Double Trouble

Two particular instances come to mind with this writing prompt. I feel both are equally worthy to tell so I will write about both.

The first is when I was a young girl just recently married to my husband. It was just us two enjoying life together before the joys of parenthood. White butter beans were on the menu that night and my husband expressed how his mother used to throw in a can or two of carrots to add flavor. I looked in the cabinet and sure enough we had a few cans that needed to be used. I dump all three cans in, eager to please my husband. Soon the beans took on an orange tint and I seriously doubted my choices. When my husband looked at the now bright orange beans and asked how many cans I used, I answered three. “I said a can or two, I don’t recall mom’s beans being orange like pumpkin.” He replied. I tried to make the best of it but they were indeed ruined and distasteful. From time to time, my husband still asks if I want some orange beans.

The second story takes place a couple years ago. Father’s day was quickly approaching but I could not find the perfect gift for my husband or my father. I decided making their favorite desserts was the best gift idea. I planned ahead gathering all the ingredients and cleared the whole weekend to make sure I had time to complete both dishes. My father loves carrot cake and I was certain I could make it. I started on his first because I expected it to be the hardest and most stressful. By the end of day one I had a perfect carrot cake made along with homemade icing. It was worthy of the front page of a magazine.

Day two. My husband had always talked about how much he loves bread pudding but never gets it. I thought how perfect it would be to surprise him for father’s day! I was so excited and kept my plan a secret. I found the best recipe and followed each instruction step by step. I threw it in the oven and waited anxiously. At the appropriate time I took it out and got the first glimpse of my second masterpiece. Unfortunately my beautiful creation looked more like bread than pudding. I asked my husband’s opinion and he agreed, it was indeed bread, not pudding of any shape or form. So I slapped some syrup on it and served the kids french toast for dinner that night.  My husband was incredibly disappointed and often joked about the miserable failure. I promised to one day redeem myself.

Fast forward about a year and my dear husband tried his own hand at making bread pudding. I watched, eager to finally see his craving satisfied. I stood by his side as he pulled it from the oven basking in the wonderful smells that filled my kitchen. “TaDA!” I said as the smile fell from his face as well as mine. I looked down to see a dish that looked more like bread than pudding. Definitely nowhere near bread pudding. I am not certain what we did wrong but perhaps a third time will be the charm. We still laugh today at the irony of us both failing to make a decent bread pudding.