I feel called upon to treat on this subject, even though I know there will be some of you who think it unnecessary. 

Some of you will outright disagree, no doubt.  You have that right, you know. 

I hold that most foods fall into one of two categories. 

Neutral, and Gender Specific. 

Neutral foods are just that.  Either gender enjoys eating them.

Gender Specific foods are just that.  If you are male, you will enjoy certain foods more than females, and vice versa. 

Now before any hackles start standing too greatly on end, lips are pursed or hands get perched on hips, allow me to state my case.  And if you happen to enjoy the food that I say that your gender may not, that is perfectly okay. 

But for the new brides who are starting out in the culinary business, this may be the thing that you come back to over and over in your married life. 

That’s good if you do.  You don’t necessarily need to thank me each time.

*****

Take Spaghetti.  Just trying to spell that word should give anyone a clue to its gender. 

Yep.  You guessed right.  It’s female. 

I hear tell the old mountain men who came down out of the hills and into the forts on this side of the range could take on 5 pounds of meat in a single setting.  That’s five pounds.  When you ladies think you have a fairly nice sized roast that you put in the oven on Saturday evening, look it over.  That whole thing would feed just one of those men.

Now.  Put a plate of spaghetti in front of one of those men. 

Watch him. 

He looks it over, prods it roughly here and there, notices it’s oblique, nonessential appearance, pulls a noodle out, smells it, pulls it, licks it, and finally gingerly tries to eat it.  But that ain’t the end.  It’s only the beginning.  We can hardly bear to watch as he struggles, (manfully) to load the stuff onto his fork.  The noodles wage war just like they always do.  They get cold and gummy as he toils them around and around on his plate.  The meat slips away to the bottom of the mess.  I see the old man look disappointedly at his savory dish, and, finally in disregard to any small amount of etiquette he may have been given, cup both hands and scoop the whole thing towards himself.  Even then it defies all odds and a few noodles cling to his beard, shining out like fluorescent ribbons against a cloudy, opaque landscape.

What that man needs, is a steak.

Quite simply put, it even sounds right.  You don’t have to waste any extra syllables when making your wishes known.  Holler “steak,” and we all know what you need.  Bring on a medium/medium rare steak and the gender specific question is rested immediately by the rush and dead quiet around the table as every male ties into and devours his kind of food.  It eludes my comprehension why some folks would order, say, chicken, or ribs, at a restaurant when there is a steak to be had.  For sure if someone else is paying for it.

Casseroles are a unique dish.  They start out female, but, if properly aged and reheated numerous times, morph into male.  If you could begin the dish like they end, sort of seasoned through, solid and dried out, they would be a fine meal every time you eat them.  It’s that beginning, where they are generally runny at the nose and flat on your plate that leaves you a doubting Thomas.  But they get there, if you give them enough time.

I’m not advocating that women start growing mustaches.  Not at all.  But it might be instructive, should they paste a fake one on for a short time and indulge in their favorite dessert of cupcakes.  I think you can figure the rest out on this entrée.

I would be remiss if I didn’t treat on Peanut Butter.  I know, I know.  George Washington Carver is a man you say.  And I would agree.  But I suspicion he may have had a marital spat to settle, and a dozen roses hadn’t done the trick.  So, he goes to his lab, and, because he had something amiss between him and his better half, worked out a potion that has been sure to qualm any misgivings in that area since.  Really, he did us men a favor in creating such a feminine dish.  We have to be careful we don’t overuse it, though.  Two things happen if you do.  1, your wife tends to think you like the dish since you keep bringing it home.  This can be hazardous to your health when you tell her you really don’t care for it.  2, After you tell her you don’t like it, it fails as a peace offering, and she ends up eating it, in public no less, to spite you. 

We could name more, but this will have to suffice. 

All the best in your cooking and eating thereof.

(I have a feeling the good wife and sweet daughter may feel they need to vindicate themselves after reading this.)