Mrs Dragonfly

What’s a female Dragonfly?

Isn’t it a damselfly, my sweetness?

No, it’s not! Now get back to the kitchen!

Ouch!

Whatever it is, I’m it. As the more perceptive of you have probably realized by now, Dragonfly and I have swapped roles this month: he’s cooking supper and I’m writing this article. Call it an exercise in mutual appreciation, if you like, but the truth is that Dragonfly has chauvinistically ignored the female contribution to this valley for far too long, and I aim at rectifying this appalling neglect.

I’m sure I speak for all long-suffering wives out there when I say that the men of our little community – blinded by their carpentry, gardening, or whatever other projects of boring-old-fart-ness that retirement entails – ignore the little things that can destroy domestic harmony.

Take my kitchen, for example. I love my cooking space, and I keep it clean and shiny. I read books, soup packets, magazines, and even stock-cube boxes. I look high and low for any ingredient missing from my chef’s heaven, no matter how obscure.

A recent effort called for five millilitres of Sambal Oelek. After five weeks, I proudly brought home 100 milligrams of the obscure mixture, only to discover that the recipe was nowhere to be found.

Thus it is, ladies that (I’m sure you sympathize with my desperation) when my dearest, with a glint in his eye, offers to cook, I reach for the Sauvignon Blanc, but I smile, nod, and make small suggestions. After all, I have a whole bag of butternut in the pantry and the five kilograms of carrots he bought at Hillbillies yesterday.

William was very persuasive. He said they were full of testosterone…

My beloved tries to follow instructions, but he uses his own method. It’s a male thing, I suspect. I withdraw, my stomach tightening at the thought of my kitchen being abused by a stranger.

He also said that butternut’s the perfect laxative, my darling. There’s nothing like releasing four prisoners before lunch, what?

I sigh, and I listen to the clang of pots and pans. I smell the onions frying and hope he remembers the salt; I just know he’s going to add too much chilli.

After an eternity, dinner is ready. The table is set, the food is good, and, yes, the kitchen is clean. He has even set the table and lit a candle.

I know what it is: it’s a nymph. Hey, there’s a thought: where’s that little diaphanous nightie of yours?