I once heard a story about a woman who always cut both ends off her pot roasts. One day, her husband asked her why she did it. She said, “This is how you cook a pot roast, silly.” He couldn’t recall ever seeing anyone cut the ends off pot roasts before cooking them, but what did he know?
But his question sparked her curiosity. She asked her mom, “Mom, why do we cut the ends off pot roasts?” Her mother looked surprised, “Oh, you do that too? My pan was always too short, so I had to do it to make them fit.”
I had a “pot roast” moment during dinner tonight.
My husband makes one dinner, and he does a great job at it. His meal is fish sticks, and he knows exactly how to make them perfectly golden brown and crunchy. I’ve always insisted that the best accompaniments to fish sticks are buttered bread with honey and steamed green beans. Every time he makes dinner, that’s what we have on the side.
I didn’t feel like cooking tonight, so I punted to him. He got to make dinner, so it was fish sticks, take out, or cold cereal.
As we sat eating our dinner, I realized how ridiculous I was being about my fish stick dinner. I am way too militant about the required sides. Sometimes, Dan will helpfully suggest another vegetable or another grain. But, I’ll hear nothing of it and seek out the green beans and bread.
I’m the lady who watches the Food Network for fun. My idea of a good time is hanging out with friends and learning to cook something new together. I like to experiment and try new things in the kitchen. So why in the world am I so rigid about the stupid fish stick dinner?
Then, I remembered. In elementary school, it was my favorite hot lunch: fish sticks, green beans, and buttered bread. I’m surprised I didn’t buy little boxes of milk to drink on the side. I had been recreating a childhood comfort food, and I didn’t even realize it.
I hope my walk with God works like this. Maybe, if I keep my eyes on him, I’ll do things his way, and it will become second nature.
Someday, someone will ask me why I turn the other cheek when someone insults me. I’ll ask my father, “Hey God, why do we do it that way?” And he’ll let me know why.