My man can

Yesterday, in a fit of domesticity and homebodiness I decided to make a galette, plant bulbs and clean up one of my perennial beds. I pealed the apples and pears, chopped up some cranberries and made two different galettes, one plain apple cinnamon and one with pears, apples, cranberries and maple sugar. As those baked and I headed out the door with my wellies, I popped a couple of cinnamon sticks in a pan on the burner to simmer. I thought it might make the house smell nice. I really got into the yard work, even raking up and composting the wood that was left after Lars planned some boards. When I finally came inside to check my baking, it had gotten really brown on top (brownish/black) and the water had evaporated in the pan on the stove, filling the house with the scent of scorched cinnamon. I shut the burner off, took the galettes out and pulled off the uglier bits, and laughed. Something always suffers for something else. I was just glad that nothing was ruined, and glad that it wasn't one of Lars' good pans.

That's right, my spouse came with cookware and the ability to use it!
Calphalon pans! Wine glasses! Cook books! We have very different cooking styles though. I'm more paint by numbers and he's more Jackson Pollack, but neither of us suffer for it (with the exception of our cook books).