And when I say "can't", I mean because usually I don't let him.
Besides the legendary Cold Greasy Fish Toast for breakfast Incident, and the Southwestern-Asian Fusion Cuisine Disaster, there are other reasons I don't normally let Pootie cook.
Witness the following exchange, gentle reader:
Pootie: You need to check the vegetable basket. Somethin's gone bad.
Me: Wait. So I'm supposed to stop working, go in and check the basket, and dispose of the offending vegetable because why? You're crippled? You feel the vapours coming on? Is there some other reason I need to be made aware of that you can't handle this crisis yourself?
Pootie: Oh. OK. (thumps off to dining room to examine the basket)
Pootie: (back in the office) It was a squash. It was just a little end-piece that was starting to go bad, so I cut that part off and left the rest on the cart in the kitchen so you could go ahead and do something with it tonight, before the rest goes bad.
Me: Thanks, babe.
This is what I found on the cart:
For the uninitiated, that is NOT a squash. That is a cucumber. Yes, folks, the lowly cucumber befuddled my groom. His excuse?
Me: Honey, that's a cucumber, not a squash.
Pootie: Well, it had a weird little end on it.