The real househusband of New Jersey

The househusband's best friend

I’m a househusband.

Now, when I say that I don’t mean that I gave up my career to tend for my children (I have no children). What I mean is that I am, quite literally, a husband inside a house. A house spouse.

It’s not by choice you see, I haven’t willingly turned my back on the world of work. It’s just that when you come to ‘merica on a fiancée visa (which takes around a year to secure), get married, become a permanent resident and then apply for a work permit, things don’t just happen instantly. There is paperwork to be done, photocopies to be made, questions to be answered. Questions like these:

Have you EVER been a member of, or affiliated in any way with, the Communist party or any other totalitarian party?

Do you plan to practice polygamy in the United States?

Have you ever called for, incited, committed, assisted helped with or otherwise participated in the killing of any person?

Have you EVER been a member of, or affiliated in any way with Boyz ll Men?

When all is said and done it takes the average newlywed immigrant 3 months to secure a work permit. And that’s a long time to be indoors.

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Living as a househusband can be a discombobulating experience. The extended periods spent dwelling indoors and the absence of natural light can easily lead to the stay-at-home spouse losing track of time. You see, the indoor man is not tethered to temporal measurements as, in his domain, time has no real meaning. Instead he is bound to the great Biological Clock – it’s either before breakfast, before lunch, before dinner or after dinner. And then it’s time to sleep. The househusband is governed by his natural urges and things that no big or little hand can ever point to.

Handily, television is also there to place a hand on the rudder and steer the inside man through these clockless days. He wakes up and sees that Live! With Kelly is on. A giggling skeleton with hair extensions. Then it’s time for the Rachael Ray show. Why is she hell-bent on adding cheese to everything? Next it’s The View. Whoopi Goldberg? Is that really you? Why aren’t you telling jokes or singing gospel numbers? And then, woosh, the morning is done. He’s been sat there for hours, motionless as a mannequin, arse cheeks indented in the couch. Maybe later he can rise up on his hind legs and empty the dishwasher or make a token effort at vacuuming. In some extreme circumstances he might even brave the elements and venture outside to empty the garbage.

You think I’m a lazy b*****d now, don’t you? Well, it’s easy to sit there and judge. It’s far harder to actually just sit there.

Here’s the thing – paradigms are shifting and, in this day and age, it’s getting more and more acceptable for the man around the house to be, well, just a man around the house. Post-war society, bombed to buggery, hungry and desperate, was quick to hack down gender barriers and allow women to flood into the workplace where they gradually began to replace men (slower, lazier, more hairy). It was in this petri dish that the househusband gradually grew. The man, no longer the automatic breadwinner, had to learn to go to the supermarket and buy bread to turn into sandwiches. Perhaps master some other rudimentary cooking skills as well (boiling and toasting mainly).

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And so, in the spirit of househusbandry, I have started teaching myself how to cook. And I actually mean proper cooking here – not just plonking a chicken breast in a pan and pouring a bottle of sauce over it. Really making stuff from scratch.

Much to my surprise I have found that I actually really enjoy it. Cookery is, in a homely and not-very-avant-garde-way, a bit like art – you start with a blank canvas, choose the materials you want and then set about creating something. The key difference is that, for the most part, the end result is edible.

And it’s in the kitchen where the househusband really gets a chance to assert his masculinity – I cook exactly like a man. How? Well, like a lot of men I always think that I know best and have a real aversion to following instructions or taking advice. This manifests itself in a variety of terrifying ways when armed with a spatula.

I don’t follow recipes at all really. Sorry, but did Columbus discover the New World by following directions? No. He set sail and went with his gut instinct. Left a bit. Now right. A little more. Up past Brazil. It’s the same when I cook. In my kitchen, I’m God – a vengeful, wrathful, jealous God who takes a really dim view of false prophets (I’m looking at you here Jamie Oliver).

Picture me stood there in my apron, palms caked in flour, fearlessly eschewing all known wisdom, punching knowledge in the face and making an enemy of the cookbook. I am a brave alchemist, measuring my flour by eye and adding beer to stuff. Sometimes cheese too.

The end results have been mixed. Last week I made a tomato soup that my wife politely ate. It’s nice honey, I do like it. Honestly I do … but is it meant to be that colour?

Here’s the recipe.

Not Jamie Oliver’s Tomato soup

Ingredients

Onion – a big one

Garlic – one clove

Carrot – a big one (obviously)

Basil – you just want the stalks chopped finely

Olive oil – you can never use too much

Tomato – 1kg (about 5) super-ripe ones

Chicken stock – a litre or so

Miscellaneous seasoning stuff – as much as you want

Directions

Get the garlic and the carrot and the basil and the onion and throw them (violently) into a pot with some olive oil. Stir them. Don’t let the b******s burn or you’ll f**k up the whole thing. Just gently let them simmer away for about 20 minutes (with the lid on, obviously).

While the veg are simmering you want to get the tomatoes and make little X incisions on their arses. That’s the end that hasn’t got a stalk coming out of it. Drop them into boiling water for 30 seconds (don’t worry, they won’t mind). Then you peel back the skin using the flaps created by the X (we don’t mutilate tomatoes for no good reason here). Warning – peeling tomatoes is an ungodly pursuit. Cut the naked tomatoes up. Dice their flesh. Feel like a serial killer.

Add the tomatoes and the chicken stock to the veggies. Let that simmer with the lid on for another 20 minutes. You don’t have to be exact though – all numbers in recipes are arbitrary and should be disregarded accordingly.

When the 20 minutes is up you get to the look-at-me-I’m-Hannibal-Lector part. Get a handheld blender, fire the f****r up and let rip. Massacre the pulp, obliterate every stray morsel of tomato flesh until everything is diced into oblivion.

If you want you can then add chorizo or parmesan. Jamie Oliver doesn’t say to do that, but f**k him.