Super Bowl Sunday Dinner

Some people believe my husband and I have an unconventional marriage. He is often nonconfrontational, while I have a don't-even-try-to-push-me-around attitude. He is a singer/performer/teacher who is deeply in touch with his emotions, while I can come across as steely and forbidding. This mesh works for us on many levels in a variety of situations, especially on Super Bowl Sunday.

Jeff is not a football fan. This is not to say he abhors sports in general because he enjoys an occasional trip to the ballpark complete with snacks and singing "Take Me Out to the Ball Game" during the seventh inning stretch. I, on the other hand, was raised where football is practically a religion. Not many spectacles on earth rival Knoxville, Tn., on Bama weekend. The entire city seems to burn with an electric orange glow. Everyone - and I do mean everyone from tiny infants to octogenarians - sports savage orange in one form or another. So, when Peyton Manning (a U.T. graduate, of course) stepped up to lead the Indianapolis Colts on to the field today, I was planted squarely in front of the flat screen to cheer him on while my husband continued to work industriously in his office.

Although my guys lost, I enjoyed watching the game and eating a lovely dinner at the same time. You might wonder how this could happen. You may ask, "Did you cook it ahead of time?" "Did you have frozen pizza?" "Did you break down and order out for Chinese?" The answers are no, no, and no. I was the thankful and pleased recipient of a dinner prepared by my better half, who emerged triumphantly from his office at half-time only to be disappointed that he hadn't missed the whole game. After a brief discussion of how good the guys from The Who look for their age, my husband and son announced their deep-set need to eat. After a moment or two of staring blankly back and forth (me to my son, my son to my husband, my husband to me), Jeff decreed that he would fix dinner, and I breathed an audible sigh of relief since third quarter was about to start.

As he left for the kitchen I presumed my son and I would be the recipients of grilled cheese sandwiches, doctored mac and cheese, or left overs. Any of these would have been dandy in my book since I didn't have to fix it. However, by the time my Jeff returned to distribute plates and silverware across the coffee table, the aroma coming from the kitchen definitely said "chicken." Moments later I was treated to a moist and delicious chicken parmesan beautifully arranged atop a bed of pasta and drizzled artfully with spaghetti sauce. There was even a loaf of garlic bread on the side. The meal served as salve for my damaged soul as I watched the Saints pick up an interception in the fourth quarter that sealed the game. Woefully, Peyton lost, but happily my stomach did not because I'm married to a great man who doesn't enjoy watching guys knock each other over on the field but who isn't afraid to knock around the kitchen.