So I was in the kitchen the other day, doing what I usually do, when in came V with The Bhablet hanging onto him like a fungus precariously balanced. Go on, picture it.
*Waits for appreciative chortles to fade*
Thank you. Well, so there was I, cooking, and there was V, trying to fuss over the amount of food I thought he should have.
Me: (brandishing spoon) Look, you should be ashamed of yourself. Thanks to you I end up eating leftovers all the time.
Me: Yes! When you don't eat the amount that has been cooked for you it stays on as continuing fractions and keeps lingering in the 'fridge and I have to eat it long after it was cooked. And you eat all the freshly cooked stuff! The cheek!
V: I didn't ask you to eat the leftovers! You could always serve them to me.
(I take a moment to imagine my mother and aunts' combined horror should I ever do such a thing. Not sure I haven't, come to think of it.)
Me: (recovering) Certainly not. Then who would eat the fresh stuff? You should just appreciate the way I've turned myself into a typical bharatiya nari (Indian wife) for you.
V: Who's the bharatiya nari here, I'd like to know? Just look at me.
And I turned. And conceded the point. Standing there with his hip thrust out and a baby perched on that hip in the way of all rural babies and mothers, he looked the part like I never have.