Familiarity, Neglect, and the Wrong Cut of Steak
By: Sarah J. Baker
Tags: Relationships, Lockdown, Divorce, Nonfiction, Love

I’m living in a pandemic lockdown with my ex. What started as a summer holiday became an endless reminder of why we divorced in the first place. We’ve played together now for 31 long years — one of them dating, 20 of them married, and 10 amicably divorced. Why is my eye twitching as I write this? Seriously, the whole thing has been a rollercoaster ride, a daytime soap, a Shakespearean tragedy played out on a stage surrounded by an enthralled and often perplexed audience.

It must be said, for the benefit of all who marvel at my expert portrayal of the eternal optimist, that amicability has been a choice, and often a ruse. I’m a peacemaker by nature. I choose to get along and, for the sake of our daughter, I continue to think of us a family unit of sorts; a broken up dysfunctional one, a comedy of errors if you will — of which food is often the villain.

When we were newlyweds, pizza was our Friday night go-to delivery.

“What do you fancy?” he’d ask.

“The usual,” I’d say.

“Vegetarian?”

“Of course. With pepperoni.”

“You’re so high maintenance,” he’d laugh.

“It’s why you love me,” I’d quip, poking him in the ribs with my toes while we sat on our crusty old second-hand just-got-married sofa.

As the years passed I assumed the pepperoni on my pizza was a given. I even thought “the usual” didn’t need explaining. But it did.

Sometimes, being a pretty sweet guy when it came to making the food aspect of our lives easier, he would surprise me on other nights, with pizza — Super Supreme. Mmmmm, yum… not. But it was still thoughtful right?

Me being high maintenance became a bit of a joke between us. I would take a sip of the tea he so thoughtfully made, then wince and remind him I didn’t like sugar in mine.

“Oh, sorry. I forgot. You’re so high maintenance,” he’d affectionately offer.

“That's ok,” I’d say. “We’ve only been married ten years.

*cue drum and snare, ba-dum tish!*

Hungry Jacks was always a challenge for him. I assumed after a decade or so he’d have it down pat by now, and surely no discussion about what we were about to order was needed while standing in the queue. So we’d queue in silence and wait until it was our turn before faffing around with our order.

“Hi, what would you like?” the cashier would ask.

“Large Double Beef Whopper Meal please and an extra Double Beef Whopper.” Easy.

He’d then turn to me. “What do you want?”

“The usual,” I’d say.

Seriously, I’m easy too ya know. I’m clear. I’m concise. I like what I like. I don’t stand around thinking about it. When it comes to food I’m entirely predictable. I mean, come on, it’s junk food for crying out loud. It’s not like we’re sitting in a nice little cafe salivating over an interesting seasonal menu. No, I gave those places up when I partnered off. He was a fast-food guy and I was an easy-going adaptable girl. Nothing high maintenance about me.

“Regular Whopper Meal,” he’d say to the cashier.

I’d nudge him. “No pickles.”

“Oh, and no pickles on that one please,” he’d pass on.

“Heavy onions,” I’d whisper.

“Heavy onions,” he’d repeat.

“Light mayo.”

“Light mayo.”

“Coke.”

“Coke.”

“Diet. No ice.”

“You heard her.”

*Audience laughs*

He’d carry our tray to a table, then laugh about how high maintenance I was as I folded my burger wrapping neatly beneath it and he barely opened his up before digging right in. We were chalk and cheese. Beauty and the Beast our friends would say. Me, a quiet, British-born artist, wordsmith, and food aficionado. He, a Pacific Islander, big, beefy, hugely popular, and prone to swallowing his food without wasting time tasting it in the process. No guessing which one was The Beauty.

We were such a cute couple.