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Thursday, February 7, 2013

Nancy Out of the House, Day Four: Pierogies

My buddy and coworker Mike Burr, having learned I'm a bachelor for the week, took me aside, and said, "One word: pierogies."  Yesterday he presented me with the most delicious pierogies hand-made by his wife, Molly, who is as gracious and lovely as she is brilliant and charming, and who - to boot - is a dynamite cook.  I will not unduly torment you with a description of a delicacy which you will not be allowed to taste, for like the Walrus in the poem, I've eaten them every one.  Suffice to say they were stuffed with mushrooms and served with delicate onions, cut into thin strips and sauteed just to the point that onions turn sweet.

Lordamighty, but they were good.  The saying you can't eat your cake and have it too applies with equal force to pierogies, and I wish I had one now as I write this.

The point I want to make, though, is that this is just one more illustration of why it's so much better being a man than a woman.  Sorry ladies, I hope you won't take offense, but that's just the way it is.  If Nancy's away for a week, friends press homemade pierogies on me, but if I'm gone for an extended period, I highly doubt anyone comes up to Nancy and says, "Man's out of town.  I'll bring you over some lasagna.  Or stuffed grape leaves.  Or shish-ka-bob.  Or whatever."  No, if a man's away from the house, everyone pretty much leaves the woman to fend for herself, assuming it's actually easier for her to get along without him than otherwise.  In fact, they would be hard-pressed to think of what service to offer to make up for my absence.  "Would you like to come over and sit my fat ass in front of the tv for awhile?"  "Want me to come in a track wheat straw covered and chicken crap on the carpet?"

All this points to the low expectations for the survival abilities of the typical American male and being a typical American male myself, I say, "Goody."  I return now to my thesis: it's better being a man than a woman.  From what I've witnessed, being a woman seems like more or less perpetual drudgery punctuated by occasional pregnancies.  Being a man is a piece of cake.  It's better than a piece of cake.  It's a pierogie.

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