ramp. I'm not in the shed, so I don't need shoes.

Me: Pamela!

She (back to business): If we angle a piece of wood this size to fit between the top and the shelf, it will stabilize the nesting box but also allows us to remove it for cleaning. Here, let me show you.

Me: Stop! You're not coming in here without shoes.

She (rolling her eyes): I'm just going to step on that one spot. It's clear. There isn't a nail, staple or splinter on that spot.

   
Me: No.

She: The chickens come in here without shoes.

Me: If you sprout feathers, I'll reconsider.

She (marching through the doorway): I'm an adult. You can't tell me what to do.

Me (throwing her over my shoulder): Fine. I won't tell you.

She (yelling at my back): Illegal use of the fireman's carry! I'm reporting you to the Chief! 

I deposit her on the deck and walk away. A minute later she comes back to the shed.

She: I'm wearing shoes. Are you happy now? Okay, if you cut right here, this piece of wood will fit right in the...

Me (folding my arms): Those are sandals. You need shoes.

She: Sandals are shoes.

Me: You know what I mean.

She (patiently): Darling, you said I should put on shoes so I wouldn't step on a nail or staple. Please explain to me how I could step on either with the top of my feet. 

Me: No.

She (triumphantly): Because you can't! I win!

Me: Whatever. You're still not coming in the shed without shoes.

She (wrinkling her nose): Your work boots give you a sock tan.

Me: Yes, I have tan legs and white feet. White feet without holes, punctures or splinters. You need real shoes.

She (trying one last tactic): We're married. That means that half of the shed is mine.

Me: The back half is yours. You have to go through my half to get to your half, and my half requires shoes.

Enough said. 


Verse of the day: (Isaiah 52:7-8) "How lovely on the mountain are the feet of those who bring Good News, announcing peace, proclaiming news of salvation, saying 'Our God Reigns!'"


Note from Pamela: I think a more appropriate verse would be Song of Solomon 7:1, "How beautiful are your sandaled feet, oh queenly maiden."

To read a similar story, click here.

To read about how Pamela gives Jay gray hair climbing on counters and randomly starting fires, click here.
Or by trying to use power tools, click here.
Or by reading (yes, reading can be hazardous to your house if Pamela does the reading), click here. 

Land(fill) of the Free, Home of the Brave

I don't know if you know a man like this, but my husband is obsessed with free stuff. I'm all for recycling and re-purposing, but within reason. Jay thinks it's his responsibility to keep landfills empty by collecting things others want to throw out.

He has scored a few wins over the years (mostly by accident). Like the 1930's bedroom set from his grandparents. And an antique sideboard someone discarded. But the rest, well...

Most people have a junk drawer. Jay had a junk room. After we were married, I bravely ventured into this cave of horrors. Under mounds of clutter (out-of-date car dealership calendars, old magazines and newspapers, box tops, discarded clothes from friends who were never his size, textbooks from classes he never took, warped Tupperware, etc.), I found at least eight broken office chairs.

Me: Um, honey, what exactly do you plan to do with all these chairs?

He (enthusiastically): I'm going to fix them!

Me: And do you know how?

He (shrugging): I'll figure it out.

Me: Have you ever fixed an office chair? Or anything similar?

He (undaunted): Not yet.

Me: Do you know where to get the missing parts? Or how much the parts will cost? Because it would probably be cheaper to buy a new chair than to buy a missing arm, back, or wheel.

He: I can piece them together.

Me: Sweetie, they're all different styles. Which means that the armrest on this chair is a different thickness than the other chairs. And the back rest on that chair won't fit the screw holes of the others. And the wheels are all different sizes...

He also had two desks that Office Depot gave him for free because entire sides were broken or missing. These weren't solid wooden desks worth salvaging--they were banged up particle board and laminate atrocities. 

He tried to donate the furniture, but it was refused. So, with a heavy heart, he bade them goodbye at the junkyard. Which, by definition, is where junk should be released to pasture.

Months later, we remodeled the bathroom in our 1974 home. Jay was supposed to take the old sink and toilet to the above-mentioned junkyard where they could live out their latter years with the broken office furniture. A month later, I found them in all their harvest gold and avocado green glory under our back deck and filled with dirt, rainwater, and mosquito larva. 

They actually look better in the photo than they did in real life.

Me (able to only point and stutter): What are...Why, why are...

He: Oh, these? I'm saving them in case our new sink and toilet ever break.

Me: Yeah, no. Um, honey? I don't know how to express this strongly enough, but I will move out the day either of these come back into our house.

He (protesting): They're still good.

Me: Yeah, no. They're functional, but they're definitely not good.

He finally decided he wanted a wife more than old bathroom fixtures and reluctantly hauled them away.

On another day, Jay came home from work really excited about a coat someone gave him. I agreed that it was well-made.

Then he tried it on.

Me: Honey, that's a great coat, but it's way too short on you.

He: But it was free. And the sleeves fit.

Me: Yes, the sleeves fit, but the rest of it is length-deficient.

He: But the sleeves fit.

Me: Your ribs will freeze.

He: But the sleeves fit.

Me: It only works if you're moving to Spain to become a matador.

He: But the sleeves fit.

Me (exasperated): Sweetie, you don't have to keep a coat just because a short guy with monkey arms gives it to you.

He (laughing): Okay. Should I donate it?

Me: Yeah, to the zoo. Their hairless, pygmy ape will thank you all winter. 

Verse of the day: (Proverbs 12:27b) "...the diligent make use of everything they find." Jay takes this verse way too literally, God bless him.

Disclaimer: Jay wants me to add that he's better than he used to be. Yes, he is (thank God).

She Came, She Saw (Almost)--Post from Jay

Today is Wife Appreciation Day, and I would like to state for the record that I truly love and appreciate my wonderful wife.


I will also add that she's given me gray hair before my time.

The other day, Pamela called the Fire Station. One of my firefighters answered the phone. She said, "Do not repeat my question out loud, especially if Jay is around. Just answer 'yes' or 'no.' Can you tell me how to turn on a table saw?" 

Verse of the day: (Proverbs 4:15a) "Don’t even think about it..." 

It's actually a chop saw. And God bless the man who invented the chop saw safety latch. 



Note from Pamela: I would like to state for the record how appalled I am that our local firefighters are flatly unwilling to answer a simple question. Appalled, I tell you.

For more contributions from Jay about Pamela, check out Panic-Inducing Pamela. For stories about Jay, check out Finders Seekers, Delectable Disagreement, Land(fill) of the Free, Preplanned Packing, and She Said, He Heard.  

But She Likes It!

Disclaimer: Posted with Zoe and Jay's approval.

Speaking of fathers and daughters, when we first welcomed Zoe, a Bichon Frise mix, into our home, she was two years old and weighed nine pounds. 

She hadn't lived with us long before her girth slowly increased. Caleb, our Korean Jindo, regulates his own weight (he'll stop eating if he gains a few pounds), so this was new to me.

I carefully monitored Zoe's food intake and made sure we exercised her regularly with long, brisk walks. (And by "we" I mean "Jay," of course. Hey, walking is good for him!) 

Yet, she still did not lose weight...

She gradually grew chubbier until she eventually weighed almost twenty pounds!
 

To: Resembles a beached manatee

From: Wouldn't hurt to gain a couple pounds

Actually, a baby manatee may have been smaller than Zoe
(photo credit: http://ambergriscaye.com/photogallery/121005.html)

I fed the dogs when Jay was at the fire station, but on the nights he was home, he insisted on serving their dinner so he "could bond with them." One night, I realized that he had been giving Zoe half as much food as he gave Caleb. 

Me:  Jay, she shouldn't get that much food!

He (shrugging):  I couldn't remember the exact amount to give her.

Me (logically):  Honey, Caleb is forty pounds. If she eats half of his portion size, then she'll be twenty pounds. She should be ten pounds, so you have to feed her less.

He (illogically):  But she likes it.

Me:  Jay! We have to make decisions based on her health. We're the parents.

I marked a measuring cup and put it in the dog food bag. Jay claimed he was adhering to the guideline.

Yet, she still did not lose weight... 

Matthew 10:26 says that "there is nothing concealed that will not be disclosed, or hidden that will not be made known," so it was only a matter of time before I noticed that Zoe always followed Jay with unusual enthusiasm when he went in the kitchen "to get a drink" before bed. The next time they went, I hazarded a guess.

Me (calling out, suspiciously):  Jay, what is Zoe eating? 

He (after a long pause):  You can hear that?

Me (suspicions confirmed!):  What did you give her?

He (after a longer pause):  Just some butter.

Me:  Butter! Jay, you can't feed her butter. No wonder she's so chubby.  

He:  But she really wanted some. She even sat up.

Me:  I don't care if she puts on Highland Tartan and dances a jig; don't give her butter.

He:  But she likes it.  

Me:  No more butter!
 
I thought that would solve the problem, and, when questioned, he assured me that he'd stopped feeding her butter. 

Yet, she still did not lose weight...

A few months later, I saw what looked like white paint on Zoe's ear and chin.

Me (puzzled): Jay, are you touching up the paint somewhere in the house?

He:  No. Why?

Me:  It looks like Zoe has white paint on her face.

He (after a long, long pause):  It's probably sour cream.

Me:  Did you say sour cream?

He (lamely):  I thought it might be getting old, so I mixed a little with her food.

Me (with my left eyebrow raised):  Yeah. And how much of this "old" sour cream did you give her?

He (vaguely):  Not much. Whatever was left.

Me (with both eyebrows raised):  Yeah. And exactly how much was that? 

He:  Only like a third of the container.

Me:  A third of the container? Did you say a third of the container?

He (reluctantly):  Well, it probably wasn't the best thing to give her.

Me (looking at the dietary info):  Not the best thing? Since this little dog just consumed about 300 calories and 25 fat grams, I would wholeheartedly agree. And all this time you had 'no idea' why she was so overweight?

He (stubbornly):  But she likes it.

This, my friends, is why God did not give Jay daughters.
 

A sour cream-smeared Zoe winking (literally) at her Partner-in-Crime

Verse of the day:  (Proverbs 22:9) “A generous man will be blessed, for he shares his food with those in need." 

For those ready to call Pet Protective Services:  Thanks to my daily monitoring of Papa Pushover, Zoe might still be a bit chubby, but at least she no longer looks like a miniature fuzzy hippo.

She Said, He Heard

(Disclaimer: Posted with Jay's approval. He knows he's not the only one.) 

I've heard many women complain that the men in their lives don't listen. But, ladies, it's not personal; it's biological. A scientific study proved that men only hear one-third of what is actually said. So, instead of balking against this apparent reality, just accept it.

I must admit that I'm fascinated by how this works. How do men choose which words to hear and which words to discard? Do they only hear the long words? Do they only hear nouns? Or verbs? How can they hear only a third of a one-word sentence?

After 11 years of studying Jay, my current conclusion is that there is no formula; male hearing is entirely random. 

Which I find rather funny.

To prove the point, following are some conversations that took place between Jay and me. (Which happened, by the way, when all the televisions, radios, phones, and computers were off, so, there were no distractions.)

One fine morning...

Me: Do you want something for breakfast?

He: No, I didn't.

Me: You didn't want breakfast?

He: I didn't have any.

Me: Yeah, I know; we both just got out of bed. I asked if you want some.

He: Some what?

Me: Breakfast.

He: No, I haven't had breakfast. 

One afternoon...

He: I need a snack. I think I'll get a bagel. Do you want one?

Me: Yeah, a bagel sounds good. I'd like an untoasted, plain bagel with nothing on it. Thanks, sweetie!

He: Got it.

Later, he handed me a toasted, blueberry bagel smothered in cream cheese. 

Me (genuinely intrigued): Honey, 'a plain bagel' doesn't sound remotely like 'a blueberry bagel.' How does that get switched in your head? Especially since I emphasized the word 'plain.'

He (shrugging): I guess I heard 'bagel' and stopped paying attention.

At least he admits it.

Me: Yeah, and I could understand if I'd asked for cream cheese and you confused it with something like 'green peas,' because they at least sound similar, but I said I wanted nothing on my bagel.

He: Sorry, I must have only been half-listening. I'll eat the blueberry bagel and get your plain bagel with green cheese. (Pause) What is green cheese? Like sour cream?

At this point, some of you might be thinking, Perhaps the poor man has hearing loss. He does not; I've had him checked. And he has no problem detecting when I climb on a kitchen counter or strike a match. Even if he's outside, he miraculously hears and comes in to bust me. The holes in his hearing only appear during conversation.

I've even tried speaking in two word sentences to see if that helps.

One day, he came home from the grocery store...

Me: Want soup?

He: No, I didn't.

Me: Didn't what?

He: Buy soap. I don't even remember you asking me to buy soap.

Me: I didn't.

He: Didn't what?

Me: Didn't ask you to buy soap.

He: Well, then why would you expect me to get any?

Me: We don't need soap. I said soup. I made homemade soup while you were gone. Do you want some chicken soup for lunch?

He: No, I didn't.

Me: Didn't what?

He: Buy chicken soup. I don't even remember you asking me to buy soup.

When he asks why I burst out laughing throughout the day, I tell him it must be a laugh track because we're clearly on a sit-com. 

Verse of the day: (Matthew 11:15) "If any man has ears to hear, let him hear." I'm not preventing him. Honest!

To understand why Jay can hear a match strike from the other side of the property, click here to read Panic-inducing Pamela.

Delectable Disagreement

In honor of my favorite veteran, my husband, and posted with his blessing.
 
Jay is good-natured and level-headed. But, like us all, there are times he's not in the mood to listen to reason. On those rare occasions, I've learned that it's easier to agree with him than to argue.

For example, when we were first married, he wanted to learn how to cook. I used the term "learn" loosely since he refused instruction and abhorred following recipes. He just haphazardly threw food items together hoping an edible dish would miraculously emerge. Most experiments rapidly emerged from his mouth directly into the garbage can.

I'll spare you the details of debacles he concocted at home, and merely mention that he was banned from the firehouse kitchen for "helping" with dinner by surreptitiously adding arbitrary ingredients to meals as they were being prepared. You don't get between hungry firefighters and palatable food without suffering consequences.

When he complained, I was unsympathetic. "Sorry, babe, I don't blame them. First, you can't add something to a meal without telling the person who is cooking it. Second, until you have experience, you have to stick to recipes."

"But I see people grab stuff out of cupboards, add it or substitute it for something else, and the meal turns out great. If they can do it, than I can do it," he insisted.

"But, honey, we don't add random ingredients. We've cooked from recipes long enough to understand which flavors work together," I reasoned. "When the Oriental dressing ran low, I added sesame oil, rice wine vinegar, soy sauce, ginger, and brown sugar to stretch it. Not olive oil, lemonade, Dr. Pepper, cinnamon, and jelly beans. You have to know what you're doing if you want it to taste right."

He remained unconvinced.

One weekend, friends were coming to dinner. They'd asked if I would serve a casserole that I'd made them on a previous occasion. (Well, not that casserole exactly, because we ate that one, but one remarkably similar to it.) Jay had been my sous-chef in the past, but this time he wanted to make the casserole by himself. It's not a difficult recipe, so I didn't mind as long as he agreed not to change anything without consulting me.

He reluctantly promised, and so I stayed out of the kitchen.

Later, Jay came to the bedroom to tell me that the meal was progressing well. As he walked away, he tossed over his shoulder, with feigned nonchalance, "Oh, and we're out of unsweetened cornflakes for the casserole topping, so I'm using something else."

"Wait!" I yelped.

"What?" He poked his head back into the room with a set expression.

Trying to sound calm, I answered, "Yeah, see, honey, I'm just curious about what you plan to use in place of unsweetened cornflakes. Especially since we don't have any unsweetened wheat, rice, or oat flakes."

"I'm using granola," he firmly replied, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Yeah, no, see, we have like mango yogurt granola. And a berry, vanilla, and brown sugar granola. Neither of which will work on a chicken, veggie, and rice casserole."

"The recipe calls for cereal," he enlightened me, with exaggerated patience, "and granola is cereal."

"Yeah, no, see, sweetie, the recipe specifically says unsweetened cereal. And we don't have any."

"I don't have time to go to the store, so I'm going to use granola," he informed me, determinedly.

"Yeah, see, that won't taste good with chicken, celery, onions, mushrooms, and rice."

"I'm using granola," was his stubborn reply. "Cereal is cereal!"

At that point, my patience waned, and I wanted to yell, "Are you crazy? Don't you dare do that to our guests. What is wrong with you!" But 1 Corinthians 13 says that love is not irritable or rude, and I vowed to love Jay, so (for better or worse) my response options were greatly limited. Also, had I forced him to go to the store "unnecessarily," he would have been grumpy for the rest of the evening. I didn't want that, so instead of arguing, I agreed with him.

"You know, Jay, you do have a point," I acquiesced. "Cereal is cereal."

"Yes, it is." He affirmed, nodding with satisfaction at my capitulation.

"Then leave the topping off 3/4ths of the casserole, make a topping with granola, like you want, and put it on the remaining 1/4th. That portion will be just for you."

That gave him pause.

"Who knows? It might even be edible, " I added, brightly. "You can let us know."

He mulled that over, and then muttered, "I may have time to go to the store."

"Really, darling, if you're too busy, you don't have to," I assured him. "We'll enjoy the meal without the topping, and you can have the wonderfully unique experience of eating sugary berry-granola-chicken casserole."

Another pause. 

"That's okay," he finally said, grudgingly. "I think can find time to go to the store."

"You know, honey," I encouraged, "I think you should make granola topping. For your personal portion, that is." I was beginning to get curious. Not curious enough to subject our guests to the experiment, but curious enough to let him try it. 

"No, no. I'll go to the store for the cornflakes," he answered, dryly.

"Unsweetened cornflakes," I reminded. "Come on, be adventurous; put granola on your section," I coaxed, because by then I really, really, really wanted him to try it. "You might start a whole new food trend!"

He rolled his eyes as he put on his shoes.

"You might become famous," I continued, optimistically, "for inventing chicken and celery oatmeal cookies!"

He tried to hide a smile as he reached for his wallet.

"Or chicken, blueberry, and onion breakfast bars!" I enthused.

He snickered as he reached for his keys.

"While you're there, pick up some Lucky Charms. The marshmallow bits might taste 'magically delicious' with chicken, rice, and vegetables!"

He was openly laughing as the door shut behind him.

Yep, it's easier to agree with him than to argue.
 

Mushrooms, celery, chicken, onions, and Lucky Charms® are a nutritious part of this complete breakfast!

Verse of the day: (Ephesians 4:2-3) "Always be humble and gentle, making allowances for the faults of others because of your love." I've perfected the art of humbly and gently spitting out the culinary results of "the faults of others." Because of my love.

Follow up:  Shortly after this episode, he decided to leave the culinary decisions to me. So if we invite you to dinner, you can eat without fear.
For another Jay story, check out "Preplanned" Packing.