If it weren’t for my wife, I would have starved to death long ago. If it weren’t for me, we both would have starved — or we would have had to eat out every night for a while — because Sue recently had surgery on her right hand and couldn’t cook.

That left me to be her right-hand man and make dinner without having to call either the fire department or an ambulance.

I became a kitchen magician after Sue tore ligaments in her thumb, which resulted in an operation that left her in a cast.

I may not be the chief cook in our house (I am the chief bottle washer and have the dishpan hands to prove it), but in 1998 I was first runner-up in the pasta sauce division of the Newman’s Own and Good Housekeeping Recipe Contest for a concoction I called Zezima’s Zesty Ziti Zinger.

Paul Newman himself tried the delish dish and lived to rave about it. That he is no longer living, raving or flashing those dreamy azure orbs is purely coincidental.

This time I planned an elaborate menu that started with a sumptuous repast guaranteed to tickle the palate: meatloaf.

“Can I put beer in it?” I asked Sue.

“No!” came the immediate response.

So I used other ingredients, including — call me creative — meat. Specifically, it was ground beef, which I dumped into a large bowl. I added one egg, a bunch of breadcrumbs and a liberal splashing of Worcestershire sauce, hot sauce and, my secret ingredient, Kentucky whiskey barbecue sauce. I also put in garlic powder, onion soup mix and grated Parmesan cheese.

Then I mixed the mess with my bare hands, which were covered in egg, so the yolk was on me. I plopped the beefy ball into a glass baking dish and molded it into the shape of a football, resisting the urge to pass it to Sue or spike it on the kitchen floor.

For the final touch, I slapped four strips of bacon on top and stuck the meatloaf in the oven.

“You outdid yourself,” Sue said approvingly at dinner, which included a side order of broccoli that I also baked after using a large knife to cut off the bottoms and separate the stalks without severing a major artery.

I repeated my gastronomic wizardry a couple of nights later when I made one of my favorite dinners: kielbasa and beans.

I started by frying five strips of bacon in a pan on the stove.

“Set the temperature on low,” Sue instructed. “You don’t want to get splattered with grease.”

“Grease is the word,” I countered.

Sue poured herself a glass of wine.

“I’m having anxiety,” she explained.

On a cutting board, I cut up (because I’m a cutup) a green pepper, two large onions and two small tomatoes. I moved the bacon to the side of the pan and dumped in the veggies.

Then I opened two cans of beans — one maple, the other barbecue — and plopped them into a glass baking dish, mixing the sweet and savory legumes with a large spoon.

I took the bacon out of the pan, cut it up and put the crispy pieces in with the beans, after which I mixed in the vegetables.

I sliced a large kielbasa and mixed the chunks with everything in the baking dish, which I stuck in the oven.

“Yummy! This is really good!” Sue exclaimed. “You did a great job.”

It was so delicious that we each had a second helping.

During Sue’s convalescence, I’ve also made turkey London broil, grilled vegetables, baked salmon, Italian goulash and meatball-and-spinach pizza. Next on the menu: pork chops and peppers.

“You’re becoming quite the gourmet,” Sue said.

“Thanks,” I replied. “Even though your hand is in a cast, I appreciate the thumbs-up.”

____

©2024 Tribune Content Agency, LLC