Antoine is so sensitive about his cooking skills. Really, I should have known not to point out his error to him; I’m sure he wouldn’t have noticed if the oats were a bit tangier than usual. It’s really not a big deal. It is to him, though, and now I have to listen to him moaning about how we have to have the kitchen downgraded in order to repent his deeds.
I don’t know about you, but for me, a relaxing Sunday morning does not involve researching reverse kitchen refacing. And yet, that’s how I spent my Sunday. Antoine was just so distraught about it, it was all I could do to stop him trying to repeatedly rap himself over the knuckles with his spurtle (which is a pretty lightweight object, but I didn’t like the sentiment all the same).
The funny thing is that I wouldn’t have cared less about a bit of unintended sour cream in the Sunday morning porridge – by the time Antoine got all the layers of maple-toasted toppings on, you’d hardly have been able to taste the difference. Ultimately, what did bother me was his overwrought response to his alleged wrongdoing. The guy really needs to detach his ego from his culinary output, and the kitchen itself, for that matter.
We can’t afford to be renovating every time he serves up a dish that’s less than perfect, although to be fair, that doesn’t happen very often. His perfectionist tendencies see to that. It’s one of the perks of being married to a self-styled chef, as well as one of the drawbacks. There is, after all, only so much drama one can tolerate in the arena of sub-par profiteroles, overcooked duck l’orange, or imperfect porridge for that matter.
I’m not altogether sure how undoing our recent kitchen upgrade is going to help the situation. If anything, it’s enabling his unbalanced perspective on the whole thing. I think he needs to downplay his perfectionism, rather than downgrade the kitchen.