Sometime in the spring of 1995, a marital grudge was born. We were coming up on our second anniversary and I was pregnant with our first child. Being young and stupid, most of what I knew about expectant fathers, I’d learned from television. How many times had I seen TV husbands go out at 2am to get their pregnant wives ice cream or pickles or whatever crazy thing they craved in the wee hours?
So, in that spring of 1995, I had a mad craving for Kentucky Fried Chicken and my non-TV husband didn’t get me Kentucky Fried Chicken. Even though I could see the sign as we drove right by. At lunchtime! He would later try to defend himself with “I thought you were kidding”.
And, on that spring day in 1995, I declared, “Fine! I will NEVER have Kentucky Fried Chicken EVER AGAIN!” (Yes, I’m aware that punished me more than anybody else. I’m not known for being rational.)
Seventeen years passed with no Kentucky Fried Chicken. And not a KFC commercial was seen or a KFC sign driven by without my husband being reminded he was a cold, heartless bastard to the Original Recipe-craving woman who gave birth to his first son.
Yesterday, I got over it. My cold, heartless bastard of a husband was snowmobiling and we were on our own for supper. Tired of the same old choices, the Short Kid hesitantly and with great trepidation whispered, “KFC?”. (Apparently he’d sampled their food at his Grammy’s one day.) When I started to break out the “ask your father why we can’t have KFC” and found instead that I no longer gave a crap, off we went to the land of sporks and wet wipes for what was the teen’s first time ever and my first time in over seventeen years. (It hasn’t changed much.)
There was some discussion of whether or not to tell Dad. If he didn’t find out we’d gone to Kentucky Fried Chicken, the grudge could live on. But there was some appeal in taunting him with the fact his family had gone to KFC for the first time without him. After deciding he wouldn’t care either way, the boys settled on bringing home three sporks so they could taunt him with his sporklessness. And then, high on the forbidden acts of eating at Kentucky Fried Chicken and smuggling sporks home in my purse, we fled the scene of the crime.