Today I cooked The Pioneer Woman's "Malboro Man's favorite sandwich" for lunch. I got her cookbook for my birthday, and since then, Jack has been ecstatic. I've made her pot roast. Her homemade pie crust for my tiny pies. Her Cowboy Calzones. Everything has come out perfectly, and Jack has been practically circling recipes in it like it's a toy catalog.*
As I was cooking this afternoon, Jack was in the kitchen with me, doing dishes.
"I'm supposed to put another two tablespoons of butter in here after I combine the meat and the onions?" I read from the cookbook, surprised.
"If she says to do it, you'd better do it," he responded, solemnly.
"I don't know," I replied, "it just seems like a lot of butter."
"Remember the ricotta incident?" he asked. "You didn't think we should put ricotta in the Cowboy Calzones, and then it turned out to be really good? I think you'd better just do what she says."
"Do you want me to put mozzarella on the sandwich?" I asked. Jack looked at me skeptically.
"Did The Pioneer Woman say to put mozzarella on it?"
"It's optional," I replied. "Man, you're really strict about following her directions."
"Well," he replied "has she ever failed us before?"
*He didn't write in my cookbook, lest I become violent.