When I met my lovely wife 3 1/2 years ago, she wasn’t super comfortable in the kitchen. This has changed over time, although I’ve retained my role as household chef – after all, kitchen skills are an unwritten part of the whole “trophy husband” agreement. But you’ll appreciate my shock last week when Baby Mama broke out her inner Babushka (that’s Russian for “Grandma”) – along with our rolling pin – and proceeded to get down and dirty.
Ah, yes. Month 5. I believe they call “nesting.”
Not that I’m complaining. Shit – I’m talking homemade Borscht and Gluten-free, scratch-made Vareniki that taste better than those at our local Russian restaurant. Even my mother-in-law was jealous. But seriously – WTF? You just impulsively dedicated the entire afternoon to Vareniki?? (The link is there for those lacking Russian friends.)
As is the case with most things I write about on this blog, this phenomenon is hardly unique to us. Wikipedia defines the “nesting instinct” as the following:
An interesting impulse, this nesting. It struck me as so strange when I first witnessed it – I recall my oldest sister did a lot of baking when she was pregnant with her first. If we were birds, I suppose Wifey would be waddling around building a new addition onto the house, and I’d be out hunting. But fuck that, we’re people. We’ve got a contractor for a landlord, and a great organic market up the street.
So instead, she makes Borscht and Vareniki, and I get to make fun of her on my blog.
Ah, the joys of being human.