I have lived with my monster as her caregiver since 2017. As her memory and motor skills deteriorated, I became the full-time baker and dinner cook.
My monster, however, insists on being involved with dinner prep, which usually means watching me like a hawk and offering "suggestions" on how I could do things better. That is, do things the way SHE does them.
But I never realized how much of an absolute control freak she was until a couple of years ago.
First, let me set the stage. Our kitchen is directly across the hall from the library/den, where my monster makes her home during the day; she has a favorite wing chair, where she spends her day on her iPad or immersed in a (usually literary) book. That chair comes with a view down the hall, so she can see whenever I leave my room.
If I go into the kitchen, that's her cue to hurry out of her chair to see what I'm doing.
I shit you not.
If I'm making myself something for lunch, she'll hang out on the dining area side of the counter and watch with unmitigated interest while I assemble something to eat. And, if that something is unfamiliar to her, she'll reach out a hand to "take a taste" without asking. She's stuck her finger in my yogurt, taken bits of cereal or fruit out of my bowl, and snatched a product out of my hand to scan the nutrition label.
Now, on to the story.
I was making myself a scrambled egg and cheese sandwich for lunch. You know, chives in the eggs, aioli smeared on two pieces of sourdough toast, topped with a piece of cheese that ends up melty and gooey?
NOM.
I'm at the stove, stirring the eggs with a wooden spoon (it's a nonstick pan, so scratches are a no-no), and suddenly my monster pops up at my elbow, peering intently at the pan.
I pause. "What?"
Monster: "You should be using a spatula for that."
Me. "I'm almost done, so it's all good."
Monster: ***huffs in displeasure***
Next thing I know, my monster grabs a silicone spatula out of the nearby utensil crock and SHOVES ME ASIDE to finish cooking the eggs.
I'm so gobsmacked that all I can do is stand there doing a fair imitation of a landed fish.
Then she turns off the fire, sets the pan aside, sniffs, and says, "There."
Mind you, I'm 50+ years old. I'm more than capable of cooking my own fucking eggs. But I wasn't doing it HER way, so, clearly, she had to step in.
Although she's never gone to such lengths since then, her expression and hovering when I do dinner prep makes it obvious that she wants to.
I insist I don't need her help. I've even told her to please stop "helping." That usually does the trick...until the next day.
I cannot even chop vegetables in peace.
I long for the day when I can.
Until next time,
Liz